TV Review: THE GETAWAY CAR + PHONE SHOP IDOL

This article was originally published in The Dundee Courier on 23rd January 2016.

http://www.thecourier.co.uk/lifestyle

The Getaway Car: Saturday, BBC One

Phone Shop Idol: Tuesday, BBC Two

Paul Whitelaw

Is Dermot O'Leary being punished for crimes he committed in a former life? How else to explain the fate of this affable TV presenter, whose unassuming talents were wasted for years on The X Factor, and who now finds himself shackled to the knackered chassis of The Getaway Car? That's not a career, it's sustained abuse.

Dermot can't be blamed for this fatally ill-conceived game show. Like the loyal footsoldier he is, he's just following orders. Instead, blame the genius who thought that people driving slowly around a Mousetrap-style obstacle course was a recipe for riveting Saturday night viewing.

It's become a cliché to liken bad TV shows to something Alan Partridge might come up with, but this unhappy marriage of Top Gear and Total Wipeout really does feel like one of his pitches come to life. It even climaxes, if that's not too explosive a word, with contestants racing against The Stig, who these days resembles a tragic straggler at a long-defunct costume party.

For obvious reasons, the BBC aren't going to risk putting members of the public through a death-defying driving test, hence why The Getaway Car unfolds at such a laughably sluggish pace. The obstacle course is situated in sunny South Africa, presumably because basing it in drizzly Britain would add even more pathos to an already pathetic spectacle of non-entertainment.

The idea of people driving into a massive photograph of Roger Moore to win £10,000 might sound amusing on paper, but in practice it's ridiculous (and not in a good way). I'd rather watch an hour of Dermot hoovering his car seats.

As if to compound this patience-testing ordeal, most of the contestants in episode one were deeply annoying. There was no one to root for, unless you count our hapless host. His weak witticisms make Dave Lamb from Come Dine With Me sound like imperial Groucho Marx. 

Clearly, some of those half-hearted, fate-tempting quips – “This is car crash telly!” - were desperate cries for help. At one point he claimed “We're laughing here” with all the natural exuberance of a condemned prisoner. Someone, please, rescue him.

I encourage anyone who derives masochistic pleasure from watching bad television to experience at least ten minutes of this abject failure. A total waste of time, but at least you'll be able to state with solemn authority that, much like Don't Scare the Hare, it actually happened. We must keep these memories alive as a warning for future generations.

The annual Phone Idol competition, which aims to find Britain's best mobile phone salesperson, is apparently the industry equivalent of the Oscar, Pulitzer and Booker combined. Its rewards are potentially life-changing.

In Phone Shop Idol we met a former winner who was head-hunted by Sony. He now drives a company car filled with complimentary gadgets. He's living the dream.

Treating the ability to sell phones as if it's a rarefied craft may sound silly, but it's a respectable gig like any other. With its chummy narration and chortling Apprentice-style score, this thin series doesn't take the competition particularly seriously, but nor does it belittle the sincerity of the contestants. It's a modest celebration of nice, everyday folk taking pride in their work and doing it well.

It isn't of the slightest bit of interest to anyone – there are few things in life more tedious than the discussion of phone tariffs - but at least it doesn't sneer.

TV Review: THE APPRENTICE

This article was originally published in The Courier on 25th October 2014.

http://www.thecourier.co.uk/lifestyle

The Apprentice: Wednesday, BBC One

Paul Whitelaw

Despite being in its tenth year, it's clear that most Apprentice candidates have never seen The Apprentice before in their lives. How else to explain their complete inability to learn from the blunders of previous hopefuls?

Or is it simply that anyone foolish enough to apply for The Apprentice in the first place is so tragically lacking in self-awareness, they can't appreciate it in the same way as the rest of us? They take it seriously. That's their tragedy.

Funnier than most actual sitcoms, The Apprentice is essentially a comedy, edited and manipulated for maximum farce. Though it may initially have maintained some thin pretence of having anything to do with serious business practice, the makers realised years ago that no one, apart from the grasping candidates themselves, viewed it as anything other than a cringe-inducing showcase for eminently mockable buffoons.

We watch it because, when viewed in light of these narcissistic bozos, it makes us feel better about ourselves as human beings. We're all idiotic in our own way, of course, but at least we're not as hopeless as these people.

Is it cruel? Not really. Unlike The X Factor, where those lined up for mockery are all too often harmless and vulnerable, The Apprentice carefully selects a group of risible fools who basically deserve to be mocked. They have no one to blame but themselves.

Take James, a stand-out character so far on account of his mouthy, arrogant, pea-brained pronouncements and uncanny resemblance to woman-fearing humour vacuum Dapper Laughs (if you don't know who that is, then I urge you to remain oblivious). James is a typical Apprentice contestant in that he does everything a competent candidate – and such anomalies do exist – shouldn't. Mistakenly overconfident, he never listens to instructions due to an aggressive belief in his own verbal diarrhoea.

Last week he committed the cardinal sin of, while pleading for his life in the boardroom, obsequiously comparing himself to Lord Sugar. James! Don't you know that this is one of Sugar's pet peeves? Evidently not. James is oblivious. Sugar eventually told him to shut up. “Definitely, Lord Sugar,” he replied. What a twit.

Of course, one of the show's most consistently comical participants is Sugar himself. The deference the candidates pay towards this brogue-faced millionaire barrow boy is hilarious, as are, for entirely the wrong reasons, the belligerent prune's own attempts at humour. His scripted quips get more excruciating by the year. I'm certain his writers are giving him any old gibberish for a backstage bet now. “Never mind Aloe Vera, looks like it's more of a case of goodbye Sarah.” I mean, I ask you.

As for the rest of the contestants, only a few stand out at this stage. Roisin is James' archetypal opposite in that she's clearly a capable contender, while Sarah Millican soundalike Katie appears to be this year's token 'nice one'. Whenever she talked about profits and margins during the most recent task, she sounded like a child consulting My First Business Kit from Mattel.

Elsewhere there's Daniel, who clearly thinks he's Don Draper. He looks more like Fred Flintstone summoned for court. Mark is a constipated Ben Affleck, or, if you prefer, a wrestler who's turned up at the wrong Christening, while Steven is already shaping up to be one of the most overbearingly delusional contestants in Apprentice history.

Even after ten years of unchanging formula, I do so love this ridiculous programme.