When you first sit down to watch Entourage, if you haven’t already, there’s a very strong chance you’ll dislike it, or worse, feel total indifference.The floss-thin plot is as follows – Vincent Chase is an extremely pretty, fairly wealthy, young, moderately successful actor living in LA. Assisting his far from strenuous living are his childhood friends from Queens, New York, who each play roles as manager, chef and driver. They worry about cinematic choices, women, and fast cars. They go to a lot of industry parties, and even Turtle – the tubby runaround boy for Vincent, and a man with a consistently reversed baseball cap and the attitude of a 12-year-old who can’t wait to go to college and join a fraternity – gets laid a frankly insulting amount through the series. These are smug little boys.

ITV2 have recently acquired the rights to the first three seasons of the show, and are churning through them in order. The first, shorter series of episodes border on the banal. Entourage relies entirely on character to push the situation forward, while the plot is usually as loose as waiting for a phone to ring about a “deal”. By the second season, finer details emerge – Vince, for all his childish frivolity in tinseltown, wishes to be taken seriously as an actor, which is why he’s so frequently turning down the role of Aquaman, a big budget, daft sounding blockbuster, in the face of his agent, the brilliantly named Ari Gold.

Ari is in near constant friendly warfare with Eric (or “E”), Vince’s well meaning and professional manager/put upon, but well paid, best friend – bickering over scripts and lunch meetings for their client, each citing endless usually selfish reasons that one thing or another works out best for Vince. Ari, played in turns, ruthlessly, hilariously and sharply by Jeremy Piven, is a near perfect character, whose scenes, arguments, dialogue and increasingly stifling marital issues become more entertaining each episode. They also provide a surprising depth and sense of genuine likeability to a wheeling, dealing and occasionally cheating character that should be severely lacking in any sympathy at all from the audience.

Even better, is Jonny “Drama” Chase. Once the star of cult sci-fi television epic Viking Quest, and the man who was so nearly Joey from Friends, he is supported only by the good fortune and expansive bank account of those around him to keep afloat in day-to-day life, and have the time and expenses to consider, for example, getting his underwhelming calves surgically enhanced to give him a better chance of impressing casting directors with the quality of his legs – a good example of one of the show’s more obscure, but oddly entertaining story arcs.

Elsewhere, he simply finds himself the butt of the others’ jokes, particularly after an incident in a recent episode in which he was banned by Hugh Hefner from the Playboy Mansion, under accusations of releasing a caged chimp at a party. As much as he is played for effective laughs, his character highlights that – in between all the sex, pot and credit transactions – Entourage possesses a beating heart, even if for once, and quite interestingly, the audience are more aware of it than the characters.

One of the more off-putting things for those uninitiated with the show, is the blurring of lines between genres – again, most relative in the first episodes. It’s not outright hilarious enough to be a comedy, and it’s never harsh or eventful enough to be a drama. Therefore, it’s a very light “dramedy”, but considerably and thoroughly hipper and more engaging than Heartbeat. In this debatable confusion could well be the key to the show’s increasing worldwide success.

Entourage has repeatedly been feted as something of a masculine edition of Sex and the City, another HBO classic. Replacing New York with LA, the four central, effortlessly stylish and very sexually active cosmopolitan women exchanged for four fish-out-of-water males with similar interests and pursuits. But, despite it’s immensely attractive cast, Entourage lacks the glamour and idealization of Sex. Its formula is so winning, because the viewer not only gets a funny, irreverent, realistic and therefore, occasionally cynical perspective on Hollywood life, but the main characters are just fairly normal. Like the rest of society, they have their own goals, and quite often misrepresent themselves – but generally, they are simply, hopelessly, themselves.

It is also genuinely good fun to watch, and perfectly fits its Sunday night slot as a smart slice of light entertainment. The glitz is appealing, offering a quality potentially akin to say, Dallas, and the “insider” view on the concerning industry is refreshing – for further reference of its accuracy, the show is the work of Mark Wahlberg, with many of the plotlines and story arcs based on his ascent to stardom with the help of his friends throughout the ’90s. In each episode, it can be expected that a celebrity guest or two will make an appearance, at which point a reasonable knowledge of popular American culture is helpful, but not essential. Here, the surprise appearances and name-dropping feel a lot more natural than say, Extras, and although the stars often appear in a self parodying way, the spoofing is never as harsh or startling as those in the work of Gervais, or even Larry Sanders.

A notably short review then, for a show that needs your attention, ratings wise, and one that definitely deserves 30 minutes of your time – if not just to see something that proves there are several degrees of smart behind this particular slice of brainlessness.

Humility exists. ITV1 don’t take their public for the suckers they may well be, and have decided to drop the word “Celebrity” from the return of Love Island. Their big guns reality show is back to declare war on Big Brother and to sit stubbornly in the primetime schedule after the first mildly successful run.

Now, we live in a modern, broad-minded open world in which us modern, broad-minded and open folk have our various interests, hobbies and pastimes to keep amused and … oh, bugger it: In short, if I want to watch two people I don’t know engaging in intercourse, I don’t have to look very far, and you, gentle reader, don’t either. If you want to or not is totally up to you, as is your choice whether or not to settle down to enjoy Love Island. And yet I plead, avoid Love Island like herpes. Because, you see, at least with pornography in general you can give the participants a back story of your own choice, a diverse and enlightening set of traits, a sense of morale and purpose, goals, aims. That sort of old school jive.

As it happens, I watched Love Island with my mother (her choice, and, yes, I berated her for it) and I have to admit I felt a sustained touch of discomfort as the outstandingly creepy Chris Brosnan (adopted son of Pierce), with a head too small for the span of his shoulders, circled, vulture-like around a gaggle of females, each of them with their breasts driven forward into the moist tropical air. Even my dear mother was sharp to realise that not only was this sequence an excruciating display of tragic ego massage, it was also the bearer of somewhat darker undertones.

Each Love Island male was asked to choose a “partner” for the show, until only a very irritated and frighteningly upset Sophie Anderton was left to canoe her way across a lagoon all by herself. When she eventually arrived at the compound, she burst out in tears upon the discovering that she had to sleep by the door. Luckily, with his Irish gentlemanly manner, ex-Boyzone Shane offered to trade with, and thereby give up his bed … argh! What am I doing?!

You see such business and debate is utterly pointless. If you want to experience the delight of a barely post-adolescent soap star proudly anticipating the thought of “finding true love” and then “getting it away”, you’ll tune in.

One can’t help but conclude this is a television show (costing upwards of £20 million) which has come about after a table of executives held fort with hundreds of hopeful advertisers, drinking late into the afternoon, not writing or making creative choices, but hoping, praying, two marginally known individuals would have sex on the “people’s channel”. And chances are, even if that happens, they won’t show it anyway.

While presenters Fearne Cotton and Patrick Kielty certainly enjoy better chemistry than Paddy and Kelly Brook, they’re still unsatisfying. Kielty can certainly read an autocue, but suffers from simply not being particularly funny or memorable. Meanwhile, Cotton’s boundless enthusiasm and occasional hint of smuttiness is so commercially fulfilling, it reveals she surely can’t care at all.

The idents, the music, the editing don’t hide the show behind any doors either; all are tacky and brash. The television equivalent of when a quaint Blackpool B&B lavishly decorates a dining room above its own level. Something perfectly inoffensive and charming is suddenly hammy, over-expectant and pretentious. Oh no wait, Love Island was never charming or engrossing, or worth going back to, it was always tacky and offensive. Not standard offensive of course (they always edit it out, remember?), but offensive enough to those who waste their time watching it.

Crass, dull, pointless, charmless, without merit – a programme that defines the range of soulless crap we’re expected to sit down to. The worst show of the year. So why do I feel like turning it back on?

Unpredictably, the TARDIS, the Doctor, Rose and the increasingly wide-eyed Mickey find themselves in central London, were central London dominated by an industry akin to a Nazi version of Apple. Citizens are all treated to imbedded earpieces, feeding them a daily news stream, the weather, lottery results, everything you could need. The real movers and shakers (for example Rose’s alternate mother, married to a very rich version of her, generally, dead father), have diamond encrusted additions with superb radio frequencies. Meanwhile, the very powerful hover about in ominous, shiny Zeppelins on the skyline. We’ve had plastic surgery, commitment issues, lost love, but this week, Russell T Davies and first time Who writer Tom MacRae, somewhat cynically approach consumerism and the modern class system.

However, such musings can only get Saturday evening television so far, and Britain tunes in to see this so called “rise” of the Cybermen. Doctor Who is always well-written, and the show gets slicker every week. MacRae’s episode, the first story of two, was no different in style, but really, there wasn’t all that much rising going on. When the Cybermen did arrive, their sturdy shape punching through mansion windows and cruelly annihilating the upper classes, the show burst with excitement and energy. Before this, we had to suffer an extremist group, whose fairly pointless efforts were nearly put to heed, when the cronies of alternate world Mickey – the cunningly named Ricky – found “our” Mickey, lingering outside the home of Rickey’s nan, who unlike Mickey’s dear old relative, hadn’t perished falling down the stairs.

Much mugging and confusion abounded, but soon the van of this “truth preaching” group was on its way to the Tyler household, where the Doctor was posing as house staff with Rose.

Meanwhile, John Lumic, a dying, wheelchair bound entrepreneur, bizarrely played by Roger Lloyd Pack, intended to release his new “breed”‘ upon the planet. In a show in which a police box travels dimensions to alien planets and the main character can entirely regenerate from time to time, it’s surprisingly hard to swallow a hopelessly evil genius portrayed by Trigger from Only Fools and Horses.

Regardless, it was not an eye opening performance, with Pack hamming it up beyond a level of acceptability even for Doctor Who. Opening an episode with, “But how can you protest … from beyond the grave?! ” is a contextual mistake worthy of any lazy fantasy writer. Equally ridiculous and off-putting was the wide mouthed cockney “geezer” who popped in and out of the episode rounding up gullible homeless people into a van, for some unseen modification, in which they screamed in agony. Indeed, the spookiest moment of the episode was a point of view shot that offered viewers a look in at just how many high velocity tin openers were involved in transforming a hungry, hopeless tramp into “human steel”.

This was easily the most bombastic, high concept episode so far. Rose’s opportunity to see her father, an idea which went disastrously wrong in an emotional episode from last series, provided some subtle food for thought, but apart from this, all we were offered in terms of character development was more of the Doctor/Rose/Mickey jealousy and commitment saga.

It’s regrettable that the stock in trade in terms of layers in Doctor Who seems to be to make any brief character either gay, lovelorn or tragically well meaning – as demonstrated by tonight’s “president” of Great Britain.

Stomping and racing angrily all over the show, the Cybermen’s brief appearance was amplified by some pretty nifty and imposing direction and sound work, and softened as soon as they uttered a word to the inquisitive Doctor – who seemed relieved to finally be given something to do. Yet the Cybermen were still frightening, despite their new design appearing in seemingly every publication in the country over the past week – something the production team might have considered before filming endless shots of them obscured by curtains or light mist. Nevertheless, despite being made of titanium steel, even advanced cyber technology wobbles slightly whilst standing still.

We were left on a tantalizing cliffhanger – two alternate Mickeys (or, Rickys, depending on which way you look at it), Rose, her long dead father and an unintentionally hilarious faux-butch Irish freedom fighter and his gruff lesbian chum, all in a huddle, circled by evil, emotionless killer robots. Not to mention the Doctor himself, pleading for surrender.

“You are not compatible. Delete, delete, delete …” And nicely on the BBC’s part, we were offered no glimpse of next week’s (hopefully) thrilling conclusion, “The Age of Steel”. An age, we can only hope lasts the whole 45 minutes, rather than about 10.