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