Charged with conveying the significance of this cruel conundrum within the context of a jovial and accessible round up of 2004 was Huw Edwards. It couldn’t really have been anyone else. Alone amongst the first 11 of the Beeb’s news presenters, Huw has developed the gift of being able to slip effortlessly between the worthy and the whimsical, and leave neither sounding absurd or out of place. He’s brought a calm authority to the business of reporting on iconic national events and wry local eccentricities. He’s also been able to establish a reassuring conviviality thanks to helming a programme with a permanent slot in the schedules.

Sadly Huw only had 30 minutes in which to escort viewers through a roll call of 2004. Trundled out at 12.30pm with every sense of being got out of the way before Christmas, News Review of the Year was a far cry from the ponderous almanacs of a decade or so ago, faithfully berthed in a prestigious evening slot, blessed with numerous eye-catching graphics and tenuous themes (“Science: A New Frontier?”) and running at least twice as long, if not more. Ironically if anyone deserves to front a revival of that sort of weighty effort it’s Huw, who’d surely be able to ensure an hour of retrospective became anything but cumbersome and tedious.

“It’s been a remarkable 12 months for the BBC’s journalists across the world,” he began, speaking from the car park of Television Centre itself. This was a brilliant move. To be honest, there aren’t enough BBC programmes set in and around Television Centre any more, giving us a chance to see how the Corporation lives its life and to peek into the corners of the greatest building in the world. Huw then got straight to the nub of the issue, attesting to how 2004 had been “a real test of professionalism, of fair reporting, and original journalism.” There was no skirting around the problem. He dived straight into the thorny business of recapping the Beeb’s role in covering of the war in Iraq, and of becoming a news story itself in the process.

It’s hard to imagine many at the BBC toasting the passing of 2004 in a spirit of rose-tinted good humour and warmth. Most will probably be glad it’s gone. All the same Huw kicked off his review of the year by taking us right back to its start: the delivery of the Hutton report in January. Treading with utmost care, he reminded us of Lord Hutton’s “highly controversial” verdict, of how Greg Dyke was “forced out by the Governors”, and also the wider picture by way of George Bush’s perspective of foreign affairs – “a highly contentious view to say the least.” All of this was delivered while pacing thoughtfully around the famous “concrete Doughnut” courtyard of Television Centre.

The reference to Dyke being “forced out” rather than resigning (the official line at the time) showed the extent to which the events of January have undergone a degree of revisionism which even the BBC hierarchy are apparently happy to tolerate. Few would quibble nowadays with the notion that Dyke’s exit was not of his own choosing. After all, nearly everyone involved has now testified to that fact. A consensus also seems to have grown up surrounding the Hutton Report itself: a somewhat knowing acceptance that the document was too skewed and partial, one which allows media correspondent Nick Higham to appear in a programme like this and imply that anyone who attacked “the BBC’s journalistic standards across the board” were themselves guilty of misrepresentation.

Still, there was the hint of the bemused in Huw’s diligent account of the whole affair. As if goaded by a feeling of being wronged, both he and the rest of the Review set out to prove BBC news really was the best of its kind. Here was a shot of the newsroom to prove it, crammed full of assiduous employees meticulously crafting the fairest reportage anywhere on the planet. Here were montages of stories boasting, it was implied, real terror and harm, far removed from the paper circus of Lord Hutton. Here, also, were esteemed BBC journalists like Jeremy Bowen and Gavin Hewitt recalling how it felt to cover events like the death of Yasser Arafat, hostage-taking in Iraq and the terrorist occupation of the school in Beslan, Russia.

The authority and emotion of such reminiscence was somewhat undercut by the appearance of rather unnecessary mood music decorating images of screaming children and weeping mothers, turning them into semi-real, other-worldly clips as if from a film or dramatised documentary. There wasn’t enough time to do “secondary” stories much justice either: hasty compilations had to suffice for everything from the collapse of Italian dairy firm Parmalat, to the banning of headscarves in French schools, to the prosecution of a German cannibal. “What a wonderful summer of sport we had,” pondered Huw a few moments later, followed by a token vox pop from Sophie Raworth remembering how she watched the Olympics sitting at home with her baby. To introduce a short section on celebrity, Huw mugged for the camera while getting made up in a dressing room.

Then suddenly, all-too quickly, it was over. A montage of famous faces that had passed away during the year, set – as is tradition – to a piece of music performed by one of them (in this case, a shaky rendition by Sacha Distel) dovetailed into Huw’s farewell. His tour of TV Centre complete, he was back at his news desk. “Let’s hope 2005 produces a greater share of uplifting stories, and fewer reasons to report on conflict and human suffering.” Given everything he’d valiantly, if hastily, had to revisit during the previous 30 minutes, it was a poignant sign-off. After all, the labyrinthine business of, as it were, reporting on the reporters doesn’t make for a particularly happy Christmas.

Although the years may have been kind to the group – now acknowledged as one of the most successful acts ever, with much of their work finding its way back into the mainstream (two cover versions and counting already featured on The X Factor) – for me personally, it’s been a bit more difficult.

I started listening to Queen because, well, my oldest brother was nuts about them, and that was reason enough. Quickly, and thanks to his advocacy, they became my family’s “favourite” group to be slung into the tape deck on every car journey, and while I would whirl away the hours sketching elaborate pen-and-ink illustrations of despotic characters bringing all kinds of villainy to the world, in the corner of my bedroom Fred would be stoking my imagination, crooning about a land where horses were born with eagle’s wings, or Flash saving the universe.

Great moments, truly. But none more so than when my dad hired a mini-bus and took us all on a day trip to see the band play Wembley in 1986. We arrived just as INXS left the stage, but got to see The Alarm stretch out 68 Guns to a good 12 minutes and Status Quo come back on for an unprovoked encore (thereby prompting much of the audience to sit down in protest). When the main act stepped out, the crowd swelled forward, but somehow my lot managed to avoid getting split up, meaning I could spend the next 90 minutes or so slyly checking out how well my siblings knew the lyrics to some of the more obscure entrants from the Queen catalogue (In the Lap of the Gods … Revisited, for example).

However, as I grew up and my interests diversified from imaginary heroics, I listened to the band less and less. I never officially stopped liking them – nothing that drastic – but outside my teens the sentiment contained in so much of their work started to sound trite. Those songs that had previously moved me were still great foot stompers, but wafer-thin intellectually. Now, that’s not necessarily a bad thing when it comes to rock music, but it was slightly unsettling to discover that much of my so-called creativity back then was informed by concepts no deeper than Fat Bottomed Girls or some fella called Sammy daydreaming about leaving his dead-end job “sweeping up the Emerald Bar”.

Thus, BBC3′s dissection of the band’s most famous composition had bitter-sweet overtones for me. Suitably hosted by Richard E Grant who – let’s face it, is no stranger to a poor man’s interpretation of what passes for baroque these days, either – the programme was an artful and enjoyable tribute to a record which, after all these years, felt like it had gone beyond the point of discussion. The programme approached Bohemian Rhapsody from all sides, meaning that whilst some attempts to shake meaning from the song didn’t really go anywhere (Oxford academics admitting defeat by concluding that “Galileo” was only name checked in the piece because his name rhymes with “Figaro” – kind of), others were wonderfully revealing (original producer Roy Thomas Baker pulling the soundscape of his creation apart).

The highlight of the entire effort, however, had to be the patchwork sequence near the end of the hour, piecing together various interpretations of the song (I could have done with hearing more of that brass and piano effort), itself representing dozens of interesting takes on, and perceptions of, the work. By comparison Brian May’s remembrances of recording the piece were characteristically unenlightening (never is he so unpersuasive as when talking about his own work), save for the moment he recalled coming up with his counterpoint guitar solo, revealing he created the whole tune in his head first rather than improvising in the studio as leaving it to the “hands” normally made for predictable results.

As for efforts to try and put the song into some kind of context, these were not wholly convincing, but that’s probably because Bohemian Rhapsody has long since become a curio. An artefact which has no real bearing on anything, other than its own mythology, it’s not as though it changed the course of popular music in any real way (well, bar that business about the pop video, maybe), and it’s not as if other acts in the the mid-1970s suddenly tried pastiching high art on the strength of the record’s success. While the composition made people sit up and take notice, puzzling that it actually existed at all, it also exuded an air of being absolutely untouchable. No one, other than Freddie Mercury and has heroic rockers, could have got away with this, and thus no one else tried.

Of course, Mercury himself was entirely dismissive about his masterpiece in later life, as revealed by a sound clip of the front man at the documentary’s close. Declaring his music to be wholly discardable he quite rightly asserted that it was all to be listened to once, before asking, “what’s next”? The programme’s claims of the man’s short distance from genius therefore made me a little uncomfortable. It’s just rock music with no pretensions of changing anything – that’s all.

I can reconcile myself to my Queen past now, and even love them today as I do the antics of Spider-Man or the insanely detailed, cross-hatched-to-the-nth-degree artwork of my teens. It’s all to do with growing up and making a noise, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Somebody to Love is still a great song (even if it did originally share vinyl with an oh-so-worthy tract about white colonialism in the Old West), and so are Queen, providing you’re laid back enough to embrace those vests, that moustache and all the other rock super heroics alongside the soaring tunes and splendid pomp. And so, while enjoying The Story of Bohemian Rhapsody immensely, I couldn’t help but feel the programme was slightly over-egging a pudding that was already bursting with flavour. Nevertheless, it remained a fine salute to a record which wholly deserves its legendary status, by dint of sheer silliness alone.

Queen were a silly group, but great at what they did. And most importantly of all (as far as I’m concerned, anyway), my oldest brother is still nuts about them.

Maybe Melvyn Bragg feels he’s already devoting enough attention to other cultural topics such as political and philosophical history (In Our Time), language and anthropology (The Routes of English) and matters of ethics and faith (any number of religion-based talk shows in the small hours) to give them any more of his precious time. Maybe it’s the whims of the ITV1 bosses. Maybe it’s simply that nobody feels interested in making films about anyone other than contemporary English-speaking mainstream entertainment practitioners. Then again, given The South Bank Show‘s on so late nowadays, nobody will be watching, so who cares?

Well, such considerations start to warrant concern whenever Melvyn embarks on another of his rounds of BBC-bashing, as he did the other week: plying the hustings to trumpet the latest series of his lumbering arts showcase, gamely insisting he’s a “big fan” of whatever up-and-coming performer he’s treated to an interview this time, and banging the drum for the amount of soaps on television, or the enduring appeal of a grizzled rock star still on the circuit, or an ancient British composer who’s just turned 95 … seemingly anything at all, in fact, as long as it’s of the present and in the public eye.

Not to say things would be improved by turning the clock back to the programme’s early days, when biographies of obscure Central European modernist painters or an analysis of the harpsichord works of Renaissance composer Scarlatti forever rubbed shoulders with Melvyn’s set-piece conversations with the great and the good. But at least there was a bit more variety then, with the populist finding its way into the schedule as much as the obscure. In each series there was usually something that caught your eye, or for which you purposefully set the video.

Of late, however, The South Bank Show entertains the air of the ninth or tenth supplement in a broadsheet Sunday newspaper: stubbornly tucked away somewhere hard to find, cumbersome, superfluous. The more Melvyn talks it up, the more it feels unnecessary. It’s almost as if it loses credibility in inverse proportion to the amount of time its host (and, lest we forget, editor) invests in reminding people it’s still on screen. In any case, for all the energy he expends trying to contest the programme is a going concern and a irremovable fixture in the ITV family, it’s rarely on at the same time two weeks running, often disappears for weeks on end for no reason, and continues to get shoved out long past 11pm. Even its most shamelessly middle-of-the-road editions fail to pick up even one million viewers, but at that hour of the night it’s no surprise.

Which is where the BBC’s Imagine … strand surfaces to confront Melvyn and his non-stop sales pitches, and where in turn Melvyn insists he didn’t really mean what he said about the Beeb all along and merely has everybody’s – the viewing nation’s – better interests at heart, the old bugalugs.

The greatest advantage Imagine … enjoys over The South Bank Show is its profile. It receives generous publicity and cross-promotion, has a flexible running time to fit the nature of its subject, and above all gets broadcast when enough people are still awake to see it: just after the 10 O’clock news. None of which Melvyn can claim for his own stamping ground. Imagine … also exudes the feeling of being treated with respect and dignity by its superiors, again a quality sorely absent from its commercial counterpart. Of course, it’s only been around 18 months or so, and was conjured up somewhat pragmatically to plug a hole in the BBC’s arts coverage. But there’s nothing wrong with that. So what if the Governors explicitly ordered the Corporation to create the series? That’s their job.

Conceived and developed as a flagship effort, it has certainly lived up to its status in one regard: its subject matter, which has ranged across the world to consider pertinent cultural figures, items and movements both past and present. This week’s edition, the first in a new series, devoted 70 generous minutes to the life of American playwright Arthur Miller, denizen of many an English Literature school syllabus and still producing new work at the age of 89. A thoughtful assembly of archive clips, historical footage and new interviews added up to a lucid testimony of the man’s significance, leaving you interested enough – as all decent documentaries do – to stay tuned right to the end and to take something away from the programme, be it reflections on Miller’s legacy or the desire to find out more for yourself.

A contrary aspect of Imagine …‘s format, however, lies within the one thing it shares most obviously with its cousin: an avuncular yet headstrong presenter, themselves a grizzled TV executive of yore, who appears determined to get into shot as much as possible. When he was editor of Arena Alan Yentob used to spend as much time in front of the camera as behind, a trait that actually predated Melvyn’s own, so the fact the man is now back indulging in similar behaviour again shouldn’t be that much of a surprise.

Yet the manner in which, in this episode, Alan often phrased his questions in such a way as to call maximum attention to himself, or sat self-consciously across from his guest with reams of paperwork and books on his lap as if to confer authenticity on his behaviour, inevitably diluted the programme’s tone (while perversely heightening its impact: the sequence where Alan was seen not only driving up to Miller’s house but then walking dolefully up the garden path, at the top of which sat the playwright on a tiny bench looking like an embarrassed equerry, will stick in the mind for a long time).

At times we heard more of what Alan thought about Miller, and what we should think about Miller, than what the writer had to say about, well, anything else. Still, there were points where the double act worked, usually when Miller was in control: taking Alan for a drive in a battered jeep to where he’d once planted the seed of a willow, and where the huge tree now stood slowly dying; or when the pair settled down to watch some of the American Election coverage and we could eavesdrop on their small talk.

The authored documentary always stands or falls on how much you mind the author reminding you of their presence. In this case, on balance, it worked, thanks to the subject being captivating enough to wrestle your focus repeatedly onto their own contribution and countenance. Plus Alan Yentob is, at the end of the day, infinitely more likable than Melvyn Bragg, not least because he can get away with using words like “burlesque”.

Now if only Imagine … had as decent a title sequence as The South Bank Show, it will have neutralized its rival’s one remaining big gun. Who’d have thought the future of British TV arts programming might come down to a theme tune by Andrew Lloyd Webber?

When the stand-out moment from a new comedy is a sequence involving funny dancing, things aren’t going great. Particularly when said comedy has been perhaps the most eagerly anticipated of the year. But then, let’s face it, when you pick over the bones the omens weren’t great for Max and Paddy’s Road to Nowhere.

Peter Kay engenders more affection in his audience than any comedian of his generation. But is that huge stock of goodwill now dwindling? The second series of Phoenix Nights failed to hit the heights of the first – and indeed was publicly disowned by co-star Daniel Kitson – whilst Kay’s last live tour revealed him to be a man fast approaching the fringes of his material. “Tell us a joke we know,” perhaps, but variations on “garlic bread?!” (in the act and on bucket-loads of merchandising) and that hoary old standby about Jim Bowen giving away speedboats to inner city-based contestants on Bullseye represented worrying stuff for those who’d enjoyed the comedian’s prior stock of inventive, original work.

As news of Max and Paddy’s impending “road movie” spin-off filtered out, there was gossip about problems on the production and rumours of Kay falling out with his former writing mates. In happier days – when we’d have no reason to second-guess the comedian – a spin-off centred on the duo would have been welcome indeed. But that was until those last two episodes of Phoenix Nights which saw them take-up a major storyline wherein they’d, rather improbably, become a pair of hit men. Never feeling like anything other than an empty diversion from the main business at hand, it seemed as though two minor player had stepped forward, and – getting rather above themselves – expected the audience to take an interest in them. Where Max and Paddy previously supplied punctuation to great effect (“Talent night? Talent shite”), suddenly they were (very nearly) the full story.

It was like tuning into Porridge and getting 15 minutes of McLaren instead of a whole 30 devoted to Fletcher.

Of course, this didn’t mitigate per se against a spin-off, but highlighted the fact the characters needed lots of development before we could expect them to carry a series on their own. However, perhaps they’re more effective left on the sidelines. A pair of smart, but slightly drawn figures, a useful cutaway device when the main action requires some commentary or a change in tone. A great Greek chorus, but never the whole show.

Well, whatever. One thing you can’t deny is Kay and co-writer/star Patrick McGuinness have approached this project with a lot of affection. Their love for the characters and the world that Kay’s been delineating since The Services in 1998 is obvious, and very nearly infectious. Where, for example, The League of Gentleman seemed to feel stymied by Royston Vasey come their third series, Kay still loves mooching around Chorley FM’s catchment area. But, alas, you can’t help feel that when Max and Paddy take to the road for their spurious Odyssey, the assumption is you’re already on board. No effort seems to have been spent on ensuring the audience are onside, and right from the opening self-referential bogus sponsorship message, it’s just taken as read that you’re going to buy into what happens next.

And what does happen is sadly bog-standard stuff for any sitcom. Perhaps the writing partnership felt they could provide a new spin on the tried-and-trusted scenario of a would-be charmer falling to pick up any women, but – well – for this reviewer whatever that fresh element was, it was much too subtle. Similarly, the running gag of a holidaying family mistaking the titular duo for a homosexual couple was seen-it-all-before stuff. What next, a drunken yokel electing to throw away his flagon of scrumpy after copping sight of an unexpected spectacle?

If all this seems like sour stuff (and it is), it’s perhaps because, despite the worrying signs, there was still the hope that Kay would confound our fears and really deliver here. If there was anyone who’d avoid jumping the shark just at the moment it looked like things were going to go tits-up, then he’d be your man. And even now, it seems wrong to consign the series to the dumper. Overall, the body of work that has preceded Max and Paddy’s Road to Nowhere has been so good and so enjoyable that it surely can’t all be over yet.

We’ll be watching, but Peter Kay should be aware that a figure who makes the public love him so much faces real scorn when he turns out a disappointment. Be careful along that road to nowhere.

Hunkered down in a cavernous studio floating high above the Washington skyline, David Dimbleby sprawled behind a huge desk, pale blue light flickering across his reassuringly alert features. Such an understated choice of location handed our host the perfect motif for the night: that of being both symbolically and literally way up above all the pell-mell and hoi polloi of the election, and thereby able to kick back and reflect upon events with a sly, sophisticated detachment. Hence this was a poll that had been “the most fiercely contested in a generation”, but if that meant a decisive outcome in the next couple of hours we could forget it. On the horizon David could already spy “armies of lawyers jetting in”. He shuddered as if somehow repulsed by his ability to conjure up such a menacing metaphor.

He wasn’t alone in his treehouse, of course. Well, not quite. “Peter Snow is here,” David fibbed, promptly handing over to London where the titular troubadour was loitering waiting to welcome viewers to a virtual White House lawn, bedecked with a huge map of the United States. As Peter cantered off across the country, nimble footwork carrying him with one bound from the Eastern Seaboard to the Deep South, he promised “an electrifying few hours”. A giant simulated graphic of the Presidential helicopter promptly descended upon him to the sound of roaring engines, forcing him to yell a farewell and David to hastily observe he was “in danger of being crushed”. Somewhat impressively the banter between David and Peter would stay slick and well-polished all night, despite the pair being separated by thousands of miles, and in ironic contrast to their often somewhat clumsy bi-play a mere dozen yards apart inside Television Centre.

Just as much fun was to be had, however, courtesy of David’s permanent guest and lieutenant, Professor Allan Lichtman from the American University in Washington. Seated to the anchor’s right, Allan initially projected an air of rustic lethargy, blithely sporting a pale blue shirt with white collars and resting underneath the trademark floppy side-parted hair of academia. But then he opened his mouth, and in an instant you were gripped. “Politicians are like generals,” he burst forth, “they’re always fighting the last war!” His hands and arms flailed wildly. His eyes sparkled. “The parties have lined up, get this, 17,000 lawyers!” He instinctively addressed his comments as much to the camera as to David. Ohio was “covered by the fog of war”. Virginia was “rock ribbed Republican!”

It was impossible not to see the spirit of the late great Bob McKenzie back on our telly once more. “If it ain’t got the swing,” Alan proclaimed, “it don’t mean a thing!” This was rare and classic stuff indeed: the ability to find the very bare bones of the election process uniquely fascinating, and then to project and pass on that fascination to the viewer through a mix of non-patronising sincerity and infectious enthusiasm. Between them, Alan, David and Peter would ensure the unusually protracted stalemate that lay ahead never once threatened to become abortively boring.

Given it was already after 12am, this was self-evidently a good thing. But the very nature of a Presidential election, as compared to a British General Election, meant proceedings were always going to be far removed from that familiar rush of forecasts, breathless declarations and pompous testimony from humbled losers and gallant champions. Indeed, as it turned out none of these would make even the slightest appearance the entire night. With individual States scheduled to be “called” either Republican or Democrat at half-hourly intervals, the pace of the coverage was a world away from the breathless, manic, sometimes brilliantly hysterical results programmes of this country. Instead, news trickled in incredibly slowly, and as it became clear many States were simply not daring to announce a verdict for fear of getting it wrong, because the contest was so close, or even because people were still standing in queues waiting to vote, it began to feel like the affair wasn’t even going to be settled this side of tomorrow.

David was clearly prepared for this, having marshalled a battery of decidedly esteemed and high flying guests to help him and Alan while away the hours. Economists, statesmen, diplomats and those doyennes of US election coverage, the ex-speechwriters, drifted in and out of the studio to engage in endlessly rambling, if learned, debates on minutiae of American political culture. It was all somewhat heavy going, and needed regular interjections from Peter (“It really is nail biting stuff!”) and Alan (“It’s unfolding like one of Ibsen’s well made plays!”) to restore much-needed momentum. Saying that, a quick hop over to ITV1′s coverage revealed a much more low-key affair, resolutely based in London, and boasting guests such as that well known US expert Iain Duncan Smith. Even though they appeared to be cheating and “calling” States before some of the American TV networks, it was a relief to switch back to the infinitely more convincing BBC service.

Ohio was the problem, in more ways than one. “I’m standing on it now,” explained Peter, “though it could be Nevada.” “Could be Nevada?” queried David. “I thought for a minute you were saying ‘it could be nirvana’, such was the pleasure you were taking in it all!” A visiting pollster struggled with David’s references to “Ohio turnout”. “No, a higher turnout,” he fretted, “excuse me – it’s my English.” Fellow correspondents from ABC looked in from places the Beeb couldn’t reach, a lady in Arkansas treating us to some fine stereotyped trans-Atlanticisisms (“She’s a Democratic in-CUM-bent … Bill Clinton DID come to campaign FOR Kerry … not too LONG ago”), and a gentleman in Philadelphia momentarily being replaced by a shot of John Simpson struggling with his earpiece. “A brief glimpse of John Simpson there,” noted David superfluously. “Ah well, it’s the luck of the draw.”

There was heavy emphasis on the possibility of John Kerry being victorious during the first few hours, fuelled by regular clips of people forming mammoth lines outside voting booths. “If John Kerry wins,” cried Alan, “he’s gonna win with the MTV generation, and he’ll have to abandon all those old folk songs and learn rap.” A sombre John Simpson made a more dignified entrance on screen to announce he could hear “pre-MTV sounds” at Bush’s HQ in Washington. Jane Hughes outside Kerry’s base of operations found two supporters who testified rather half-heartedly they’d been “thinking about Kerry … nervous but hopeful … he’s done the best he can.” Simon Schama loomed into view from New York loose of tongue and rosy-faced, roaring of how New Hampshire would go to the Democrats “because my daughter was there this afternoon taking people to the polls – she can deliver thousands of votes with a blow of her nose.” David promised to consult the distinguished historian again later in the programme, but never did – even though Schama’s prediction ultimately turned out to be about the only correct forecast of the entire night.

The tension was agonizing. “What is going on in these places?” David moaned, reeling off the list of States who were being tardy in their declarations. “Democracy is going on!” shouted Alan. “It’s been an honour to do this blah blah blah with you while waiting for results,” a stroppy senior politician drawled across the studio rather unnecessarily, but even that was better than watching the hapless Daisy Sampson attempt to vox pop guests at a party in the US Embassy in London. Daisy, if you recall, had treated us to an unforgettable turn back in June during coverage of the council elections results, hailing drinkers in a Northern wine bar with the claim “Have these people turned their backs on Tony Blair, and if so who to?” and ending a conversation with two Conservative supporters with the sign-off “We’ve heard from two disaffected Tories and a Conservative hopeful.” Here she was back on the beat and back on form, calling MPs by their first names, forgetting to hold her stick microphone to her own mouth when asking other people questions, and introducing a cringing Loyd Grossman with: “Guess who I caught snooping in the cupboards?” David hastily moved things on. “We’ll have some entertainment – the Black Eyed Peas!”

By now it was gone 3am and still nothing was clear. ABC correspondents had developed the curious affectation of removing their earpieces as soon as David asked them a question, thereby denying him the ability to interrupt even if he’d wanted to. “We’ve all become Mr Micawbers,” chuckled Alan, “waiting for something to turn up.” Carole King followed the Black Eyed Peas onto stage at the Democrats’ rally, while Peter resorted to running through statistics from the 1888 Presidential Election.

Slowly, however, indications that the Republicans were making progress seeped onto the studio computers. John noticed, “people coming out of the woodwork” at the Bush camp. “We’re on top of this math,” insisted Alan, checking the figures and proclaiming, “I’m willing to jump the networks” and call Florida for the incumbent. Don King was certainly convinced who’d won. “First I want to say thanks to Tony Blair!” Waving a giant cigar, he invoked Churchill and looked forward to four more years of “George Walker Bush – long live the Queen.” Amusingly the studio had been cleared of guests for King’s appearance, as if a cordon sanitaire follows the ex-boxing promoter wherever he goes.

When they were allowed back in, the panel included erstwhile White House advisor Richard Perle, who David regaled with a marvellous anecdote about the time they were both at the Reagan-Gorbachev disarmament talks in Reykjavik in the mid-1980s, and Perle had placed a large salami on the window sill of his hotel room to keep it fresh, but when he’d gone to fetch it the foodstuff had fallen off and security guards, panicking, had raked it with gunfire. The man was obviously stunned at David’s power of recall, but less so with his attempts to understand Colorado’s proposed proportional voting system (“I dunno – forget it!”)

Finally, down in Florida David Willetts held up a copy of the Miami Herald, confirming the state had gone Republican. “If you’re on tenter hooks, my heart has stopped beating,” divulged an indefatigable Peter. His map, sadly absent of any colossal helicopters waiting to disgorge the new tenant of the White House, remained pockmarked with patches of grey. It was nearly dawn, and still Ohio was too close to call. David handed over to Philippa Thomas in Columbus for an update – but then never returned. When we came back to the studio, he’d vanished, along with Alan and the rest, their place taken by Dermot Murnaghan for the start of BBC Breakfast.

And that was it. No last summing up, no parting punchlines, not even a goodbye. It was all rather unsatisfactory. Though frustrating at times, even interminable in places, the Beeb’s coverage had undoubtedly been fun while it lasted. Now it was suddenly over. There was nothing left but to switch off and walk away in roughly the same condition as, for the moment, the election result itself: gripped with a nagging sense of unfinished business.

Several months after OTT ruefully predicted Countdown was on its way out, Channel 4 promptly recommissioned the series to run for another five years. “Countdown continues to be the bedrock of the C4 daytime schedule,” beamed the channel’s head of daytime. “The fact that it continues to draw the highest share of viewing in the channel’s daytime schedule is testament to the sheer energy, professionalism and commitment of Richard, Carol and the rest of the Countdown production team. It is a great British institution and we love it.”

An 18.4% share is pretty hard to take issue with. Despite the thousands of letters which reputedly flooded in to C4 in the wake of the show being moved to 3.15pm in September 2003, it seems all of Countdown‘s viewers followed the programme to its new slot and have stuck with it ever since. They’ll now have the chance to witness the setting of a broadcasting record that is unlikely ever to be broken, as Richard and Carol cheerfully see through their contracts to 2009 and in the process notch up the most number of episodes of a quiz show in the world.

They’re already at 3809. “It’s astonishing, isn’t it?” wondered Carol rather pointlessly, as the duo set out their stall at the start of this birthday edition. Every year Countdown makes a point of acknowledging its anniversary, and of painstakingly pointing out it is also the anniversary of the birth of Channel 4 itself. As has been the case for a while now, however, it is the only place on the entire channel to indulge in, never mind offer a passing mention of, salutation towards C4′s heritage. And so it was again this time round, with a single solitary candle being offered in the shape of Richard’s well-honed reminiscence. “It was all very emotional,” he chuckled in as emotionless a way imaginable. “We were on at a quarter to five in those days!” “Don’t start the war,” Carol interrupted, a little too hastily.

Countdown‘s recent odyssey around the schedules appears to have now become just as much a feature of the programme’s much-celebrated idle banter as Richard’s inability to introduce things correctly (“Let’s go straight into the conundrum – the countdown, rather”) and fondness for the atrocious pun (“‘Probate’ you say? We WILL say that’s OK!”). “In a few years time I think we’re going to be on breakfast TV,” drawled Richard, interpreting Carol’s warning as a cue to do the precise opposite. “After that it’ll go on before the 5am repeat!” Not even this was enough. “You’d all like us to be on at 4.30 – well, Channel 4 will say OK, be on at 4.30 … in the morning!”

For people who grew up with Countdown running a strict 30 minutes and airing at either 4.45pm or 4.30pm, the present 45-minute version will never feel right. It will remain, simply, too long – too cumbersome and rambling and forever taunting you with the promise of resolution or closure, only to launch into yet another words or numbers round. It’s something that, no matter how many times you sample and experience it, will be just that little bit too difficult to get used to.

Others, you can be certain, have adapted to it without a qualm, and it seems to be more or less proven that the show’s bedrock audience will stick with it regardless of either transmission time or duration. Yet the fact it’s a matter still ripe for lampooning by the programme’s hosts themselves, a whole 14 months after the deed took place, is testament to how impervious the entire Countdown empire continues to be towards the casual fan or the occasional viewer. There must only be a tiny fraction of that 18.4% who don’t tune in every day. Indeed, all the show’s signature ingredients are couched in tones and terms geared towards a regular audience. Heaven knows what the foreign visitor or the Channel 4 novice would make of a brief burst of Richard burbling on about how nice it is to see a particular word again or holding up a photo of a signpost in France that boasts the word LARGEASSE.

Still, it’s likely another five years or so wouldn’t see too large a portion of that percentage disappear through infirmity and old age. Contrary to the tangible mood of 12 months ago, Countdown‘s future has been ensured. Within each cavernous 45-minute stretch, Richard, Carol and the residents of Dictionary Corner will continue to go through the motions like a troupe of ageing country dancers, tracing and retracing the steps they’ve trod thousands of times before. The programme’s status as institution is perpetually emphasised by the fact its main presenters ditched all pretence of proper introductions long ago, nowadays not even bothering to use each other’s first names. The lexicographers are treated just the same; we’re simply expected to know who they are and why they’re there, with only the visiting celebrity afforded space to bask in their own reputation.

Here, at least, continues to be found some variety and the promise of surprise. Nowadays there’s every chance of catching an erstwhile alternative comedian or tabloid columnist in amongst the familiar (and, let’s be frank, reassuring) stints from Gyles Brandreth or Richard Stilgoe. The person on call for this birthday week, ITN’s Nicholas Owen, was certainly a change from the usual fare but also served as a reminder of how being on TV a lot doesn’t equate with being good on Countdown a lot. Although he showed demonstrably more enthusiasm than previous anniversary guests (Rick Wakeman, Barry Norman), his stock of anecdotage ran sadly short of anything but tales of nit-picking correspondence from viewers. At least Nick found time to point out it was also the birthday of Channel Four News, and how “when they started, they were only on Monday to Thursday, with a shorter bulletin on Friday – do you remember?” Richard could, and made a point – “Cheers Alan!” – of thanking the bloke responsible for penning both theme tunes. “He’s made a few quid.”

So the in-jokes and by-words and self-referential wittering underscored this birthday edition as they have for as long as you choose to remember. The 4000th contest next year will be an excuse for more overt and lingering festivities, more looking back and no doubt more sly digs at the show’s place in the schedule.

To be honest, you can’t get angry with Countdown for very long. It’s seen off the threat of, as mooted last year, a sorrowful decline, and although it inspires more respect than affection nowadays, why should it presume anything else? It will go on doing its job whenever Channel 4 decide to screen it, and it will assuredly continue to toast the anniversary of its parent regardless of if and when Channel 4 realize its own birthday is there to be relished, not reviled.

For anyone who has missed it thus far, the “twist” of The X Factor is that the competitors are split into three categories: 16 – 24 year-old soloists; 23+ year-old soloists; and vocal groups. Each of the three judges is responsible for mentoring the contenders from a particular section, with Sharon Osbourne championing the youngsters, Simon Cowell the older soloists, and Louis Walsh the groups. As such, great play is made of the idea that these three are desperate to beat each other by having one of their acts crowned the winner. Other than that, it’s the same old routine: they all sing, you vote for your favourite, one gets the boot, the rest come back next week and do the same again.

One question that always comes to mind in these shows is why anyone who is good enough to make it as a genuine recording artist would audition in the first place. This is particularly true of The X Factor‘s 16 – 24 section, given that this is the group targeted by all the previous programmes, where it has become screamingly obvious that the superstardom they all promise rarely materialises. Of all the contestants on the various incarnations of the format, only Will Young, Girls Aloud and arguably Darius Danesh have managed to sustain any sort of high-profile career. There’s no guarantee of superstardom even for the winners, as Hear’Say, Michelle McManus, One True Voice, and David Sneddon have all proven. Worse still, the fact that the immensely talented Alex Parks could make so little impact after winning Fame Academy should serve as a warning to anyone with serious musical ambitions to resist the temptation to try the shortcut to success.

And so, like lambs to the slaughter, the nine X Factor finalists lined up for the first live show. One thing that is immediately obvious is the whole thing lacks atmosphere. The studio seems a lot smaller and less glamorous than that of Pop Idol, whereas the presence of a petrified-looking Kate Thornton as host simply makes the whole thing feel like an edition of the aforementioned show’s ITV2 “fanzine” spin-off. Somehow, despite the hyped-up crowd, who willingly cheer anything and everything all night long, it feels like you’re watching a final rehearsal, rather than the real event. One thing that does arouse interest, however, is the promise that the voting system has a secret twist that will, we are told, make sure that every single vote matters.

As for the acts themselves, it soon becomes obvious that we have at least got a bit of variety. As well as the usual bawling balladeers, we have young Tabby rocking away, Voices With Soul offering exactly what their name promises, and G4 performing a stunning operatic rendition of REM’s Everybody Hurts. As with every other reality-pop show at this stage, the biggest problem seems to be that, with nine contestants to squeeze in, each act barely gets time to get going before they’re booted off-stage. As a result, by the end of it all, nobody can remember much about what happened at the start. In fact, several songs were edited so severely the lyrics simply didn’t make sense, not that anyone was really listening for that sort of thing.

With three categories and three judges all obviously biased toward their own protégés, the verdict sequence seems strangely stifled. By their own admission, Sharon Osbourne and Louis Walsh have formed an alliance against Simon Cowell, and so we have a fairly basic routine passing itself off as rivalry. Walsh, for example, comments on one of Cowell’s older female acts that “there just aren’t many housewives in the charts”, thus wilfully misunderstanding the whole point of the show – that anyone can supposedly make it if they have the talent. Cowell then criticises Sharon Osbourne’s acts, at which point Osbourne goes bright red and slags him off, and Walsh delivers some variation on the theme of “what planet is this man on?”, before extolling the singer’s virtues. Hopefully, when the series develops some sort of organic storyline and the acts make a genuine connection with the audience, we can be spared this rather feeble charade of mock-rivalry.

When the nine performers have come and gone, some of them making a great impression, others bland in the extreme, it’s time to fill some space with an utterly trivial vote. The audience is asked to vote for their favourite judge. Soon, Thornton says that “Sharon Osbourne is in the lead so far, but it could change”. A few seconds later, the result is revealed. It hasn’t changed after all. Sharon Osbourne has won, but the vote has no significance to anything whatsoever. There’s just time for a quick reminder of the acts, and the customary explanation of the billion-and-one ways of registering your vote, along with the minutiae of the costs of doing so, before ITV1 goes over to Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway, followed by the choice of either ‘Millionaire on ITV1, or The Xtra Factor on ITV2, for anyone who can stomach 10 minutes of material packed into an hour of meandering TV.

One thing that no reality-pop show has yet discovered is the means to make the results show work, at least in the early stages before the revelation itself becomes significant enough to mask the cracks in the presentation. As Kate Thornton reappears, still looking utterly terrified, it is time to discover what the promised twist in the voting system is. It turns out to be little more than a variation on the Fame Academy routine, in which the bottom two from the public vote would be put forward, and the eventual loser decided in the studio. The only difference between The X Factor and Fame Academy‘s system is that, while the BBC show handed the final decision to the other contestants, X Factor passes it onto the judges. At this point, two problems become apparent. Thornton had promised that the system would ensure that every vote mattered more than ever, whereas in fact it makes the public vote less significant than before. Secondly, none of the judges are going to vote to dismiss their own acts if they have any choice in the matter, so there’s not a lot of drama in them giving their judgement.

Before we find out who will be put before the judge’s final vote, we have to go through Thornton, now looking even more afraid than ever, reciting the same line over and over, “The first person who is safe is … Tabby”, at which point, hysterical cheering erupts from the audience, and Thornton’s eyes dart about off-camera, as she tries trying to quieten the crowd.

As the fate of the last three contestants hung in the balance, things developed in a manner very familiar to anyone who followed ITV2′s coverage of American Idol. For those who didn’t see it, that show’s results edition would be dragged out as much as humanly possible, with contestants singing group numbers, showing “hilarious” clips of them all together, then dragging on celebrity guests to duet with them, and all manner of feeble garbage designed to postpone the actual reckoning for as long as possible. Fortunately The X Factor doesn’t yet go as far as that, but still pads out the process by revealing the identity of the bottom two, then making them both sing again. Given the amount of pressure deliberately heaped upon them, I take my hat off to the contestants for being able to stand up, let alone sing.

The bottom two were reasonably predictable. Voices With Soul were there, probably for no other reason than they were the first act on, and nobody could remember them by the time the lines opened; and young Roberta, a girl whose voice and looks scored highly with the judges, but who was so bland it’s hard to imagine anyone feeling strongly enough to pick up the phone and vote for her. Sure enough, Louis didn’t feel inclined to axe his group, and Sharon likewise didn’t fancy getting rid of her girl, and so the entire decision rested with Simon Cowell. Somehow, this seemed inevitable, as Cowell always seems to get what he wants in the end. The only question mark was whether he might be mischievous enough to axe Voices With Soul on the basis that they could pose a threat to his own acts later on in the series. In the end, however, he did the honourable thing, and Roberta was the subject of the usual montage of “your best moments with us”, and the shot of the tear running down her face.

As she disappeared into the eternal shadowland inhabited by the dozens of other former talent show contestants whose potential pop careers have been massacred by their appearances on the nation’s screens, it was time to wrap up.

Much like Popstars: The Rivals, it seems that The X Factor‘s real purpose is to prove how vital Ant and Dec were to making Pop Idol such great TV. Whatever “the X factor” itself might be, Kate Thornton, like Davina McCall before her, just don’t seem to have it. Seemingly nervous, and unable to bring out the contestants’ personalities or control the crowd’s enthusiasm, the whole show never loses the sense that the Geordie duo have called in sick and Thornton’s filling in at five minutes’ notice. Without their self-effacing bonhomie, the programme badly lacks humour, and everything feels far more formal that it ought to be. The rivalry between the judges comes across as hideously contrived, and you can’t help feeling that, if this were Pop Idol, any such faults would be neutralised with a bout of mickey-taking, or a wry raising of the eyebrow to camera.

One thing that is inescapable, however, is that whole thing is undermined by a sense that the contestants are all either bland balladeers or one-hit-wonder novelty acts, none of whom are likely to have lasting careers beyond the end of the series. Not that the judges are likely to care too much if they are, of course, as the whole show is geared up to allow BMG (Cowell’s record label) a shot at the Christmas number one, and what does it matter if you can’t remember any of the current contestants in 12 months’ time, given there will be yet another reality-pop show by then?

Then again, who is the real sucker here? If I look in my CD collection, I find an alarming number of albums by former reality-pop contestants, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if, this time next year, I have something from an X Factor act sat there too. No matter how much I want to give up watching these shows, there’s always something that keeps me hooked. The format may be repetitive, but it always seems to have that intangible draw, that special indefinable something which keeps me watching even when I don’t really want to.

I suppose I’d have to call it the “X factor”.

Armed with a new director in Matt Livesy and script editor in Rob Brydon, Lucas and Walliams continue the high standard they set in the first season. Not much has changed in the presentation of the show: the opening titles are in the same format and twinned with Tom Baker’s superb narration. The brief scenes in-between the main pieces are slightly different, but serve to introduce the character in the subsequent sketch a little more clearly than before.

In this opening episode most of the more popular characters make an appearance, starting with young offender Vicky Pollard who uses her pram to steal a cash register from a supermarket; “Emily” Howard has an apprentice this time around in the form of moustachioed “Florence”; Lou is still being duped by the ever indolent Andy; and Dayffd still believes that he is the Only Gay in the Village.

Things move on in the Prime Minister and Sebastian sketches however, with the leader of the opposition – played by Nigel Havers – becoming the new object of the aide’s lust after he believes the PM has fallen for “black boy” Gregory. Similarly, the pirate memory game man returns in a new situation (now christened Mr Mann), this time as a customer at a dating agency who has some very specific requests for the long-suffering chap behind the counter and the never-seen Margaret.

Not ones to rest on their laurels, Lucas and Walliams have also crafted a number of new, sicker characters. The two WI ladies, Judy and Maggie, are probably the standout attractions of the fresh batch. In this instance, the pair are busy judging jams and cakes at the local fête, with an unfortunate occurrence taking place whenever one of the two hears something unpleasant about the produce being sampled. The best line of the show comes here, when a projectile-vomiting Walliams exclaims: “no more lesbian jam – I can’t keep it down!”

Bubbles de Vere is another new character portrayed by Lucas, wearing a quite remarkable, yet utterly repulsive fat suit. Bubbles “lives” in the Hill Grange Health Farm and as she cannot pay her bill, attempts to use her ample feminine charms on the unsuspecting manager. Hopefully all of this added unpleasantness isn’t there merely to shock for the sake of it, although it’s frequently hilarious, too much of a “bad” thing can prove fatiguing.

Elsewhere, the sketch in the bank where a man attempts to get a loan smacks of a concerted attempt to come up with a new catchphrase to rival the success of “I want that one”, or “eh-eh-ehhh!”. On this occasion it’s: “computer says no”. Expect to hear it your local office wag coming out with that one over the next few weeks.

So, the order of the day seems to be more of what went down well last time, coupled with a bunch of new characters who are sicker than any of their season one counterparts. Alongside that, the number of guest stars has increased too, with Havers also joined by Ruth Madoc, Geraldine Alexander and Vanessa Feltz. But when is there going to be a cameo by Tom Baker? He would be ideal for a supporting role that isn’t limited to narration.

How the show will fare when it eventually pitches up on BBC1 is a matter of some small speculation. Will the mainstream channel’s audience take to the highly stylised, repetitive humour and glorious bad taste, or will a move into the big league prove to be the ruin of this fence-posted section of our green and pleasant land?

For some, these events have undoubtedly become as much a high point in the TV calendar as the double issue Christmas Radio Times or the return of Blue Peter from its Summer Expedition. This was the third time BBC Parliament had used the occasion of the party conference season to turn over its weekend to an unfettered slab of glorious telly history, and as ever it didn’t disappoint. Viewers were able to re-live minute by minute the return match of precisely what the channel broadcast 12 months ago: the same faces, the same issues, and no less grave an atmosphere. If anything things seemed to have got worse, judging by the way Alastair announced, “this is an hour of greatest importance to our country – our futures depend on it.”

Despite reports, the Beeb kept the scenery from the February Election ’74 in storage ready for a speedy return to the hustings, what we got here was a somewhat re-modelled set, albeit decked out in grey tones and operating on the usual vast number of different levels and platforms. There were nicely British Telecom-esque fonts everywhere, Bob had an entire wall of charts to play with (though his swingometer was again relegated to the status of a half-hearted deskbound toy) while Robin had been awarded perhaps his largest “pod” to date: nothing less than an entire flank of the studio, shamelessly constructed higher up than everybody else, blessed with its own staff in the shape of a silhouetted long-haired woman who shuffled papers mysteriously. Alastair helmed everything in front of a giant scoreboard, with David on his left and Bob on his right. Brilliantly, each had their own bank of black and white monitors.

The long wait for the first result afforded plenty of opportunity for our hosts to set out their stall. For Alastair this meant an obsession with checking his watch but never telling us the time, and referring to the election as if it were a horse race, repeatedly talking about “form”, checking the latest from the bookies (“You have to put five pounds down to win one pound”) or handing over to Julian Wilson at William Hill for the odds. While this was initially mildly diverting, the business with the watch quickly became irritating, especially as Alastair continued to do it right through the night and the following morning, as if he couldn’t wait to be somewhere else and was thoroughly sick of how long it was all taking. The talk about betting was then later taken up by Robin who joked with Ian Mikardo MP about running “the worst odds in the business” and even offered union boss Clive Jenkins “three to one in favour of our staying in the Common Market.”

Away from the studio, a battery of reporters were perched on assorted balconies overlooking assembly halls around the country. Esther Rantzen waited at Guildford for the “nimble and dexterous” counters to ensure they were the first to declare. Michael Charlton, our “indicator” in Huyton as Alastair put it, brought news of Harold Wilson’s red rosette “glowing like a traffic light”. Some, like Philip Tibenham in Lincoln and Jake Kelly in Blyth, were still in black and white, a reminder of how all the Beeb’s colour cameras were deployed in areas presumably deemed more important. One of them was in Trafalgar Square, where we found, as usual, Desmond Wilcox, “as much a part of the scene as Nelson and the lions,” claimed Alastair. “Very funny,” Desmond sniffed, recalling how in February the power cuts had meant the place was in darkness. “At least we can now see how uncomfortable we are.” 40 seconds later he was gone, and bizarrely we never saw him again. His future missus, however, still had far more to say. Guildford was now “getting a bit hot … suspense-full and perspiring.”

One other character completed the line-up: ERIC, the resident results processing machine, which, with “staggering” speed, prepared on-screen breakdowns of declarations in 45 seconds. To prove this, a very glossy short film fronted by Sue Lawley followed ERIC, or Electronic Results Instant Computer, on a test run. “There’s no time for hellos,” underlined Sue as an assistant took a call from a reporter, read out some numbers and “another girl called a runner” found the relevant paperwork. The clock ticked, fantastic tension-building music played, and sure enough the result was on screen within the deadline, at which point we saw Tam Fry, the results editor, blowing Sue a kiss.

ERIC more than deserved such a build up, as when the results did start coming in there were no major gaffes, delays or technical breakdowns. Instead it would be the prediction, rather than the presentation, of information that became the team’s bugbear. “I think it’s a good idea that we keep it open,” muttered Alastair pointlessly, before moaning about how Bernard Levin had criticised him for saying “it’s all to play for” too much during the February transmission. He then asked Bob to explain “differential floatback.” Unsurprisingly it was ERIC, not Alastair, who was being namechecked when we glimpsed foreign journalists transmitting to their own countries.

Guildford won the race to declare, with Esther suitably agog: “We are the first!” Julian Pettifer seemed less confident about things in Cheltenham, conceding it had been a Tory seat “as far back as I’ve been able to check,” while Brian Ash was more preoccupied by the “nubile young ladies carrying bits of paper” around the Wolverhampton count. The familiar collection of befuddled returning officers began to struggle in the heat of the moment, one barking into his microphone “Is this working? Come over here. Can I have quiet please? Quiet please!” and another protesting, “Can I have a little bit of order … oooh, wait a minute!” A very young-looking Margaret Jackson (later Beckett) won a monochrome Lincoln, and Brian Walden was announced the victor of Birmingham Ladywood to a room full of people chatting.

By now the talk in the studio couldn’t avoid the reality that, as Bob observed, smiling to himself, “the polls are having a bad night.” Forecasts of a hundred seat Labour win were hastily revised downwards. Graham Pyatt wielded the same scroll of coloured paper he’d brandished in February to demonstrate how nobody was sure if anyone would have a majority. But while Bob and David were clearly enthralled by the tense situation, Alastair just looked increasingly annoyed, lapsing into oddly partial comments (one Liberal MP was out of the Commons “only temporarily”, another was lucky to not have “so many nutcases” as challengers) and referring to results from safe seats with a terse “nothing much to say about these” and “none of them particularly interesting”. Robin, meanwhile, ploughed on regardless, quizzing an endless procession of ancient peers, and effortlessly dealing with David Steel chiding him about getting his name wrong: “I was very tired that night, and I had got three pictures on a monitor at once … what was your name again?!”

Once Wilson and Heath had won their seats, the latter being welcomed to the declaration – according to David Dimbleby – with a cry of “hello, sailor!”, both gave long interviews that merely fuelled the sense of everything being in limbo until some point the following afternoon. So began a long slog of speculation that persisted to the end of the night. Bob aired his trademark feelings about the hopelessness of the British electoral system – “grossly unfair” – and the importance of proportional representation, before using toddler’s building bricks to show how a “tiny ripple” of change had run across the country. A Warhol-styled mural of multiple Harold Wilson faces appeared on the wall. Given he’d clearly been looking forward to it for so long, it was ironic Alastair bungled his sign-off at 4am by announcing, “we say good morning – we’ll be back with a breakfast programme later.”

For BBC Parliament this meant a jump to 7.30am, and the welcome sight of a relaxed, amiable Michael Barratt at the main desk. Although already halfway through his stint in charge, there was still a fine 90 minutes of his company to go, and it proved a refreshing diversion from Alastair’s pomposity and the general air of despondency. Aside from Mike’s Nationwide-style “dashing” around numerous OBs, including an encounter with a dog covered in Plaid Cymru stickers, various lighter-side-of-the-election features ensued. These included Brian Widlake’s encounter with Katina the astrologist (“It’s not a crystal ball – I study the patterns of planets”) who predicted a Liberal Government as early as 1980 and observed how Jeremy Thorpe’s star chart explained “why he likes the ladies so much”. Kenneth Kendall read the news (“In Northern Ireland, a night of violence”), Michael Fish summarised the weather, Sue Lawley ran through some notable lost deposits (including Dr Una Kroll, a Women’s Rights candidate, “a very brave lady”), and we saw a tantalising glimpse of Richard Stilgoe sitting at a huge white grand piano. Sadly his moment for a suitably wry song or two must have already come and gone.

Esther was back, though, out and about in “the city” attracting a band of curious OAPs as if doing a That’s Life! vox pop. “This lady works in the city,” she explained. “I’m in charge of the lady cleaners,” her subject clarified, “I’d like to see the city a bit happier.” “You get tired of all these sad faces?” noted Esther neutrally. “Very.” Keith Graves at Transport House was less ebullient, proclaiming, “anyone with any sense is still in bed.” The mood shifted again come 9am, when Mike had to “gather up all my rubbish from this desk” to make way for Alastair once more, who we saw loitering in an ungainly fashion to one side, as if desperate to sit down.

Another very long wait for results was in order, encouraging Bob to cut loose – “It’s going to be a hard day’s night!” – and David, who’d been there ever since 6am, to reminisce about his time monitoring the recent election in Australia. We glimpsed Michael Charlton on the steps of the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool, commenting on Wilson’s departure. “He’s had about three hours sleep,” Michael noted, at which point Wilson leaned over and added, “I don’t think you’ve had that much more, Michael!” Back in London Robin seemed to be in the same condition, arriving in an extremely tetchy mood (“You said some of the things I was hoping to say Alastair, but no matter”) then, having “been sitting here rather impatiently”, launching into an attack on the opinion polls. “You’re getting a little tired,” mocked Bob. “You’re not talking to your students now,” snapped Robin.

The argument that followed was all somewhat incongruous – imagine David Dimbleby, Peter Snow and Andrew Marr shouting at each other – and Alastair singularly failed to keep matters under control. It was difficult, though, to have any sympathy for him. By this point it was clear he held the title for the most unimpressive election anchor the Beeb have ever employed, if only because of his inability to project the same infectious enthusiasm and obvious passion for his task that was so palpable in Cliff Michelmore and both Richard and David Dimbleby. But then, at the very moment results started coming in again, BBC Parliament was pulled off the air by the Telewest network (a regular occurrence), meaning at least one viewer was unable to see the outcome and had to go and look it up in a book. In case you missed it, Labour won.

The story of the coverage had been a dramatic shift in expectation, from David’s talk of “three-figure majorities” to whether Labour would retain a lead at all. The speed at which everyone forgot their initial grandstanding was notable – an early “how did you vote?” poll turned out to be so inaccurate it was simply never mentioned again. But the fact we’d had the chance to watch other archive results programmes meant the constant talk of similarities with February 1974, and of 1964, had that much more resonance and meaning.

All this was genuinely gripping, but the main fascination lay, as it has always done during these glimpses into another TV age, in the detail: the gossipy asides and laconic observations from the presenters, reporters and guests; the attempts at jokes or whimsy; the things that go wrong – in short, that which must have been ordinary to viewers then, but which seems extraordinary to us now. People smoking on camera, the sound of jangling telephones cutting across Alastair or David mid-flow, Bob munching a chicken drumstick: this is what we wait for in the BBC’s archive results programmes, and fortunately once again the gang delivered.

The format is bog-standard stuff. To whit: 16 hopefuls put themselves through a 13-week employment-vetting process in the hope of winning an apprenticeship with the world-famous tycoon. Via a series of tasks, one of their number is culled every week, prompting our man at the top of Trump towers to employ his catchy epithet.

There’s nothing here that’s especially distinctive, other than the notion of fusing a game show with big business. But, although that might seem a small point, it’s here this programme – and let’s get the pun over with right now – comes up trumps.

Business generally makes for great telly. All non-fiction entertainment TV is essentially about watching someone embark on an endeavour, but never is that undertaking so clearly defined as when it’s measured in terms of profit. All you need to know to grasp the main thread is that it comes down to the bottom line.

And talking about “grasping”, our moguls-in-waiting are a fine, typically acquisitive crew. Self confident, keen to assert their own interpretation upon the situation, sometimes delusional in terms of their own acumen, they make for a superbly entertaining collection of dysfunctional über-competitive combatants. No one really compromises here, they just use stealth and bitch about the decisions they didn’t agree with later when they’re called up in front of the big man.

The programme’s most notable casualty so far has been Sam Solovey, the co-founder of a successful internet company, and the man who’s been quoted as saying: “they’re all going to be working for me when this is over.” Sam, alas, couldn’t do stealth. Instead he naïvely put his trust in his colleagues. An inveterate bull-shitter, it seemed as though his game plan was to try and get the team to buy into his philosophy of life … as skewed as that appeared to be. Unfortunately, this genuine eccentric, who wasted crucial moments trying to deliver pep-talks based on footballing metaphors, never thought to raise his guard once, happily displaying his vulnerability and allowing team mates under the wire to provide him with counselling and support.

In the firing line from the first week, it was only his superb theatrics that kept him in the game so long. Offering an impassioned plea as to why he should be allowed to stick around, the gambit involved him – at the peak of his pitch – rising to his feet, which simply prompted Trump to order him to sit back down again. “Thank you sir,” came his response before resuming his appeal without missing a beat.

But it couldn’t last, and the manner of Sam’s sacking presented another pleasing twist in the tale. If the rest of the team wanted him out so badly (and they did) why didn’t they elect him leader for the day’s task and thus expose his weakness to everyone’s scrutiny? Well, that’s what I was shouting at the screen, and to my delight – it’s exactly what they did. A show where you can call the tactics, and call them right is surely a rare delight and as a result, even though I didn’t want to see “Sammy” (as they inevitably took to calling him) go, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit satisfied. That and Trump calling the girls up for using overt sexuality in all their dealings just minutes after I’d been moaning about the same thing, made me feel pretty clever.

And then, tonight, Bowie gets the sack mainly for just having a stupid name (inevitably, he pronounces it “Boo-ee”). With decisions like that, you can’t deny this programme’s got class, and unlike reality shows on this side of the pond, it’s also commendably taut. While longueurs of inconsequential chat and “character moments” traditionally blight the likes of Big Brother, The X Factor and, in particular, The Farm, The Apprentice USA only concerns itself with the game. We learn plenty about the contestants through their conduct, and, quite rightly, the programme-makers don’t consider it crucial we also join them for every evening meal, 4am toilet-stop or rueful fumble through their photos from home. This is just plain, simple businesslike television, and all the better for it.