Whereas some might consider Vanessa Feltz’s new daytime show to be exploitationist, could it actually be a forum for challenging and re-evaluating societal norms?

By providing a platform for some of Britain’s “most controversial personalities”, Vanessa’s Real Lives enables a consideration of taboo subjects and unconventional behaviour. The episode in question considered appropriate age limits for sexual relationships, what society considers a proper expression of maternal love and the untapped potential of alternative health products.

Granted this was done by bringing on Lucy “Miss Lust” Hayward, a former teacher who was jailed for sleeping with a 15-year old school-boy; Veronika “Bitty”, Robinson, who breast-fed her two kids until the age of seven; and Jim Crawford, a man who’s elixir of youth is a phial of his own urine, but you can’t make an omelette without having a frank discussion with those eggs.

Hayward was first and gave an account of the relationship she’d started at 31 with a boy half her age.

Apparently, she’d been in an “oppressive relationship during her 20s” when she wasn’t allowed out much (I dare say the two kids she was supposed to be raising during the time may have limited her nightlife). When she moved to take a new job as an English teacher she starting socialising with younger people in the town who had “similar tastes in music”, and subsequently met the adolescent in question.

According to Hayward, he was a typical “Jack the lad, confident, cocky, a charming young man”, and in Vanessa’s treacly phrase, “Cupid’s dart struck very heavily and [she] fell in love”.

Hayward rebutted any cradle-snatching accusations by reminding us that she’d been in an “oppressive relationship during her 20s”. He was “15 going on 25″, and seeing as she was 31 going on 15, then in one sense you could say he was older than her. She made him feel like a man and he took her back to the youth she’d “lost”.

However, societal disapproval of such relationships led to her being fired from her job, convicted of indecent assault, jailed for two years and placed on the Sex Offenders’ Register for eight years. Because of this she now finds it extremely difficult to get work and resents being classified with paedophiles, especially considering the sexual abuse she’d suffered when young. She was the real victim here, and lest we forget she had been in an “oppressive relationship during her 20s”.

What the show failed to mention was that Hayward had been jailed for cannabis possession at the time of the indecent assault conviction, having allowed her home to be used by other teenagers to have “pot parties”. And while she may have claimed the relationship developed out of “mutual respect and friendship” it ended with the boy running away from home before revealing the details of the tryst to his parents. They claimed his personality changed as a consequence of the affair and he become withdrawn and introverted (maybe he was worn out from using all the sex toys and videos found by the police at his mistress’ flat). Hardly the most responsible actions from someone whose job description entails a significant amount of in loco parentis.

Hayward was also recently exposed by the People newspaper to be working as a dominatrix and caning punters while wearing a mortarboard and gown: I guess this must be payback for that oppressive relationship she had in her 20s …

But her story at least started a discussion on this particular societal norm. Was she the victim in all of this? Had the young man been exploited and harmed by such a relationship? And is Vanessa Feltz really a MILF?

While there was general disapproval among the audience, most struggled to articulate exactly how Hayward had transgressed, although to be fair they hadn’t been given all the facts. One woman argued that, “He was a young man with his life ahead of him”, as if he’d been killed in a road accident. Another stated, “He’s 15 – not a man. You wouldn’t sleep with your own father and brother”. Hayward, perhaps understandably, retorted that it’s “not really the same thing”, and Feltz agreed that it was a completely different topic (probably tomorrow’s).

Hayward further tried to excuse her lack of responsibility by claiming to have been “vulnerable” at the time of the affair due to the – yes – “oppressive relationship she’d had in her 20s”. Vanessa informed us that she was in her similar situation when her marriage had ended and one of her daughter’s friends informed her she was a “MILF”, but despite her own “vulnerability” at the time she hadn’t taken advantage of the situation as she “couldn’t have faced his mother afterwards”.

The MILF topic clearly struck a chord in one young man who seizeed his opportunity to display his support for sexual generation games by kissing Vanessa’s hand, telling her: “You very gorgeous – I like mature women. Can I call you baby?”

Keen to act on his beliefs, the gigolo insisted on dancing for Vanessa (“You are gorgeous – can I dance for you?”). While she took his place in the audience, he stood with his arms above his head, gyrating his hips and thrusting his pelvis. He then crouched down and brought his head level with her waist, gliding up along her torso and for good measure poking his nose into her cleavage. As his closer, he then lifted his shirt to expose his six-pack and nipples. Unfortunately, this did nothing for Vanessa (“I’m feeling hot – but only with embarrassment”), or Hayward. But then he was probably more than half her age.

Continuing the theme of matronly love was breast-feeding counsellor Veronika Robinson. Breast was most definitely best for her and her two children, who she’d breast-fed until the age of seven, having left the decision of when to wean to them.

The objections from the audience varied, beginning with practical issues (teething and biting). However, Robinson used this to her advantage as a means to set parenting guidelines: “You put the baby down and you say ‘no!’, and they learn very, very quickly that if they want to breast feed they don’t put those teeth in.”

This lesson had been so well learnt that when one of her daughters was asked to write a list of what she wanted for her ninth birthday at the top she wrote “bitty”. Well she probably didn’t phrase it quite that way but “birthday bitty” was what she’d got, and apparently, “It made her day and she had a very special memory of it”. No doubt she’ll be recounting it to a psychotherapist in a few years time.

Shifting the issue, Robinson argued that breastfeeding is a taboo in our culture, and one of the reasons people “have a problem is that they don’t see it”. However, as most of the mums in the audience were quick to point out, weaning is more associated with setting age-appropriate behaviour. One commented that you wouldn’t have your children using the potty at seven just because they still wanted to.

Being a breast-feeding counsellor means Robinson was bound to emphasise the nutritional benefits of mother’s milk, but as one woman pointed out, why not just give it to them in a cup? With the zeal of a convert, Robinson continued to fixate on what she perceived to be a cultural taboo over breastfeeding, coming to the bizarre conclusion that, “We live in a culture where it’s fine to have a relationship with inanimate objects, yet we don’t want our kids to have one with human beings”.

Until this point women were dominating the debate, so it was nice to hear the male perspective. Unfortunately, it came from the MILF-loving dancer, who asked Robinson, “Do you know when you breast feed, do your boobs get bigger?” When this was confirmed he replied, “That’s why you want to breast feed, because you want your boobs big, eh?” Rather than seeing breast feeding at such a late age as unnatural he was simply jealous (“The kid is seven years old – it’s unfair!”).

The final guest was Jim Crawford, keen to explain the health and well-being that can be obtained by drinking your own urine. Jim’s life had changed four years ago when a friend had recommended a book on the potential benefits of drinking your own. Apparently, out of the “hundreds” of people she knew he was one of only six people she considered “open-minded” enough to share the information with. Or maybe she just didn’t like him.

Jim argued that urine is misunderstood and is actually the most medically researched substance in the world. On that basis, blood can’t be too far behind and I’d like to see someone on daytime TV using this argument to defend drinking it. Urine is, according to Crawford, “your own way of making you healthy”, although I was always under the impression it accomplished this by an outward rather than inward flow.

But in case anyone thought Jim was taking the piss (and with the authenticity of guests on a Vanessa Feltz show always open to question), a quick necking of a flute of his own vintage proved beyond doubt that he literally was.

If anyone was curious about the flavour then, according to the connoisseur, it has its own individual taste and changes according to gender. But how did he know this? Jim smirked rather too quickly for comfort in response to Vanessa’s query. It emerged his girlfriend practiced urine therapy on an “ad hoc basis when she fancies it”. It presented a lovely image in my mind, but as a picture tells a 1000 words, for the purposes of space I’ll go no further.

Apart from the hitherto disregarded nutritional benefits, there’s also the opportunity to incorporate urine into your beauty regimen. Jim uses it to hydrate his skin, claiming it calms after a shave “like nothing else”. To demonstrate this, and because he’s worth it, he smeared a couple of droplets around his chin, informing his perturbed audience that, “It will go straight through the skin and into it very quickly”.

Although informing him that he “smells like wee”, Vanessa was quick to sing the praises of his complexion. From a distance. And his skin did look relatively smooth and line free. But also unmistakeably yellow (just like his teeth), so I personally won’t be ditching the Clinique three-step system just yet.

As we returned to an audience uniformly unimpressed by Jim’s urine therapy, he did have one supporter.

Unfortunately, it was Veronika.

Her mother also takes the piss and recommends it to her grandchildren as a “great hair conditioner”. However, it might have the unfortunate side-effect whereby your female offspring breastfeed for prolonged periods.

Taken together, the show’s deviant trio demonstrate how unexamined social norms sometimes are for some people. While it’s easy to recognise when they’re being contravened, it’s sometimes more difficult to define exactly what the deviance is about the behaviour in question, apart from the jarring unconventionality.

This is well illustrated by the final comment from a member of the audience about Crawford’s urine-drinking – “I feel like I’m gong to be sick. I just don’t get it! I understand you’re not hurting anyone by doing this, so fair play to you, but personally, I think it’s wrong!”

Societal norm pariahs or pioneers? Here’s to you, Mrs Robinson, Mr Crawford and Ms Hayward.

As anyone who’s seen shirtless Newcastle supporters on a winter evening at St James’ Park will testify, Geordie men are made of hardy stock.

But the macho bravado of Toon Army members pales in comparison to the actions of Geordie underworld veteran Paddy Conroy, the first figure profiled in MacIntyre’s Underworld.

Out on license from an 11-year jail sentence for torture, kidnapping and escape, Conroy’s conditional release is complicated by a rival gangland family taking out a contract on his life. His re-appearance at a time of turf warfare between rival outfits threatens to worsen the fragile balance of power, due to his stated aim to re-establish his profile and reputation within the criminal fraternity.

Although now middle-aged and resembling a leaner Geoffrey Hughes, his eye patch (worn due to his eye haemorrhaging as a result of prison staff delaying necessary treatment for cataracts – or so he alleges) is a permanent reminder of the brigandish nature of his lifestyle.

The show starts with Paddy playing daddy to his two sons, Buster, 11, and Jack, 1. Long-suffering wife of 30 years Maureen also features in this homely sequence. However, as the couple recount the tale of how they met, it’s further evidence of the roughness of their environment. Conroy used to mug Maureen and steal her pocket money; unsurprisingly, she didn’t fancy a date with him when he asked. But Paddy wouldn’t take no for an answer and one day, in his own words, he “grabbed her by the hair and took her home … You think I’m jokin’, don’t ya!”.

Maureen’s expression indicated he wasn’t.

Conroy’s father ran a criminal enterprise in which Paddy served his apprenticeship and would later inherit. This provides some insight into his almost nostalgic view of historic criminality. Of his youth he states that “the villain was just a part of life in those days, especially from the more deprived areas. It wasn’t considered a bad thing unless you did bad villainy, immoral things”. Conroy makes a distinction between “gangsters” and villains. To him, a villain is just a product of his environment and upbringing, whereas “a gangster lives in a world of his own, an imaginary world”.

Conroy denies MacIntrye’s contention he might be perceived as a dangerous man (“I don’t think so – if you don’t have problems with me. But if you come attack us, then I’ll be a dangerous man”), and understands the current underworld difficulties as resulting from the new breed – those operating outside accepted criminal codes: “There’s loads of families from our sort of background who are good people, but you get families who are villains with no morals and not fit to walk this fookin’ Earth!”

Paddy considers himself a protector in the local community, and it says much for his standing (or, perhaps, the fear he inspired) that when he was jailed for violence against the police in the 1980s, thousands of people demonstrated on the streets for his release. Right-hand man Bullock even went to the extreme of climbing to the top of the Tyne Bridge to protest, but only managed four hours because “it was cold – freezing, proper freezing”. Conroy chides Bullock for not staying up there longer, although the latter defends himself by saying, “Well, it wasn’t planned properly. Next time I’ll take a sleeping bag and a flask!”

But despite Conroy’s bravado and criminal heritage, he’s clearly feeling the pressure of the license conditions and the price on his head. He wears a bullet proof vest in public, and his associates constantly monitor his surroundings. When the security lapses, as happens when Conroy returns from a night at the track, he starts to panic. After shouting, “Where the fook are ya?” repeatedly into his phone, he skulks in the lobby until his driver turns up, greeting him with, “Cunt! You cunt!”, before berating him further off mic.

Unable to retaliate in the way he had before his sentence, Conroy employs various means to deal with the tension, such as escaping to his country getaway 30 miles outside Newcastle. On his allotment he grows vegetables, and to MacIntyre’s surprise is particularly proud of the trophies he’s won for his prize leeks.

But even in his hideaway he has to be careful of his activities. As an example, his lifetime ban from using firearms means even a spot of rabbit hunting would result in an infringement of his license terms.

As Bullock, MacIntyre and Conroy chat in a shed, two associates bring in a couple of rabbits they’ve shot, and Bullock guts them by the riverbank. The shots of his handiwork are intercut with MacIntyre asking Paddy if he’s religious (he’s not) and whether he thinks he’s going to heaven (he does). To those who reckon he’s going to hell he retorts, “They can think what they like – it’s between me and the big fella!”

Conroy also uses other methods to relax, having smoked cannabis since he was 16. The green-fingered approach he uses on his leeks also applies to his cannabinoids (“Better to grow your own. See that: it’s fookin’ organic!”).

But the cannabis and leeks are insufficient to keep his ferocity in check. When his family plot in the local cemetery was desecrated in 1994 by a rival gang, his inability to tolerate any affront to his reputation or control his anger led to him committing the acts that resulted in his 11-year sentence.

Billy Collier, a criminal who worked for a rival family, was allegedly heard boasting in a local pub he’d been paid £5,000 to dig up the grave, chop parts of the body up and put them through Conroy’s window. After that, it was only a matter of time before Paddy and his henchmen exacted their revenge.

While the pain felt by Conroy is understandable – with him unable to hold back tears as he recounts the story – the retaliation he had planned for those alleged to be responsible is chilling, issuing his threat head-on to the camera: “I would have killed the whole family. All their loved ones. I would have murdered every single one of them if any of them had done that to my family”.

Within days, with only the digging up the grave part of the alleged plan carried out, Collier was kidnapped at gunpoint from a local shop and tortured. He was abandoned in a warehouse by his attackers after having his teeth pulled out with pliers. Conroy denies being behind the amateur dentistry (“I just beat him up. Hit him with a stick, pool cues, hit him with a gas bottle. He got a beating but not a great beating”), but admits to driving him 400 yards and leaving him at the location where his teeth would be torn out.

Conroy was arrested, but managed to escape en route to court, and was on the run overseas before being caught by Interpol. Security was much tougher on his return: to be on the safe side, a 17 vehicle convoy, aeroplane, helicopter, snipers and a gunboat made sure he kept his court appearance.

However, his holidays in the sun did nothing to moderate his temperament, and Conroy cracked under pressure in court, attacking the prosecuting lawyer. As a result he was dragged out past the jury by four prison officers, which, as Conroy concedes, “didn’t help” his innocent plea. He was found guilty on all charges and sentenced to 11 years, although Maureen continues to accept Paddy’s version of the attack on Billy Collier.

Conroy struggles to process the changes made in the Newcastle landscape in the decade of his incarceration, and also finds unfamiliar the spectacle of a new godfather (John Henry Sayers) controlling his former patch (“They say they run Newcastle, but no one fookin rules me”). With the old-skool underworld against him, Paddy is forced to make new alliances with local Triad gangs (the “new breed” which he had earlier railed against), and not without reason. A confrontation with 14 members of the Sayers gang led to Paddy having to endure a severe beating, in the knowledge that to fight back could have resulted in his death, and to involve the police (strictly against his criminal code) would have meant he’d contravened his license conditions.

The ongoing feuds and precarious situation cause Paddy to worry about his eldest son Buster, (“One day you will be the bossman”) and that he’ll inherit the internecine feuds in the same way he did from his own father. Buster is only now realising the extent of his father’s criminal lifestyle. His copy of Zoo magazine shows a pixellated snapshot of dad alongside a cover feature on “Britain’s deadliest gangs” (“Meet the men who run YOUR manor”). This side of his father he finds hard to understand, with the additional implications of what it means for his own future.

One reason for Buster’s concern over his family’s criminal heritage may be the example of his cousin Dylan, who at 22 has already been jailed four times. Despite Paddy’s assertion that he’s a “good lad in general, just bored”, Dylan is back in jail within four days of being released from his latest sentence after brandishing two sawn-off shotguns.

Yet despite having a clear understanding of the reality of prison life (“Everyone in there is depressed – whole prisons suffer from depression”), Paddy risks his license conditions being invoked after an unnecessary run-in with the police. During a raid on his sister’s house he allows himself to be drawn into a verbal confrontation with an officer and is charged with a public order offence. Unwilling to face court proceedings, Conroy goes on the run again, despite the knowledge he risks a heavier sentence as a consequence. However, this proves to be unnecessary, and somewhat farcical, as his 72-day period in hiding turns out to be just to avoid a £130 penalty charge, which is sent through the post to him after he avoided the initial court date.

Despite this good fortune, and the end of his license period meaning Conroy is a free man once again, he’s unable to shake off past events – particularly the feud with the Sayles family. Conroy interrupts his cooking of a celebratory family dinner to launch into an uninterrupted four-minute tirade, unintelligible in parts and incoherent in others, where he tries to piece together what may have been slights on his reputation and the intentions of his rivals (his perceptions and thought processes clearly affected by his cannabis use), leaving no doubt he’ll retaliate at some point, “and it’s coming fookin’ shortly, believe you me”. His rant culminates in him shouting, “Get that on your fookin’ documentary!”, before resuming his preparation of the family meal.

At this point, just by giving its subject enough rope, the profile allows the true nature of Conroy to emerge, demonstrating that any performance by an actor of a “gangster” role can never fully convey the menace of intent that an authentic criminal has. Despite certain sequences that humanised him (sequences with his family and on his allotment) and a refusal by MacIntyre to allow a caricature to develop – as would be likely in a Zoo feature – Conroy’s inherent brutality continually re-surfaces. His own need to distinguish between his own criminal acts and those of “gangsters” suggests that to some degree he is fully aware of the nature of his lifestyle and its implications, the essence of which it was essential MacIntyre captured in his “fookin’ documentary”.

Being honest, did we ever want the Blind Date couples to live happily ever after?

The bickering on the plane, tantrums on the veranda and the pre-mediated verbals on the sofa with Cilla, it was Cupid’s misses that made the show a hit, with the occasional happy ending only there to help maintain the illusion that we watched the thing for these magic moments.

ITV1′s Dating the Enemy ditches the Blind Date pretence and gets straight down to business: a couple are deliberately mis-matched on the basis of their being the complete opposite of their stated ideal partners, and have to endure three days in each other’s company. The aim at the end of the 72 hours is to see if the wooing by one half of the couple is enough to convince the other to – well – “date the enemy”.

The show starts with “ambitious Chelsea socialite” Melanie, a cross somewhere between her namesake Melanie Griffith and Geri Halliwell. To illustrate her go-getting nature an Apprentice-esque sequence shows the hard-working girl’s lifestyle: conducting business in the back of a cab (“On my way to a very important meeting”) on her BlackBerry, being extremely professional with clients and, er, sniffing a bunch of roses at a flower stall.

Melanie is candid about what she can’t tolerate in a man – scruffiness, dirt, lacking ambition, and not being a gentleman. However, while she listed her beau no-nos, these were intercut with shots of her date-to-be waking up with three-day stubble, munching toast in the middle of the afternoon (and not using a plate, so doubtless getting crumbs over the carpet) and belching.

For “slacker and proud of it” Mark, knowledge, experience and love are the essentials of life, stating that, “at the risk of sounding like an old hippie [and probably smelling like one], I would say that I can unashamedly defend why my way of life is the way of life to live”.

So the successful Sloane and the scruffy slacker – surely the perfect match for a lorra, lorra laughs.

As Melanie makes her way to Brighton (BlackBerry constantly on the go), Mark ruminates on how he can convince her he’s more than just a slacker (having a shave would have been a good start). At 36, with “neither academic or career success”, and working in a comic store, clearly he has his work cut out. Philosophising over his lack of occupational progress (“On paper I look like a bum, maybe, but to me it’s more a career of life than work”) Mark decides on a back to basics approach to win over Melanie: a night of camping under the stars. After all, as the scruffy one notes, “what’s not to like about tenting under the sky – it’s all good”. Well the potential for getting wet and dirty for one, things we discover Melanie will not tolerate (“I don’t want to go anywhere dirty”).

The love train pulls in to Brighton, and the odd couple meet, with Melanie confessing later in the show how gorgeous she found Mark (“He’s just like a tall Orlando Bloom”). Mark decides to reveal the evening’s plans by holding up the tent bags and asking, “What are we going to do?”, perhaps under the delusion being such a hard-working city girl means Melanie has never seen a tent before.

After finding a suitable clearing, things don’t get off to the best start as Mark realises he can’t pitch his tent (“I’m absolutely buggered”). Fortunately Melanie, the novice to this camping game, is on hand to point out why he’s having such difficulties (“It’s inside out”).

But three hours later, with the tent up and the campfire burning, the two swap notes on how their lifestyles contrast. Melanie always has a plan and her diary is constantly booked-up, with something on “every day, sometimes two things on at night”. In contrast, Mark confesses he’s more “a sitter and a thinker than a mover and a shaker”. But at least he looks like a tall Orlando Bloom while he’s lazing around.

After surviving the “coldest night’s sleep she’s ever had”, Melanie travels with Mark to the Isle of Wight to meet the parents. She is looking forward to the encounter, and over the dinner expects an insight into Mark and his background. On hearing the description of them as “aging hippies” she’s under the impression they’ll be “fun and light-hearted”. But before she’s received her first course at the Horse and Groom this proves not to be the case.

After telling Mark’s dad she organises events and parties for a living, and the next is a fashion event for the British Red Cross, he retorts with, “So lots of anorexic young ladies walking up and down in overpriced clothes, with the odd celebrity turning up?”

Being a professional, Melanie takes this in her stride, and responds with an anodyne question to deflect the awkwardness (“Why did you move to the Isle of Wight?”). However, I’m quite sure she wouldn’t have asked this if she knew what was going to be the response …

“If you go to these new towns in the south of England, everyone aspires to the same boring shite. Not everyone’s aspiring to a four-wheel drive, and the availability of spirituality over here is more accessible, and I do like being away from the human species. I don’t like people very much. It’s a nice place and the trees are nice, but people are a bit revolting, ain’t they, don’t you find?”

While this made for great TV, it’s hardly polite dinner conversation.

The charm offensive continues (Melanie being charming and Mark’s father offensive), with patter asking Melanie if his misanthropy has “given you an insight into maybe changing your perception of life?”, although by the expression on her face the only thing she seems to want to change right now are her dinner companions.

Taking refuge in the ladies (or “fillies” as daintily signed on the door), Melanie lets off steam about Mark’s dad and how he’s “quite rude to put me down and what I do”, which is perfectly understandable. It’s one thing to question someone’s way of life, another to completely disrespect it. To add to the dining debacle, Mark confirms to Melanie he share’s his dad’s views, which means he’s managed to be both dirty, scruffy and ungentlemanly within the first 24 hours of their date.

On their final day together, no doubt as a response to her treatment by Mark’s father, Melanie turns the tables on her date, considering him to be “all talk and no action”. Over lunch at a café (appropriately called Belchers) Melanie asks him if he has any plans to perform some of his poetry at the reading evening (“This is your moment to shine”). The mere thought of it has Mark blushing so much he has to remove his jumper (Melanie: “Are you feeling flushed because of the pressure?”).

Melanie continues her probing as the pair engage in some pottery painting at a workshop. She asks Mark if he’s prepared to display his porcelain Elvis in his house for people to see, and if so, why the difficulty in reading his poetry in public …

“I don’t get embarrassed about showing things I’m slightly able to do, but if it’s something I want to do …”

“Or you have more to lose?”

“It’s difficult for me to expose the raw inner feelings, and that is what I put into the things I write …”

This becomes evident in the show’s climax at the poetry evening, when Melanie meets some of Mark’s friends, purportedly along to offer support. Rather than challenge his preconceptions of how an audience may react, they reinforce his negative views, with one opining on how “soul-destroying” a single heckle would be. Melanie proffers that she’d think the same but consider it a “risk worth taking”, a phrase clearly unfamiliar to the men as they have to ask her to repeat it.

As Melanie is by now fully aware, Mark’s slacker ideals mask a basic lack of confidence and self-belief, reinforced by an absence of parental encouragement (he later admits that Melanie has given him the “verbal kick in the pants I needed 16 years ago”) and his friends’ meekness. His statements about “a career of life rather than work” reveal a belief system that gives him reasons to get away from attempting new things or achieving anything. It’s not a case of him rejecting ambition, but being scared of it.

But after watching a reading by a relaxed poetess, he confounds his friends and Melanie to get up on stage and do a reading, and an accomplished one at that, of a “very well-known poem” (Desiderata by Max Ehrmann). This leaves Mark’s friends “gobsmacked”, and Melanie taken aback (“After the last 24 hours I never expected him to do it”). In addition to this, the organiser of the Brighton Poetry Society encourages Mark to attend their next meeting, where he says he’ll “do one of mine”. But has this minor show of ambition been enough to compensate for being dirty, scruffy and his early ungentlemanly conduct and convince Melanie to “date the enemy”?

Unfortunately, not.

Although Mark has gone up in her estimation due to his public performance, and that he no doubt looked like a tall Orlando Bloom as he did it, it wasn’t enough. Her verdict was that “on a piece of paper he’s perfect, but there’s a thing inside of him that won’t move him forward”, which leads her to doubt Mark will actually go through with the performance of his own work – despite his invitation for her to come back to Brighton to watch him.

The show’s heart-warming moments came not from the potential of any romance between the two, but seeing Mark’s personal development thanks to an infusion of Melanie’s carpe diem spirit (“There’s a Mark way of doing things and the slightly more effective way of doing things”). He didn’t get the girl, but he got some of his confidence back.

As they parted with a hug and a song by the appropriately named Embrace, on reflection, maybe Mark could have chosen a different poem with which to enchant Melanie, as Ehrman’s lines clearly state to:

“Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.”

Despite claims by some that Britain has become a nanny state, what we are in fact living under is a dominatrix dictatorship.

Just watch any terrestrial TV station for a couple of hours. It’s inevitable at some point you’ll encounter a stern-faced disciplinarian issuing a series of orders to some masochistic member of the public.

But as if Mistress McKeith, Mistress Frost et al aren’t enough, Channel 4′s latest strict mistress is double-barrelled dominatrix Cesarina Holm-Kander, Your Money or Your Wife‘s whip-cracking financial trouble-shooter. Holm-Kander, the show’s self-styled “debt buster”, aims to bring her boardroom expertise to the bedroom and help couples climb the debt mountain they’ve managed to accumulate; and with the average debt of the under 30s being £8,000, Holm-Kander won’t be short of victims.

First in the series was credit card queen Kerri, a 22-year old psychology student and model, who was definitely more the latter than the former. Label lover Kerri (motto: Life’s too short not to get everything you want) felt it was important to look good, but was unable to manage this on her alleged £40,000 salary, and had ran up a five-figure debt on credit cards.

It wasn’t difficult to see how this had happened. Kerri admitted to spending £3,000 to £4,000 a month on clothes, had two silver convertibles, and had undergone a £5,000 boob job in 2004, although it was perhaps appropriate the latter should have been financed by plastic.

Amazingly, boyfriend James (motto: If you can’t afford it you shouldn’t get it) was unaware as to the full extent of Kerri’s spending, although you would have thought he couldn’t have missed the overnight breast enhancement and been curious as to how it was paid for. Maybe he was having too much fun.

Mistress Cesarina (motto: Spending money you don’t have to achieve your dream is the recipe for a financial nightmare) certainly had some work to do, as not only were the couple deep in debt but planning to go into business together and open a nightclub. Could she whip the profligate pair into equitable shape?

The first part of Cesarina’s master(card) class was to reveal the true extent of Kerri’s debts, not just to James, but to the debt diva herself. Kerri’s tenuous grip on her financial affairs was such that she was unaware of how much she was in arrears, although you’d have thought a model would have known a thing or two about figures.

Kerri told James she was “£30 – 40 thousand” in debt, although Cesarina was quick to point out the exact figure was £41,000. If you were being generous you could say Kerri was only a thousand out, but it would perhaps be more accurate to state she was £11,000 out. James was surprised it was that much (“I thought it was half of that”), although Kerri at least had some idea where the money had gone (“I shouldn’t have bought all those shoes.”).

After Cesarina got financial and informed Kerri she was technically insolvent – then explained to her exactly what this phrase meant – the mistress got down to drawing-up a post-nup agreement and attempted to pass on the organisational skills needed to manage their debt. Being a financial expert, Cesarina reckoned she could knock off £9,000 of Kerri’s arrears inside two weeks, although I wasn’t that impressed. Even though I’m a beginner at this financial advisor stuff, I could have knocked £41,000 off James’s debts inside two minutes with some simple advice: dump Kerri. However, he was determined to stand by his woman, insisting they were “in this together”.

Despite this declared spirit of togetherness, he was strangely absent from the next part of Cesarina’s attempts to “dent the debt” with a spot of public shaming. As a psychology student Kerri should have understood the motivation here. Carrying a suitcase of £20 notes which contained the amount she was paying in interest on her loans each month, Kerri had to walk the streets and hand out to passers-by the money, explaining to them as she did so why she was being so generous. Kerri thought this exercise was a waste, although as her mistress was quick to point out, this was what she was doing on a corporate basis by virtue of her interest payments each month.

But just in case the symbolic effect of the lesson wasn’t enough, James obeyed their mistress’s next set of instructions by cutting up all of Kerri’s cards. In addition to this was an enforced budget of £7 a day, with all their financial decisions having to be made together and Cesarina having access to their online accounts.

Following this was the inevitable asset-stripping which, understandably, had the Visa vixen feeling a little nervous, but while she was likely to lose the shirt off her back it was unlikely Cesarina was so strict she was going to take the implants from her chest. After going through her possessions and calling in an auctioneer, Cesarina was confident she could raise £2,000 by selling the tagged items, but James and Kerri resisted the proposed flogging by their monetary mistress.

James said he’d “rather get a job than sell this stuff” which in more than the way he’d meant revealed why the pair were so indebted. Kerri also refused to sell many of her “investments”, such as her £900 bag. But, as Cesarina pointed out, this wasn’t an investment, it was a debt … in the shape of a bag. This also applied to £34,000 in the shape of a Beamer that was parked next to the other convertible Kerri couldn’t part with as she wanted “the best of anything”. With an attitude and car like that, it was no surprise when Cesarina fitted her client with a tracking device so she could be monitored 24 hours a day.

The next stage in installing discipline was an attempt to show the superficial and ultimately pointless nature of Kerri’s desire for image. She had to discern a designer bag from a high street one, which, unsurprisingly, she was unable to do – but then she wasn’t alone. When the bags were shown to people on the street (the people Kerri the “model” was most likely to spend her time mixing with), they too were unable to tell the difference or which was the most expensive-looking. As Cesarina pointed out, many celebs wear high-street attire, and besides this try and blag as much free stuff as possible. Some of them probably even take advantage of the firm Holm-Kander mentioned that offered designer bags for a £30 monthly hire fee.

But the final test of Kerri’s newly found obedience was a spot of entrapment. Could she resist the ultimate accessory of the conspicuously consumptive: a pampered pooch as carried by the likes of Paris Hilton?

Knowing of Kerri’s desire for a £1,000 pug puppy, Cesarina had a secret meeting with James (in the front of a parked car for added furtive authenticity) to inform him of her cunning plan. He was to take his girlfriend to her pedigree chum to see if he could use a pug to make a mug of her. Four hidden cameras were recording the occasion as he attempted to entice her. However, she refused to take the bait, worrying that she didn’t want Cesarina to “lose respect for me or be told off”. Right on cue after this display of submission, Cesarina rang Kerri to congratulate her for not giving in to temptation.

By the end of the first month, Cesarina had saved the couple £9,845, although this sum was perhaps less impressive when taken into account the £7,900 that had been saved by selling one of the cars. Much of the advice Holm-Kander had given (organise your bills, pay them on time) was the practical kind you’d expect a layman to offer, and when the financial expert told them all they had to do to clear the remaining £31,155 was carry on with £7 a week budget for the next two years you had to wonder if it wasn’t just Kerri with the tenuous grip of financial reality.

But then this hadn’t all been about financial gains, and the experience had taught Kerri and James lessons about each other. The psychology student had learned she can’t have everything she wants and James had realised his woman can be tamed. But then what else would you expect a dominatrix to teach you?

Is five becoming the new old-school Channel 4?

Consider the following. On the evening of 10 October, which programme was on which channel?

a) A tawdry piece of celebrity car-crash TV masquerading as socially concerned documentary
b) A thoughtful and non-sensationalist look at a subgroup with an unusual paraphilia

If you matched five with B, then congratulations. On the same evening C4′s Jonathan King exposé was shown, five served up the latest in their “extraordinary people” series, focusing on four men and their unconventional relationships. With life-size dolls.

But out of this unpromising material came the type of programming C4 used to do so well before becoming HBO-UK.

Guys and Dolls considered three American men and their relationships with their over-grown Barbies but, before us Brits get too smug, they also included a Dorset local. The individual circumstances of each man were presented in turn, with obvious parallels between all four: an almost morbid fear of being alone, issues over control and reliability in a relationship, and a perceived incapability of living up to women’s expectations.

The program opened with the bizarrely named Davecat. In his 30s and still living with his parents, Davecat found this a little embarrassing, unlike his predilection for his blow-up beau Sidore. Being a mid-western American, Davecat’s father was obviously not tolerant enough to accept his son’s relationship with Polythene Pam, considering it “unnatural and strange”. Clashes would often occur and, as a consequence, Sidore spent 99.9% of her time in Davecat’s room. But then you wouldn’t think there’d be much point in Davecat’s mom setting her daughter-in-law a place at the dinner table.

Davecat’s plastic fetish had started at an early age after his mother had taken him to a downtown store and found him talking to a mannequin with a tennis skirt. He admired their “beauty and stoicism” and sense of being “incorruptible”.

But that’s not to say he hadn’t had a bloody good go at working on their incorruptibility.

Initially, his relationship with Sidore had been, “Sex, sex, sex”, but had tapered off to his just laying close by and “appreciating” her. Davecat had made half-hearted attempts with “organic women” but had been unable to tolerate the “lack of constancy”, unlike his situation with Sidorie. She was like an anchor in comparison with real women, which is not surprising as being an inanimate object means a plastic doll has much in common with other inanimate objects.

However, he faced an impending separation from his love as she needed repairs after going all loose and floppy over the years (the indignity of aging). Sidore would be away for three weeks which was the longest they’d been apart. Being alone was something Davecat didn’t want to contemplate, although if he’d known the man he’d entrusted his true love to then their separation would have been even more devastating …

As soon as the camera panned around 50-year old computer technician’s Evarard’s house (or indeed, as soon as we’d learned his name was Evarard) it was evident he had a thing for models – and this was before we came face-to-face with his lovers. Model airplanes hung from the ceiling, demonstrating he was a dab hand at patching things up with an Airfix kit.

The production team had arrived early, as “Virginia” was still sleeping, but this wasn’t too inconvenient once her partner changed her eyes from the sleeping set to the awake ones. Evarard cooed as he described how she was so “very static” and didn’t move at all, but that was unsurprising considering Virginia was made out of plastic. And had her closed eyes in.

The nearest he’d got to a girlfriend was a wren from the Royal Navy who’d taken dance lessons and was “quite fit” although, ever the fetishist, he was disappointed she didn’t wear the uniform when they met. Evarard didn’t go into the specifics as to why his wren had flown, but had some generalisations as to why other birds hadn’t flocked to him. He considered attractive women to be “unattainable”, perceived himself as an “outsider” and that all women reacted negatively to him before he’d even said anything.

To counter the negative perceptions, he had taken up hang-gliding to distinguish him from the common man on the street, with the expectation that women would be naturally attracted to guys who do exciting things. Alas, this hadn’t worked out either. If you ask me, he was going about it the wrong way: if he really wanted to demonstrate his alpha maleness he should have casually slipped into the conversation that he was living with a couple of models.

As with Davecat, Evarard was keen to stress the companionship angle to his latex loves. His mother had died 11 years ago and he’d clearly been unable to grieve and move on from his loss. Admitting that it “doesn’t make sense when your mother dies” he said he’d “probably” prefer it if he had a real woman in his life, but “sooner the dolls than no female company at all”.

As he poignantly, if a tad self-pityingly, put it: “I’m 50 years old. Losing my hair. I’ll never get a real woman that would look like this [his model]. A real doll will love me, no matter what.”

So despite the subject matter, the programme had been able to engender some sympathy for these lost souls.

Until it came to Gordon.

If anyone met most people’s stereotype of a sex-doll user it was him. Although his issues over control and dependency were similar to the others, his attitude was the most misogynistic of the men. He described sleeping with a woman who’d had the audacity to have intercourse with another man before him as “like going to a restaurant and being served regurgitated meat”.

His biological father had left him after six months and he’d been raised by his mother in Virginia (the place, not Evarard’s partner). Perhaps as a consequence of this Gordon was quick to emphasise the transitory nature of human relationships (“How many friends do you have from when you’re five or six years old?”) and how it influenced his preference for plastic.

But leaving aside his early attachment difficulties, his experiences in adult life had reinforced his preference for inanimate companions. He’d met a woman at a party and despite his perceived unattractiveness (“Bad skin, bad teeth”) had gotten talking to her and passed on his number. A couple of weeks later she called to ask him over to her place. To babysit while she went out with another man. Wicked, wicked woman!

Gordon had taken this rather hard, although he was at least able to look on the bright side by reflecting on the money he’d save at Christmas by not having to buy her any presents.

Perturbed by the unpredictability of human relationships, he no longer had to worry about “lies and deceit” with his flexible friends, which gave him peace of mind. Plus there were obvious advantages (no pregnancy or sexual disease), although at least with real-life women you don’t have to take a puncture-repair kit on a date. Unless you know she cycled there.

As Jean-Luc Godard once quipped about movies, all you need is a girl and a gun, and Gordon had two of the former and three of the latter, which coupled with his Astroglide lubricant and two-handed broadsword made him his “own god” in his fantasy world. His dolls were worth everything to him, to the point he was planning on having them buried with him, although for the sake of a relatively dignified service I hope he chooses to leave his sword outside the coffin.

The valley of the dolls responsible for all this latex love was situated in California, with the manufacturers shipping around seven dolls a week worldwide. Even by their standards they’d had various unnatural requests to deal with, such as pregnant dolls (Gordon clearly hadn’t placed that order) or an 80-year-old doll (maybe Evarard was looking for a mother-substitute?) One had even asked for pubic hair going up to the belly button, although they’d refused this request on the grounds they “had to draw the line somewhere”. Well even latex doll makers have standards.

Doll creator Matt was flattered his creations were able to fill such an emotional space in the lives of his customers, considering them to function like insoles do in shoes. For those guys incapable of talking to girls, opined Matt, “sex with a rubber doll is better than never having sex at all”. Sharing a similar tenuous grip on reality was Slade, who was the maintenance man when the dolls needed their annual service. Some of his work were minor things such as replacing teeth. Or vaginal lips. In fact the model he was working on at that moment had what he described as a “destroyed vagina”.

Of particular concern to Davecat, considering Slade was repairing Sidore, was his confession that he’d had sex with a couple of the dolls entrusted to his care. The bounder!

But just to prove the show was giving an equal platform for both men and women to demonstrate their psychological flaws, on came Slade’s girlfriend Rebecca. Unbelievably, she’d been jealous of the dolls when she first started dating him, feeling intimidated by what she perceived to be their “physical perfection”. However, as time passed she had got over this jealous phase, seeing the latex ladies as just “a very high form of masturbation”.

Which is where Mike came in.

As the only man featured who was bridging the gap between fantasy and reality by having sexual contact with a real woman, and perhaps not coincidentally, Mike was pretty upfront about his dolls functioning as an outlet for his 3am urges. Unlike other guys who had Harleys, sex was his hobby, and with his eight-woman harem of Lilo Lills, he was the Lou Bega of latex.

Complicating things for him was his burgeoning relationship with Texan lovely Jodie and the realization that although sex with the dolls “can be awesome, [they] provide zero companionship”. Jodie seemed admirably open-minded about Mike’s activities, but as she had met him via the internet and he’d turned out not to be a serial killer then she’d probably considered the fetish as a something of a result.

He saw the possibility of wedding bells and used his birthday as an opportunity for Jodie to “meet the prosthetics”, leading to a particularly memorable exchange as she met his 3am girls for the first time:

Jodie: Do you use all eight?
Mike: No. Just one at a time!
Jodie: I need a beer!

Jodie liked the fact that he’d opened up to her and took his doll fetish as just being a part of who he is, but if she ever found out he preferred sex with dolls over women she’d “break it off” (I believe by “it” she was referring to their engagement).

So a happy ending. Or perhaps not.

A week after the birthday surprise, Jodie decided to end it. But then she’d probably found out the truth about the kind of man who has sex with an inflatable doll. They’re notorious for letting their women down.

Are the chattering classes no longer a bunch of spankers? Or are they astute enough to recognise an ITV1 producer’s man-trap when they see one?

Although ostensibly a documentary on smacking, ITV1′s I Smack and I’m Proud was another in a series of programmes (Trisha, Jeremy Kyle, Honey We’re Killing the Kids) designed to allow the viewer to feel superior and sneer at lower-class life.

The show opened with a series of parents reciting the usual clichés used to defend corporal punishment: “I think, ‘It hurt me more than it hurt him’”; “It didn’t do me any harm.”; “Spare the rod and you spoil the child.”; and, “You have to be a brave parent to admit you smack your child.”

The focus was on a series of exclusively non-bourgeois families: Angela Davies and her three children Marcella, Aaron and Lorenzo; Gary and Tracy Wall (the Wayne and Waynetta Slob of parenting) and their six children; Martyn and Amanda Ayers and their two kids; Denise Williams and her two daughters; and Jenny and Mark Flanders (not their real surname), who believed their kids should fear being spanked as much as the Lord.

Interspersed between the clans were brief comments from more of the producers’ lower-class parental sample, the usual talking head snippets (eg Dr Miriam Stoppard) and the obligatory comments from celebs. Both Ulrika Jonsson and Fiona Phillips were adamant they didn’t smack their kids, which is no doubt true (nanny probably does it for them).

The camera’s presence had no inhibiting effects on the featured parents, which allowed them to demonstrate all the inconsistencies and distorted logic that informed their disciplinarian practices, starting with the Davies family.

“I say my piece: you don’t listen, you get whacked.”

A graduate from The Sopranos‘ school of parenting, Angela was clear to the objectives of her reign of terror: “I love them, that’s why I discipline them. I don’t want them to take drugs or get pregnant; I don’t want them to hurt another child.”

Davies stated that, “I rule this house, I’m in control” but she wasn’t – either of her temper or the children. In the 12 days the family was filmed, she struck her kids 20 times on camera, although the edit made it feel as if martial law had been declared in the Davies household as she repeatedly hit her kids with a spatula as they failed to do their homework.

“When Tracy smacks ‘em they know it.”

Although the Walls had six kids to hit, the focus was on problem-child Aaron, a seven-year old with a mouth like a docker. He had a four-year behavioural history of tantrums and swearing, and you didn’t have to be a social learning theorist to see where it came from. While administering a smacking, Tracey and Gary would argue and swear at each other, demonstrating the parenting classes they’d attended hadn’t worked.

Gary and Tracey had “tried everything” with Aaron, including the “old-fashioned” method of putting curry powder in his mouth. To those who thought soap was the old-fashioned way, they’d tried that as well. But neither of these two methods had worked, unlike pepper, which really did the job (where had they been for these parenting classes? Guantanamo Bay?)

Maybe it wasn’t a surprise Aaron called his dad a “prick”, “bastard” and “fuckin’ idiot” if this was the treatment he was receiving. The battle of wills between father and son led to Aaron running away at one point, not that the Walls noticed (they’d probably have had another couple of kids before realising he’d gone).

“We woz bringing him up wrong.”

Martyn and Amanda Ayers had a more clearly delineated problem with their son Mitchell, who suffered a severe case of dethroning with the birth of his brother Spencer. The Ayers had planned originally for Mitchell to be their only child and had consequently “spoilt and mollycoddled” him. The birth of Spencer and the loss of attention had clearly affected the boy’s behaviour, and six months after the birth Martyn decided on a zero tolerance policy: “One day he wound me up and wound me up and then I hit him. He cried for 10 – 15 minutes and was shocked and then was perfect for 15 minutes after. I thought: ‘Blimey, is this what it takes?’”

Martyn had extended this hardline approach to the evening meal, bawling at Mitchell, “Keep your fucking legs forward,” whenever he turned round to look at him. The dad complained at not being able to concentrate when at home and wanting a period of quiet reflection after work, which went some way to explaining the real reason his son was being hit so often. Maybe if he cooled down first before interacting with his family, Mitchell would be hit less often.

The most uncomfortable moment was seeing Martyn ask his son: “Do you hate me for smacking you?” Mitchell said no, absolving Martyn of absolutely everything.

The final family was Denise Williams and her two daughters Page and Charley (“They’re a pain in the arse”). Mum would smack for such heinous crimes as not being able to open the door because her daughters’ room was messy. In Denise’s history were features that would later be shown to be similar to Angela’s: a father from the army who practiced a strict regime of punishment (“His belt would be undone if I wasn’t in by nine”), who one day punched his daughter in the mouth after she contravened his oppressive rules.

Was it effective? Well Denise didn’t sleep with anyone until she was 20, although later stole money from a service station in Pontypool and threatened the cashier (an old woman) with a hammer, for which she received six months imprisonment. She’s also served time for fraud (three months) and another few weeks for assault. So a successful disciplinarian upbringing there.

What was evident in the closing sequences where Harley Street psychologist Dr Lucy Atcheson met the parents was an almost complete inability for the adults to make links between their own childhood experiences and subsequent behaviour as adults. Angela grew up in Singapore where her father was in the British Army. She said he was a “strict disciplinarian” who “didn’t know how to love” and “treated me like one of his soldiers”.

Rather than recognising she’d become a clone of him and respond to the psychologist’s suggestion she be more demonstrative in her loving, Angela retorted that she [the psychologist] was, “going on like a broken tape-recorder”, although was at least able to refrain from hitting Dr Atcheson with a spatula.

When the doctor met with Martyn and Amanda there was slightly more insight (or guilt) and a contrast in results. On viewing the footage for the first time Martyn visibly paled, especially the scene where Mitchell was told to, “keep your fuckin’ legs forward”. As Lucy pointed out, Mitchell was simply curious at to what his dad was doing when turning round at the table.

Partly as a consequence of seeing his own behaviour, Martyn had decided to stop smacking his eldest son, although it felt somewhat contrived to close the hour’s grim viewing with this tacked-on “happy ending”.

The vast majority of the parents featured were unaware of the change in the law in 2005 which states that if the inflicted punishment leads to more than an actual passing mark, the parent could face up to five years imprisonment. As was pointed out by the health professionals, small children are often unable to see the connection between the smack and the misdemeanour, and become increasingly desensitised to the physical punishment. They also tend to be focus more on the received punishment rather than what they’re told they’ve done wrong.

But whether you agree with corporal punishment or not, a supposed documentary should be able to provide articulate responses to both sides of the argument, not allowing the Slobs to square off against the Stoppards.

With the cessation of corporal punishment in state and private schools, and in the family in other European countries, it’s probably only a matter of time before Parliament brings to an end the kind of techniques employed by the appropriately named Andria Bowes-Adolfess, who uses smacking to show “wrong from right”.

Little Hitlers, one and all.

Despite the best efforts of the government to conceal the true casualty figures, British soldiers are struggling to cope with the ferocity of Taliban attacks in Afghanistan. Luckily, I have a cunning plan with which to undermine the fighting ability of those shock troops. I’d sit down with Taliban Supreme Leader Mullah Mohammad Omar and make him watch ITV1′s Loose Women.

I’m certain by the time we’d reached the “loose morals” section he’d recognise the need to reverse his movement’s education policy and insist all Afghanistani women are educated to doctorate level.

As part of the lightweight TV programming which makes up ITV1 schedules from today’s GMTV to tomorrow’s, Loose Women aims to transfer to TV the blend of features found within magazines my mother is so fond of purchasing when she does the shopping. So, it’s a bit of diet info (“Lose 10 pounds while watching TV and eating chocolate!”), some celeb fluff (“Peter Andre on his best buy coffee machine!”), a real life story (“My son learned maths by selling drugs!”) and – my favourite part – the problem page (“My man keeps badgering me to have a threesome – should I?”)

The show is ably anchored by main host Kaye Adams, although holed below sea-level by crewmates Coleen Nolan (ex-Nolan sister and former Mrs Shane Ritchie), Carol McGiffin (the original ex-Mrs Chris Evans) and Denise Welch (ex-Corrie, but not a divorcée). What use an anchor is to a sinking ship is a moot point, as despite Adams’ best efforts to avoid icebergs, her crew seems set on a collision course thanks to their constant internecine bitching.

The show kicks off with some slimming chat as Coleen talks about her non-solids diet, which was rather apposite considering the last time her BMI was in reasonable shape was during her original pre-solids days. She witters on about changing her relationship to food, although you’d think the human-grub set-up is pretty one way – you eat it, it doesn’t eat you. Unless it’s some form of GM killer tomato.

Rarely able to focus their attention on a topic for too long, the conversation soon sets sail for distant shores. Coleen, apparently, is big in Japan, although unless her diet starts to have a more drastic effect she’ll be big everywhere. Boom boom.

With the show shipping water fast, and this being ITV1, it moves on to its premium line competition plug, with the following challenging question to win £2000:

Albert Square is the setting for which soap:

a) Neighbours
b) Emmerdale
c) EastEnders

I thought the government was supposed to be taking action against these kind of no-brainer £1-a-minute quiz lines?

Just in case the above question is too taxing, on came first guest Todd Carty (ex-EastEnders) to jog your memory. At this point I begin to wonder if Carty’s microphone is malfunctioning as I am unable to hear much of what he say. I think the conversation goes something like this:

Loose women: Coo! Coo! Tucker Jenkins!
Todd Carty: Mmm, hmm, hmm, mmm.
Loose women: Coo! Coo! Mark Fowler!
Todd Carty: Mmm, hmm, hmm, mmm.

Carty is asked about his views on corporal punishment, serving as a none too subtle plug for ITV1′s forthcoming documentary I Smack and I’m Proud, which gives the girls a chance to extemporize wildly about their own personal experiences.

Both Colleen and Denise are in favour of kids and smack, but Carol doesn’t hit her kids – although that’s because she doesn’t have any. At this point the tension between the women emerges, as Carol’s liberal stance is defensively met by cries of, “You don’t have kids so you don’t know what it’s like!” With such sisterly solidarity, is it any wonder the patriarchy survives?

With Carty gone, and after another plug for the competition, the show moves into its version of the problem page with that “loose morals” segment. Neil from Manchester has written to the show, worried his girlfriend is a bit of a lush due to her aggressive and abusive behaviour when on the grog. How should he broach the subject with her?

Rather than an attempt at empathy, Carol, Denise and Coleen become instantly defensive, as if their own drunken antics are on trial. Carol gives the advice you’d expect from an ex-wife of Chris Evans: she suggests he get inebriated with his woman so he doesn’t notice her behaviour (two drunks always being better than one). She also adds it’s a bit much of a man to criticise his beau’s behaviour just because it “changes after a couple of drinks”. At this point the show has sunk further under the weight of the hosts’ bitching, with Carol once again being the group scapegoat.

Kaye accuses her of being “stroppy and deluded” when drunk, Colleen says she’s never felt concerned about leaving her “in many a gutter”, Denise – having quit the booze due to her own embarrassing behaviour – now reckons she hates being around drunks and pretty much accuses Carol of being an alcoholic. Carol: “I’m not ill!” Kaye: “But you are defensive.”

With the lifeboats at the ready, on comes Monarch of the Glen actor Hamish Clark, providing the inevitable innuendo among the girls about his kilt and “which part of it he wore out” on set (Denise).

With the show a wreck on its way to Davy Jones’ locker, there is just enough time to plug the competition again with the promise that the answer will be revealed the next day, as if this was necessary.

Womens’ magazines perform a valuable function, providing housebound WAGS mental relief from the interminable rounds of hoovering, doing the washing-up and getting the dinner ready for their subjugating partner. However, a TV equivalent includes the superfluous chit-chat that a Now! editor might encourage in the office but would baulk from sending to the typesetters. When the regular sections (eg soap star interviews) fail, the segments where the girls bicker among themselves are like watching a crew firing a cannon at its own deck.

But that’s not to say the format doesn’t have potential. Shifted to a post-watershed slot, and with the girls allowed to get loaded in the green room beforehand, the inevitable drunken catfight that would erupt would be preferable to the watery death the programme suffers in its current midday berth.

Until this time, in shipping terminology, if Loose Women was a deck it would most definitely be the poop.