The worst thing was that it all came as nothing of a surprise. The way in which the programme had increasingly carried itself over the last few months, with a studied listlessness that seemed to seep in buckets from the screen, portended a finale that would be as over-wrought as it was underwhelming. So it proved, with the protracted farewells and endless wistful testimonies never resolving into anything of substance. The more the eulogies came, the more the sincerity evaporated. By the end we were left with a scuffed patch of nothingness that had been exhaustively irrigated of all its worth and nourishment a very long time ago.

Things kicked off poorly and were soon heading further downhill. Gaby strode onto the set, already shrieking, and greeted the camera with the cry, “I’ve lost Terry.” A disconcertingly bumptious studio audience then took an age to settle down as Terry finally emerged to confess he’d been busy signing autographs – “I might as well be doing this as anything.” You can forgive an element of indulgence in any curtain call, but not of a kind that diverts your mind from thoughts of regret at your hosts’ impending departure to those of irritation at the prospect of a truly hollow and self-serving goodbye.

Not once were viewers thanked for watching the show. Sure, the numbers who were regularly tuning in during the weeks leading up to the programme’s demise were miniscule, but for their forbearance alone they deserved some kind of acknowledgement. Instead both Terry and Gaby’s patter appeared almost wholly directed at the studio audience, who, it must be said, were clearly having a whale of a time. Some elderly ladies began a strikingly cackling chorus of “Here! Here! We’re here!” at one point, but their outburst was simply absorbed into the bedlam and merited no comment from the hosts whatsoever. Later we were introduced to Brian, a gentleman who had contrived to attend every single one of the show’s 200 episodes, and who prompted coos of reverence akin to those normally reserved for a domestic pet. It was evident the mood within the studio was one of stoicism mixed with burgeoning hysteria, but watching at home you felt terribly shut out and almost not wanted. This was a private party, and those not present in person were treated at one remove with a polite disdain intermittently exchanged for outright ridicule.

The ensuing 60 minutes comprised Terry looking waspish and trotting out the usual epithets – “We’ll be showing all the best bits since we can on the air – that’ll take about 10 seconds” – while Gaby attempted to orchestrate the mêlée through her patented mix of looking goggle-eyed and shouting. Indeed, it was Gaby, rather than her noticeably withdrawn co-host, who did most to rob proceedings of any kind of significance. Instead her now-familiar ritual of alternately preening then appearing petrified conjured up an atmosphere not of sober reflection but juvenile hysteria. She clearly wasn’t prepared to take things rationally, so why, it was intimated, should we? It was instructive to compare this incarnation of Gaby with that from 10 years ago, when a more restrained and muted version of herself proved just the right foil for an ever-increasing insolent Chris Evans on The Big Breakfast. Now the roles had been reversed, and it was her male accomplice who brought gravity and level-headedness to the occasion, not her.

A full complement of guests had been booked for this final show, though none were of any suitable distinction. June Brown emerged first, carrying a self-conscious packet of cigarettes that Gaby then tried to persuade her to smoke. “It’ll set off the fire alarm,” growled Terry, before sniffing, “it’d give us something to do.” Brown looked irritated throughout, disinterested in questions of the calibre, “Did you ever think Dot was going to become this incredible institution?” Come part two she’d lit up and was puffing away merrily. Dermot O’Leary turned up next, carrying presents and being coy about his new job on Radio 2. Then came a whooping Emma Kennedy, galloping onto set with a disarming cry of “Get in!” The whole motley bunch perched on the sofa, pecking at an ever-growing collection of sweets and chocolates. Soon the programme was being played out to a constant chorus of rustling and chewing, which was just downright rude, and once Terry and Gaby started helping themselves to the feast entire conversations were being conducted between people with their mouths full.

Just when things threatened to settle down into the lull of tedium, Danny Baker arrived, dressed head to foot in full Regency costume. Breathlessly reprising some of the stunts and wheezes he’d demonstrated over the preceding months, Baker built to a trademark rousing climax with the declaration that this had been “the happiest and most successful show I’ve ever worked on in 25 years” – something he says at the end of every programme he’s worked on, of course, and always delivered with just too much wild enthusiasm to be wholly believable. However no reference was made to the circumstances in which Baker came to be employed on the programme: as a substitute for Johnny Ball. In fact, there was no mention of Ball whatsoever – not by Terry or Gaby, or during the montage of clips that were aired during the show’s dying minutes (“We thought we’d take a look back at some of the best ever bits in the series, so don’t blink, cos you’ll miss it.”) A breathtaking oversight, or reflective of the circumstances in which Ball was replaced? Either way it was telling that one of the programme’s few real highlights merited not even a thank you, let alone a re-appearance.

By now the sofas were overflowing with people and the din was contagious. Yet more food and drink arrived, including two huge plates of flambéed meat. Gaby trundled on the champagne, only to find her seat had been taken by an unannounced wine merchant. “There’s no room for you on the settee I’m afraid,” boomed Terry, before adding, “God, I’ve wanted to say that for at least a year.” In a suitably unseemly parting gesture, the entire company was reduced to crouching awkwardly behind the set while Danny Baker set light to a chocolate bomb. Then, after a rushed goodbye and curtailed credits, up popped the man Evans. Having previously joked about becoming a market trader should the show fail, he now peered forth from behind a fruit and veg stall, nonchalantly chewing on an apple and drawling, “Look, fuck it. We had a go, didn’t we?”

The Terry and Gaby Show ran aground because it failed to exploit any of the elements it had at its disposal: the prized mid-morning slot, the brilliant location by the Thames, an unusually high calibre of guests (the archive clips testified to this: Roger Moore, David Attenborough, Patrick Stewart, Cliff Richard …), and above all the prestige and capabilities of Terry Wogan. His best performances in front of the camera always came when Gaby was on holiday or off ill. Together, the pair never stopped straining to be free of the other’s penetrating gaze and exaggerated mannerisms. If the show’s brief existence confirmed anything, it’s that Wogan still possesses enough flair and talent to helm decent, amiable television. Just make sure he does it on his own.

There’s always been something unconvincing about this particular TV couple. It’s a double act empty of any real rapport, or wit, or even amiability. It’s fine to have a partnership rooted in knockabout putdowns and affected spite, provided its carried off with flair and timing. However if there is genuine respect and warmth between Terry and Gaby, and there’s no reason to suspect there isn’t, then the pair are doing their level best to make us think otherwise, and in as joyless a manner as possible.

Not so much a two-handed collaboration as an outright battle over which presenter can shut the other one up for longest, The Terry and Gaby Show unfolds in fits and starts of interaction. It boasts a bucket chemistry attitude to television – that of throwing a whole lot of disparate elements together and praying something or someone will spark off a reaction. In an effort to achieve some sort of a combustion, no matter how unsubtle, the programme’s two hosts, their guests, the studio audience, and, befitting a Chris Evans production, anyone else who happens to be passing through the premises, are all enrolled into the process. The upshot is that things happen, sure, but they’re rarely of any consequence, are always terribly noisy (chiefly thanks to Gaby’s predilection for shouting all her links), and take a viewer’s interest fatally for granted.

This particular edition kicked off, as ever, with some meandering, stop-start conversation between Terry and Gaby, frequently brought screeching to a halt by the latter’s inability to ever come back at Terry with an authoritative riposte. It’s a repeated failing of Gaby to never strike up a proper dialogue with her co-host, though it has to be said Terry doesn’t help matters by going off on tangents every 15 seconds or so. Playing the befuddled “I don’t know what’s going on here” card is all very well on a solo radio show, but causes endless trouble within the ensemble setting of a TV magazine show. And so, in this instance, from the first minute you struggled to follow the trajectory of a show that shuttled variously between muttered asides, interjected quips, unanswered questions and raucous insults.

It didn’t help that a guest was brought on almost straight away, turning a duo of quibbling voices into a barracking trio. The celebrity in question, Phil Tufnell, was quizzed more or less arbitrarily about both his sport and TV endeavours in an interview that juddered to a halt when Terry, affecting studied boredom, dropped in a few out-of-place remarks (“You were probably fined more than you earned”). There were flashes of the stylised rapport Terry once wheeled out effortlessly three times a week on BBC1, especially when it came to the obligatory plugging of Tufnell’s seemingly endless stream of videos and books. But then, inevitably, it was all ruined when, as is now his way, Terry tried to be shocking by enquiring of his guest, “Any porn?” Unflattering and unbecoming, the outburst provoked the required hoots of laughter from Gaby, followed by another anxious pause. The show had hit the buffers once again.

A lifestyle item about make-up for men that involved Terry applying some brown lipstick ended in confusion with the visiting expert tangled up in his own spiel about “being seen wearing-up that can’t be seen”. In fact with this and other slots, it felt like both Terry and Gaby were competing to see who could sabotage the feature most successfully via a combination of spontaneous gestures, stupid questions or countless interruptions. To this end the most convincing segments of this whole show were stand-alone pieces, such as an on-form Johnny Ball answering viewers’ queries about clinking wine glasses and forest fires and, for just being audible and coherent, a feature on exercise routines fronted by Danny McCall.

Those moments when Terry finally lived up to the laudable aspects of his reputation came when his enduring capability for infectious patter was showcased in the form of single-handed, self-consciously delivered homilies. “After the break a man from Dorset reveals the basis of human civilization as we know it today,” he boomed triumphantly at one point, then paused for a split second, furrowed his eyebrow still further, and concluded, “don’t think we do small things here!” Upon meeting the aforementioned gentleman and hearing him expound at length about the rejuvenating qualities of olives, Terry took a moment to reflect before labelling the entire feature “very Jesuitical”. Even the otherwise mundane business of introducing the programme’s regular competition spurred an outburst of trademark mellifluous banter. “Use this as an excuse to test your phone,” Terry instructed from out of nowhere, before adopting a melodramatic drawl to add, with a final flourish, “all calls will be treated in complete confidence!”

All Gaby could offer by way of a comeback to this recitation was a somewhat lame, “That’s daft.” At which point the show temporarily spun off the rails yet again, and there was another moment of terrible confusion when everyone on-screen gawped in wide-eyed panic all around the studio. Order was quickly restored, as it always is, thanks to the autocue, but these recurring brief moments of tension, when you feel like things are hanging by a thread, have an unfortunate cumulative effect. They stack up over the hour to leave the programme pock-marked with traces of squabbling and a faintly unpleasant air of one-upmanship, so that by the time the 60 minutes are over there’s an all-too palpable sense of relief that everyone’s made it to the end in one piece.

The dishevelled presentation, pungent air of indifference and embarrassing absence of any bond between the two presenters more or less added up to an explicit instruction not to tune in again. Indeed, The Terry and Gaby Show always falls off the air in such an undignified fashion, compounded by a basic lack of manners (even the goodbyes are messed up) and ear-splitting noise (Gaby’s voice having remained undimmed from start to finish), you’re never left wanting more, or looking forward to renewing your acquaintance with the gang the following morning. The sound of the rapturous studio audience cheering to the rafters erases all residual positive aspects of the show, and reduces your parting impression of the whole palaver to that of an unruly bunfight.

Both Terry and Gaby remain professional broadcasters in their own right, and this show serves to re-emphasise that fact – but only when they are literally broadcasting in their own right, in other words by themselves, and speaking either straight to camera or one-on-one with another guest. Together, whether choking on an unwieldy piece of badinage, or attempting to get to the end of a joint interrogation of a celebrity that has turned into another grisly jousting match of rival presenting styles, the pair resemble one of the worst double acts on television.

This viewer has never been able to really feel comfortable in the presence of both Terry and Gaby, side by side, sharing a lens. You sit on edge, nervously waiting for the next time Terry will interrupt one of Gaby’s pieces to camera, or lob in a question to send an interview askew, and some more precious minutes of airtime are wasted clearing up the inevitable messy results. As opposed to The Big Breakfast in its early days, which suffered terribly when Evans or Gaby were absent, when you subtract either Terry or Gaby from the equation here – be it for one feature, an OB, or even a whole programme – everything gains in prestige and conviction.

The Terry and Gaby Show remains one of those programmes you don’t expect to be fantastic or sublime or in any way groundbreaking, but one that you so desperately want to be good, and one that you feel you should try hard to like. It’s Terry Wogan, for heaven’s sake, and he’s with Gaby Roslin! There’s Johnny Ball running about! They’re by the River Thames! In truth, just bringing all these elements together is nowhere near enough, and seeing the programme fail to understand this, time and again, morning after morning, is one hell of a frustrating experience.