Yet mix all these oleaginous ingredients together and you’ve got a cracking little show that effortlessly entertains the viewer from start to finish. The argument that the programme is so popular because of, rather than despite its cast may be incredibly well worn, but it certainly bears repeating to the point of mantra. This is a group of dolts, dullards and dunderheads that one could not possibly be less dispassionate about individually, yet somehow as a collective entity you find yourself mesmerized by them.

Like most modern day programmes that have achieved overwhelming popularity such as Strictly Ice Twirling and Celebrity Can’t Dance, Won’t Dance, The Apprentice is, in truth, little more than a Generation Game sketch stretched beyond the point of belief, that somehow manages to fool the viewing public into believing it’s a worthwhile talent search. Whether this makes Sir Alan Sugar an upmarket Jim Davidson or a low-rent Larry Grayson, I don’t know – though I do like the idea of Sir Alan buzzing Jenny, his secretary, up on the intercom and archly asking her to get him Everard immediately. The trick that the producers have managed to achieve is to rip-off the Gen Game sketch format shamelessly and make it so damned compulsively entertaining – a feat that even Derren Brown would be jealous of.

Tonight’s sermon from the mount saw the Big Cheese send forth the mini-Babybels to a cruise ship on the Med on which to display their mediocrity – which they did with stunning aplomb. Like a Bond baddy, Big Al was displayed on a videophone to the remaining charisma-free contestants somewhere in downtown Istanbul (no, Constantinople), or Ankara, where he dutifully informed them of their task, should they wish to accept it. What a pity the phone didn’t self-destruct thereafter as it would have been a nice touch, and we could have witnessed some collateral damage: “Your task is to organize disaster-zone triage!” which would, undoubtedly, have seen Ruth successfully selling her blood to the rest then buying it back at a profit.

As the Essex wide-boy version of Blofeld (yes, I know) set out the task for his wannabes (why didn’t the producers give Al a white pussy to stroke on board his yacht as he spoke to the minions?) his two silver assassins watched on impassively. Actually, I think they’re both remote-controlled zombies with fragments of John Major’s soul imparted into them, such is the level and consistency of their monotonous interludes. Though I can imagine them running a high-class Kensington S&M dungeon, but that’s another story.

The hard thing for the casual viewer like myself is to anthropomorphize the collective mass into individuals. It’s easy with Ruth, the alpha she-male with a big cock attitude but the others are pretty much much of a muchness. Their names escape me, and it saddens me immensely that, after less than an hour in their company, I cannot remember – or care to remember – who they are. All I can recollect of the other four is that one was the nervous, twitchy young Asian guy who got the sack tonight, there was a comedy duo of two talentless but predictably jovial, fat blokes (insert your own joke here about Tweedledum and Tweedledumber) and a bird who has something along the lines of Customer Service Manager below her name, but you tend to believe what this really means is call centre operator. Nightshift.

Ruth and the rest, that’s your bag. Somehow I don’t think yer actual next generation of entrepreneurs and whiz-kids will be following through into their boxers over the future promise of this lot.

But what they lack in talent, charm, ability, business acumen, flair, decisiveness, strength, depth of character, integrity, adaptability and intuition they more than make up for with determination, self-belief and sheer, unadulterated ego. And that’s the nub of the show – ego. Business is the ability to wage war with your peers and lay waste to the competition. The quintessential, core component of each and every successful businessperson is this (and how ironic) – ruthlessness. Battle ye not with monsters lest ye become one.

Presently, only Ruth seems to behold this self-evident truth and the Gang of Four need to considerably up their game and demonstrably show themselves to be capable of matching up to her. Especially since we’re at the business end of the competition now. The show has reached a stage where brutality is called for and tonight truly began the rite of passage. No room for pussy’s now (except Al’s necessary white arm accessory), it’s dog eat dog and the biggest dog shall win.

Warring mutts aside, this edition did throw up two genuine nuggets of television gold. Firstly when Fat Bloke #1 was interviewed for the ship’s in-house television channel. He came across as the spirit of Norman Kember trapped in the body of Peter Kay, being grilled by Pee-Wee Herman. To call it surreal would be to do the word surreal a gross disservice. Secondly we had (again) Fat Bloke #1 mustering his considerable intellect and life-experience to describe Rome, the Eternal City, to Fat Bloke #2 as being “full of shit”. The tourism industry has lost out a gem in that lad.

Lesser highlights included Nervous, Twitchy Guy and Alpha She-Male wrestling with the not particularly abstract concept of organizing a raffle and, gloriously, failing miserably: Nervous, Twitchy Guy coming to a stunning Scooby-Doo-esque realization that golf balls are smaller than the holes in tennis nets; and Alpha She-Male metamorphosing into Foghorn Leghorn during moments of conflict. As for Call Centre Woman and Fat Bloke #2, they contributed nothing of any substance to the show, which seemed somehow appropriate.

The Apprentice is, like its contestants, a programme where the whole tomally is far greater than the sum of its component parts. Despite the cartoon cast of characters, the overly stentorian voiceover and jarring, at times, schoolboy editing, it somehow works. Not only that, it works fantastically well and demands your undivided attention. You might not buy a computer from Big Al anymore, or a macaroon bar or spearmint gum from his protégés, but you can certainly buy the show from start to finish, with a gorgeous sense of fair-trade karma. It’s no coincidence Alan Sugar nearly rhymes with Buddha, you know.

But, if the sad truth be addressed, there is no element of Scottish football with regards to media coverage – print, radio or television – that is anything other than mediocre. Our journalists are achingly average and not a one produces a single column inch that is worth reading. Historically, football on the TV has been dull but worthy but, in recent years, the product has become a complete turn-off. Whilst Match of the Day returns with a sly wink and a cheeky air of lovable élan, and Soccer AM and Soccer Saturday continue to raise the bar of football related entertainment, north of Hadrian’s Wall football coverage is naught but a desolate wasteland inhabited by a seemingly endless succession of talentless wastrels and a variety of broadcasters addicted to shit.

Scottish Television has long been considered the joke channel and, not surprisingly, this slice of stinking soccer suicide will do nothing to alter that popular point of view. Hosted by a man with no talent who, in turn, is assisted by a pair of court jesters – the token woman, natch (who, incidentally, really takes the phrase as much use as a chocolate teapot to a whole new level) and a bloke from up north who makes the woman look distinctly distinct but, nevertheless, manages to wear a blouse better – this is turgid, turgid stuff that really is soma for the masses. Watching it, I’m reminded of a brilliant scene in an early episode of Cheers in which Coach’s obnoxious, putative son-in-law brashly proclaims that baseball is a dead sport – it’s just that no-one has claimed the body yet. Hell, let’s get this cadaver to the morgue right now – and don’t stint on the gas.

Not content with foisting a goalkeeper playing keepie-up last week, they’re at it again this week too. I don’t know which rocket scientist engineered this weekly insert but he, or she, should be introduced to the singular joy of a car battery being wired up to the genitals immediately. Same goes for the audience. A crowd of less interesting, curiously dispassionate football fans you would be hard placed to find. Then again, being exposed the full glare of the toxic nonsense of this show would deaden the senses of even the most ardent footballing aficionado so we’ll let them off with the zombie-like appearance and litany of banal comments. Man alive, this is utterly appalling with not one single redeeming factor which, tragically for the viewing public in Scotland, is set to run and run.

Oh for the dulcet tones of Arthur Montford on commentary duty and the self-indulgent bombast of Alex “Candid” Cameron in the studio – a distant past still fondly dreamt of and one that still crowds over its bastard grandchild with a rightful air of wistful superiority. The formula to producing a decent football show is simple. Pity that the mathematicians of Scottish Television are all constipated and still trying to work it out with a pencil.

We have a saying in our house; every day’s a school day. And, thanks to England’s Dream Team, we learned that, but for the bizarre combination of the Munich Air Disaster and a dodgy enchilada, England would have won the World Cup in 1958, 1962 and 1970. And they say the English media are arrogant? Fancy that! This was a dismal programme, falling into the trap of the eventual “winners” saying more about those who voted for them than the actual reality itself. Few talking heads came out of it with a shred of dignity intact and Vernon Kay proved once and for all that on a show like this, his chirpy, cheeky cocky persona is entirely vacuous and he wasn’t so much out of his depth but out of his league. All 20,000 of them.

As an avowed Anglophile, even I found this one hard to swallow. The concept seems to be that to be nominated meant that the player was one of the greatest ever. Thus, immediately we had the quite brilliant Gordon Banks all but canonised. Other faults included the laughable notion (from various participants) that players from the “black and white” era wouldn’t have been able to cut it in today’s fast-paced, Predator booted modern environment. It’s a fair point but totally ignores the conditions that the Raich Carters and Stan Mortensens of yesterday coped with – a wet ball heavier than Jordan’s boobs and defenders intent on scything your legs from your body. Let’s be perfectly blunt here – one fair tackle from Dave McKay or Corky Young and the likes of Beckham, Neville and Owen would be crying uncontrollably for their mammies. This pathetic, platitudinous argument was advanced again and again by the likes of Helen Chamberlain and Stuart Cosgrove (who, really, should know better) and displayed their ignorance and arrogance to perfection.

Of course, this was reflected in the voting patterns. That the likes of Ashley Cole and Gary Neville were through to the final cut was a savage indictment of the relative lack of choice, maybe, but the inclusion in the final line-up of Tony Adams and David Beckham at the expense of Duncan Edwards and Stanley Matthews was an equally savage indictment of the lack of genuine football knowledge of those who voted. This atrophied ignorance permeated the entire show and added a sad gloss to proceedings. Not that this was the programme’s only fault. They were, indeed, many. The host was lamentable, the jokey script was dreadful, the length was absurdly long and the overall tone ignorantly flippant. The concept of England’s Dream Team is interesting and potentially brilliant but the execution was shoddy, mercilessly irreverent and, ultimately, a dog’s dinner.

The talking heads were, with a few honourable exceptions, dull and uninformed to a man jack. Alyson Rudd’s chip on the shoulder regarding Gazza was pathetic, Dominik Diamond came across as a man without humour or intelligence (not the prophet without honour that he imagines himself to be) and Roddy Forsyth is an embarrassment to Scotland. Jimmy Greaves was one of the few to emerge with credit as was Bobby Charlton. (Greave’s comment regarding Tom Finney was the sublime highlight of the show, neatly deconstructing the then/now argument).

The only worthwhile contributions came from former players on the whole. It’s no secret that I’m no fan of talking-head syndrome. For me, there’s nothing worse than a succession of second-rate critics and cut-price cultural commentators pontificating on a subject matter that they themselves have never truly experienced. It’s like listening to the pub bore talking to you – you want to smack him but the politics of polite society dictate that slapping a wanker on the chops is a no-no. After being forced to listen to the likes of Helen Chamberlain, Alyson Rudd, Danny Kelly and Bob Mills spout their banal nonsense, it’s about time polite society extracted its’ middle-class finger from its cellulite ridden arse and re-thought that particular dictum.

This was three hours plus of unrelenting tedium. Too often Channel 4 give over vast chunks of their schedule to chunderous, second-rate rubbish such as this. This, surely, represents the nadir of Saturday night programming on the channel. It could, and should, have been condensed into a 90 minute slot with someone like Pat Nevin or Gary Lineker hosting.

Mind you, on the plus side it could have been Scotland’s Dream Team – that, truly, would have been so much better. You see that’s the joy of being Scottish; the show would have been over in half an hour and you could pad out the remaining time with repeats of Desmond’s. And Porkpie could have got a game for Scotland.

Now, I’m as nationalistic as the next man (as long as he’s not Jean Marie Le Pen) but I do feel somewhat aggrieved that the genius of Still Game has been so shoddily treated by the BBC. If ever a show demanded a simultaneous transmission across the United Kingdom, then it’s this corker of a sitcom. In fact, the treatment of Still Game amply demonstrates the condescending, patronising, metrocentric attitude of the BBC to perfection. Given a derisory five episode run on BBC2 earlier this year, Still Game was, at last, finally scheduled nationwide. Despite being played alongside the far more heavily trailed Grass (which predictably had the darlings of the media creaming themselves) the antics of Jack, Victor and their egregious cronies – to be perfectly blunt – kicked the arse out of Grass. Taking the audience up from 1.2 million to 1.4 million, it became BBC2′s most-watched evening show. In simple terms, a humble Scottish offering wiped the floor with London’s great hope. Why the BBC continues to commission and heavily publicise Grass and the savagely bad Lenny Henry Show is beyond me, and also contempt.

The third series of the first genuinely great Scottish sitcom since the days of Para Handy returned to our screens neatly commencing where the second finished. Arriving in Canada, the opening line neatly underscored the entire episode and set the tone wonderfully for the next 30 minutes. On seeing her father arrive, Jack’s daughter stopped and muttered “My dad got old”. Delivered with enough nuance to convey shock, you realised once again that here we have two men who are not going gently into that good night. Too often, Still Game is dismissed as the antics of two grumpy old men. The reality is that it’s the tale of two men who, though sometimes grumpy, are happy in their ordered world and do so much more than merely live day to day, merely marking time until the Grim Reaper arrives. If anything, Jack and Victor are a wonderful representation of the modern day OAP, managing to portray the difficulties faced by the average pensioner in today’s society.

The only grouch that I had with this episode was that it really should have been a 60-minute special. For those of us who have witnessed the stage version of Still Game (which occurred before Jack and Victor popped up on Kiernan and Hemphill’s Chewin’ the Fat sketch show and embedded themselves in a nation’s consciousness) we have always longed to see the irascible duo visit Canada. The idea and the images were already there and there is certainly enough comedic gas in the tank to make an hour long special a workable possibility. Mind you, Kiernan and Hemphill have publicly stated that they’d love to take Jack and Victor to Las Vegas. That I’d love to see.

As ever, the joy of Still Game is both in the writing and the cast. The characters are all so well defined and the interaction between them is, more often than not, verging on the hysterical. This is always the case when Naveed’s shop comes into play. Arguably the scene of the best lines, the humble grocery store is, in effect, the nerve centre of Craiglang where gossip is traded and insults hurled. Tonight, we had Isa, Naveed and Winston (three superb performances incidentally) combining to perfection with a little sketch in which a level of coarse swearing that Gordon Ramsay would have blushed at was brilliantly achieved. In any other show, a white pensioner calling an Asian shopkeeper a prick would be met with a barrage of righteous indignation but here it makes for genuinely funny viewing. As does said Asian shopkeeper calling his customer a mad shagger. And all this is before we get to the resurrection of the word pie as a naughty word. Genius.

The beauty of Still Game is in its inherent ability to merge comedy with both farce and tragedy. The scene in which Jack’s daughter asked him to move to Canada to live with her was quite moving. Jack listened to her plea then rendered a little soliloquy in which he confessed that he couldn’t do without his late wife, and that he wanted to go home was beautiful. There was an air of poignancy that moved the viewer. Then, just as the scene was resting in a sea of serene solemnity, Jack opined that he had to go home anyway as he had £8 left on his powercard. Once again, genius. Likewise Jack throwing up on his grandchildren whilst visiting the CN Tower. The line, “Calm doon – it’ll wash aff”, seems certain to be reverberating around the bars of Glasgow for quite some time.

Every scene, every subplot was suffused with greatness. This was a genuinely brilliant episode of a genuinely brilliant sitcom. From the unsaid sadness of the opening line to the after-credit coda scene (the regulars in The Clansman comparing crap presents in a sweep – which Isa won with a gloriously tacky and risqué Big Beaver T-shirt) this was just a delight to watch. Apparently, audience research carried out in England after the five episodes were screened on BBC2 earlier this year showed that 80% of the audience thought so too. We can’t all be wrong.

With no EastEnders to compete against (thankfully, one of the few decisions the Academy got right) Corrie was crowned King of the Soaps after a year in which it has been anything but. After the high jinks and gloriously compelling camp pantomime drama of Richard Hillman, it’s been all downhill – and at an alarming rate – for the grim Northern soap with only Fizz, Tyrone, Kirk and, latterly, Chesney, bringing any light relief to a rancorously bad run of form. Both Emmerdale and Hollyoaks (to a lesser extent) can lay claim to the unofficial crown of Britain’s Best Soap but, as usual, the “rich history and glorious tradition” of The Street won the day. Go figure.

Emmerdale, meanwhile, continues apace and maintains a far higher standard of acting and writing than its more venerable Lancashire rival. The performances of Mark Charnock as Marlon Dingle in particular have been a revelation; his portrayal of a grief stricken man has been, arguably, the most accomplished turn in a British soap in recent years and towers over anyone down Weatherfield way in the last year. Factor in the best youth cast in soapdom (by a country mile) and a wonderful corps of Silver Surfers and it’s frankly laughable that the turgid mess that is Corrie could win any award let alone a BAFTA.

Whilst EastEnders has ground to a shuddering halt after the marriage of Alfie and Kat (and indulged itself with a ludicrous storyline at New Year featuring the yoofs of Walford surviving a savage mini-bus crash in the inhospitable badlands of the Scottish Borders) and Corrie has stalled post-Hillman, Emmerdale quietly produces episodes and performances that are, individually and collectively, superior to their main rivals. If only Hollyoaks could lose its fixation with nubile, flexible young women and the aching desperation to be hip, it too could seriously rival the major players.

Tonight’s episode was a wonderful case in point. The use of a ventriloquist’s dummy was inspired (had it appeared in EastEnders you’d have struggled to differentiate between it and the cast) and deftly handled. The performances of those involved were uniformly excellent and the narrative build-up was subtly executed. Clive Hornby, as Jack Sugden, managed to walk the line between frustration and anger very well and Elizabeth Estensen provided a wonderful fulcrum for the storyline to hinge upon. Indeed, Estensen is one of the great revelations in this show. Her character has been beautifully written and allowed to mature at the right pace. Her performance was wonderfully judged and she delivered the bad news/good news to Jack with a palpable sense of incandescent understanding. Quite magnificent.

Another aspect of rural life that the writers have managed to convey with considerable aplomb is the role of the vicar. Whilst EastEnders has particularly struggled with God and his employees since its inception and Corrie only ever sees religion as an extension of Emily’s character, Emmerdale has managed to be the most inclusive soap in terms of religion and its depiction with regards to everyday life. John Middleton’s turn as Ashley has been sensitively written and Middleton, in turn, has repaid the writers with a string of superb performances. The recent addition of Liam O’Brien as Ethan Blake has altered the dynamics of a number of relationships and it should be interesting to see how this character, and the villagers’ reactions to him, develops. For once it is a pleasure to watch serious religious and moral issues be dealt with in a mature, rational manner rather than the usual Norman Stanley Fletcher approach of other soaps – ie. I’m in trouble so I think I’ll pray and discuss the nature of God, religion and existence with a cartoon canon in 60 seconds flat.

Emmerdale also scores high on the comedy scale. The on-screen pairing of Deena Payne and Anthony Audenshaw as Viv and Bob remains not only one of the small screen’s greatest couplings but a hidden gem that deserves greater praise. Utterly over the top performances can be instantly altered to encompass profound depths with scandalous ease and Viv and Bob are the best pairing in soap, no question. Whereas the characters of Laurel and Sam can veer to the caricature of the village idiot occasionally, Viv and Bob remain on the right side of stupidity to greater affect. The writing is also sharp and loaded – witness Marlon returning to work alongside the slutty Val in the kitchen with the immortal line, “I’d better get back on the old bike then”. Lovely stuff and brilliantly played.

Dramatic tension in the Dales tends to be two-speed; rhythmically slow or frantically fast but, in either case, it always seems to be imbued with a healthy dose of reality. Tonight’s show built up the Robert/Katie affair quite nicely; Jack simmered soporifically as the truth dawned, Jarvis decided to rage against the machine and Ashley and Ethan clashed over the welfare of their flock. Factor in a dummy called Alfie and you have another convincing slice of everyday life in a not-so quaint northern village. More tea, Vicar?

Whilst we in Britain suffer the lamentably lame Murder in Suburbia and endure the dubious viewing pleasure of watching the risible Murder City, Jerry Bruckenheimer would appear to waging a one-man executive producer war to deliver as many quality police dramas on American television as he possibly can. Not content with the utterly superb CSI : Crime Scene Investigation and its scintillating spin-off CSI : Miami, Bruckenheimer now delivers the stunning Without A Trace, a fast paced procedural drama (© every listings review in town) which, perhaps, stands as his finest achievement – to date. Cold Case is, after all, waiting in the wings for our delight and deliberation.

Formulaic though it may be – both in narrative and stylistically – it is wholly compelling nonetheless. Without A Trace does not seek to break new dramatic ground or slyly copy one of its many predecessors. It takes the simple but well-worn concept of tracking down a missing person and gently manages to massage new life into this long established, but somewhat redundant, genre. Elements of Without A Trace are particularly noticeable in Murder City – timelining for instance – and one can only hope that the producers of that vehicle (and a number of others, if truth be told) sit down and carefully study Without A Trace to see how it should be done properly.

In the United States, this show was pitched against the mighty behemoth that is ER and has become the first to really cause it to bleed viewers. This could be attributed to ER turning from fast-paced, gripping medical drama to a so-so relationship soap-opera (to a certain degree, anyway) but the truth is that Without A Trace has built upon its foundations impressively and adheres rigidly to the formula that has served it well thus far. Most importantly of all though, the ensemble cast have bedded in immediately and genuinely appear to have a vibrant onscreen chemistry that serves only to visually underline the innate sense of dynamism that permeates the show.

Headed by the quite, quite wonderful Anthony LaPaglia – an actor who does world weariness to a wholly exceptional degree and facially has a range of expressions that make him the Mr Bean of serious actors – this is a uniformly excellent cast that produces a level of consistency that harks back to the golden era of Hill Street Blues. LaPaglia as the senior agent, Jack Malone, radiates an aura of emotional vulnerability that is rarely seen on a crime drama and his performance is the focal point for this show. Backed up by the wonderful Marianne Jean-Baptiste, who plays the altogether more circumspect, emotionally tough Vivian Johnson, they make for, potentially, one of the great double acts on the small screen. It may be clichéd – man/woman, black/white, emotional/rational – but the manner in which these two actors portray the relationship is nothing short of brilliant.

Whereas both the British Murders (City and Suburbia) completely failed to frame the relationships between their two main characters – even their names were twee and asinine to point of ludicrousness – Without A Trace has succinctly translated a working relationship onto our screens without a hitch. It is a relationship that, already, has depth and tangibility, and one that is entirely believable. These two are ably backed by the trio of Special Agents Spade, Taylor and Fitzgerald, played respectively by Poppy Montgomery, Enrique Murciano and Eric Close – can you see the blue-collar ethos of the characters’ names? None of your Scribbs or Alembic nonsense here! – and all five form the Missing Persons Squad of the FBI.

Without A Trace is never, though, about the team – it is always about the victim. The simple rule is that you learn who the victim is in order to find them. Simple but so, so effective. Without A Trace starts each and every episode with, in flashback, the disappearance of the victim and from then on it focuses in on the mundane, the routine, and the procedure as the team investigates the disappearance. Rarely do the private lives of the squad impact on the investigation. When it does, it is always in terms of simple dialogue, a line or two perhaps, but there is still enough in the sentences uttered to speak volumes. This is especially true of Malone whom it seems has his crosses to bear but LaPaglia, with but one line to utter, can convey emotional depth and subtlety like a sledgehammer. Indeed, as the episodes and the weeks subsequently pass, we slowly – but surely – learn a little bit more about each and every character. This is wonderful writing – clever, astute and on the money.

This particular episode of the show, “There Goes The Bride”, managed to include kidnap, blackmail, extortion, child abuse, incest, murder and attempted murder within its allotted hour. And it did so with exemplary style thanks to the entire cast and the brilliant writing. Without A Trace also manages to encompass the morality of the scenarios that it deals with. Thus, tonight, we had opinions, treatises and pronouncements on drug use, rehabilitation, sexual predators, child abuse and, most impressively of all, a moving scene with Johnson and the wife of a child abuser which wonderfully deconstructed the concept of knowingness. This was all carried out within the confines of the show and it simply added to the viewing experience.

For me, Without A Trace is the best drama on TV at the moment. At times, it can be harrowing viewing – one of the episodes (“Suspect”) touched, chillingly, on a level of evil and, specifically, the performances of LaPaglia and Conor O’Farrell (as a paedophile headmaster) were breathtaking but never mawkish. Other episodes have produced the goods, most notably “Hang On To Me” in which Charles S Dutton conjured up one of the all-time great small screen performances as Chet Collins, for which he should be honoured. This was the portrayal of a man who was not so much close to the edge but dangling in the abyss and hanging on by his fingernails. Dutton was incredible and the rapport between him and LaPaglia was electric. This episode hit a high point that was outstanding and raised the bar as far as police/crime dramas are concerned.

Every aspect of Without A Trace, at the moment, works and long may it continue. Captained by LaPaglia and managed by Bruckenheimer, this is one to team that could go the season unbeaten.

Adapted from the Blue Peter 2002 Book of the Year by Nicky Singer, this is already proving to be a well scripted, wonderfully acted show that promises to be an absolute gem. Considering that Grange Hill is experiencing a renaissance of late, the consistent excellence of Dick and Dom and the wonderful conversion of Tracey Beaker from book to small screen, the BBC is serving the children of the nation well in general and, with the first-rate Serious Desert at the start of the year, in 2004 in particular. Bearing in mind that, as well as the Book of the Year Award, Feather Boy also triumphed in The Book I Couldn’t Put Down category, this is a serious and delicate undertaking by the BBC given that this book is wildly popular amongst its core audience.

Feather Boy is the story of a Robert, a confused young lad dealing with the divorce of his parents and being subjected to bullying at school. Haunted by strange dreams of the future as well as the past, Robert meets Edith Sorrel who guides him in the unfolding adventure he finds himself entangled in. Fairly standard stuff you may say, but it is handled with robust sensitivity and compassion and has stamped its presence on the minds of primary schoolchildren already as must-watch television. And, after catching today’s excellent episode, I must throw my not inconsiderable weight in with the kids. I thoroughly enjoyed this drama and found myself being utterly absorbed by it, from start to finish.

Thomas Sangster and Aaron Johnston play the two main characters of Robert and his bullying nemesis Niker to perfection. After being subjected to some truly atrocious performances by young actors recently (and I’m thinking especially of EastEnders here) it’s an utter joy to watch young children deliver performances that belie their tender years. The dynamic between the two is laden with a sense of angst and friction and they convincingly render the plot onto our screens. Backed by Lindsay Coulson (as Robert’s mum – another fine performance from the ever reliable Coulson, surely one of the small screen’s most under-rated actors) and Sheila Hancock as the mysterious Sorrel, this programme has cast its parts with knowing precision and is all the better for it. Coulson emits a world-weariness with every breath and Hancock fills the screen magnificently with her presence. This is a delightful core cast and is proof positive of the vital and magical art of casting in drama.

Having read the book I had some reservations on hearing of its adaptation for television but these have been assuaged by the competent and confident manner in which the story has been tailored around those involved. Sangster manages to give the character of Robert Noble (or Norbert No-Bottle as he’s known) a depth of humanity that is, perhaps, missing a little in the book. He has fleshed out his role and given Robert a sense of frustration and alienation that improves upon the written work. Johnston’s turn as the bully Niker deserves praise for the manner in which he managed to give Niker an air of confidence that, whilst arrogant, never borders on the nasty. This is bullying and bullies as it happens in real life and the writers involved deserve praise for conveying this scenario with consistent, convincing realism. The balance between the characters and their roles in the story is almost perfect and it really is a joy to watch them go about their business.

The direction also deserves praise, as does the lighting. Both combine to give it a fantastic visual look and hook you in, almost imperceptibly. The subtle touches on show were unerringly accurate – Robert’s future step-sister passing a well-shaken can of pop to her step-dad, Robert’s dad, was spot on as was the manner in which Niker dropped the role of bully and gained pleasure from painting the lead soldiers. It’s the wee observations that differentiate between good and very good, and in Feather Boy the small things are very well observed indeed. I also particularly liked the scenes in the classroom with the out-of-earshot quips, juvenile sniggers and implied threats. It certainly brought back a few memories for me.

It’s nice to sit down and watch a show with no preconceptions because sometimes you are genuinely surprised and rewardingly entertained. Feather Boy is another fine example of the BBC’s children’s television and yet another benchmark of excellence. Miles better than some of the adult drama currently around, this programme is a welcome reminder that successful drama is about the story and its treatment. Here, the story is treated with care and respect and, for the viewer, it shows. Well done to all involved.

Which is just as well as it desperately needs to be since the dialogue and plot are utter rubbish – to paraphrase The Young Ones, I’m not saying that last night’s story was predictable but there is a tribe of Amazonian Indians who, despite having never had any contact with the outside world, clearly saw that one coming. But despite the dire script, Hustle works. The cast is vibrant and there is an excellent sense of on-screen chemistry between them. The direction is pacy and assured and, on the whole, the overall look of the show is very pleasing on the eye. A lot of effort has evidently gone into the programme and it shows; the homage paid to the likes of Mission: Impossible and The Persuaders is verging on the reverential but it’s genuinely welcoming to watch a programme that is imbued with a similar set of values and an ethos to match. This is a show where the mission statement reads simply “We will entertain you” – and entertain the viewing public they indeed do.

Clearly, the team behind the Hustle have learned a lot from their previous vehicle, Spooks – a show which I must confess to having found irksome to the point of loathsome (incidentally, a good friend in the intelligence services relayed a tale to me of how, when watching Spooks in the officers’ mess, the assembled crowd were divided into two partisan camps – one who found it an utter insult to their profession and the other who viewed it as being utterly hilarious unconscious comedy) and thus, I really expected to hate the insufferably trailed Hustle from the opening episode. But instead I found myself being captivated by its not inconsiderable charms.

Yet that this is set against, arguably, the worst script on television – which in a time of Murder in Suburbia and Inspector Lynley is really saying something. The writing is risible and some of the dialogue defies belief – banal doesn’t even come close to accurately describing how truly awful it is. The clichéd line of “there’s one born every minute” predictably (and tragically) has already made an early appearance and there’s surely more such tosh to come. On the BBC website, the show’s producer, Simon Crawford Collins, says that the script is the key. If that’s true, then God only knows what lies behind that locked door. To call the characters one-dimensional and screamingly obvious would be an injustice; they’re not even that well developed. The cockney fixer, the experienced con, the young pup – all the worn out clichéd types are here, wearing their paper thin hearts on their sleeves. This is risible stuff and insulting to the viewer as well as the actors. The writing isn’t half as clever it thinks it is – it’s not even a fraction that smart. That the likes of Tony Jordan and Howard Brenton are involved with rubbish like this is a surprise to me. Make no mistake, this is – to be perfectly blunt – crap writing, crap characterisation and crap plotting. Spot a theme developing here?

However the cast gamely carries on oblivious to the deficiencies of the script and turn in some cracking performances. Robert Vaughan plays Robert Vaughan to total perfection and is, quite simply, a god amongst men. The man doesn’t merely walk – he effortlessly glides across the screen like the louche, lounge lizard we all want him to be. He charms, he colludes, and he exudes with a natural fluidity that belies someone of his age. I really believe that when he exits our screens during Hustle, he’s off to give Thrush a good kicking before his next scene. Adrian Lester also deserves praise for his portrayal of Mickey Stone, bringing to the screen a lovely sense of elegant understatement. The rest of the cast, as I said, have a great on-screen chemistry and, as a team, they work well together.

Once again, this is despite the writing. Last night’s episode in which Mickey responded to a thief with a heart was tired and plain terrible. The constant repeating and underlining that his (Stone’s) father was a hard working man who worked hard all his life and for what? is aurally grating and insulting to the viewer – all we need is a poster of Charlie Sheen or Gordon Gekko in the background to hammer it home. Indeed, the constant shoehorning in of points of reference is incredibly tiresome. Wall Street, Heat, The Sting – they’re all here (and then some) and all referenced with not a drop of subtlety or sly grace. If the production team want to see how it’s done properly then they should watch a couple of episodes of Frasier, a show in which innumerable references are made, and all are executed with unbelievable style and all are correctly framed. Staying on that side of the pond for a moment, the cast would also do well to soak up Malcolm in the Middle for a master class in breaking the fourth wall. But these are flaws that can be ironed out when the second series comes round, as it inevitably will.

If you can suspend disbelief and ignore the ridiculous plots (which have – to abuse yet another cliché – more holes than Rab C Nesbitt’s string vest), disregard the absurd characterisation and turn a blind eye to the most hackneyed dialogue you’re likely to hear this decade, then you’re rewarded with a charmingly superficial slice of nonsense that is delightfully entertaining and instantly disposable. Hustle is the Milky Way of television; the treat you can watch between programmes without ruining your appetite.

Yes. You read correctly. That exchange of verbal diarrhoea was used in the script of Murder in Suburbia and represents, quite appropriately, just how bad this show is. Whereas Hustle can get away with bad dialogue thanks to the excellence of its cast, this can’t. The word execrable just about sums it up though excremental would be just as fitting.

Posited as a British version of Cagney and Lacey – down to the one blonde/one brunette pairing – this is, quite frankly, a mess of a show and one that should be pulled off-air immediately. It beggars belief that something as monumentally bad as this has made it onto the Saturday night schedules. That female crime busters have continually managed to fail to convince is hardly news. But here they fail to convince so spectacularly badly that it’s actually quite painful to watch. Trumpeted as “an exceptional investigative team with the irresistible knack for uncovering the truth”, the duo of Ash and Scribbs (yes, really) represent the most laughable pairing of cops since Canon and Ball manned the station in Little Botham. Taking the chalk and cheese chestnut to ridiculous visual lengths – look, I’ve got my hair scraped back, I’m serious! – this is a show in which every single aspect is irredeemably bad.

This opening episode managed to cram in a wardrobe full of clichés without a hint of subtlety – going undercover in schoolgirl uniforms, whingeing about the lack of men in their love lives, the power dressing DI with her scruffy DS sidekick. All the usual suspects were present and correct, right down to the most moronic line of all – “Tell me the truth!” which was uttered to a suspect. Oh for the verbal badinage of Reagan and Carter. I really can’t be doing with this touchy-feely nonsense. All that was missing was for DS Scribbs (that name again!) to ask the suspect if he wanted a really nice mug of peppermint tea. The dialogue was utterly inane and rates as, arguably, the worst script to be heard on television in recent years. Every line is leaden and every sentence is stilted. Up there alongside the previous two quoted examples we had corkers like: “Do you know what I love about suburbia?”, “Do you know what I hate about being single?” and: “What does the detective inside you say?” Question after question after question. I’m struggling to recall anything that has been as badly written as this full stop. Do you know what I mean?

The concept of two detectives solving crimes in the suburban heartlands as they try to catch the man of their dreams whilst arguing about the merits of suede is every bit as ridiculous as it sounds. This is fluff television for the Sex and the City meets Bridget Jones generation who want to empathise with the leads but don’t want to confronted by any nasty, horrible blood or – God forbid – mutilated corpses. That two performers such as Caroline Catz and Lisa Faulkner have found themselves in the middle of this lurid slice of sub-Meyeresque kitsch is indicative of the paucity of decent roles that are written for women. Is it really asking too much to come up with another decent role for a female lead or does the towering, ominous shadow of Jane Tennison cast itself over the imagination of every scribe in the land? Either way, it is verging on the shameful that so few decent parts are written for women in general and for them in police dramas in particular.

It really is incredibly difficult to say anything positive about this show other than it surely can’t get any worse. One can only hope that the two leads were deliberately characterised so badly to allow the viewer to develop with them as they transform from doughnuts who would struggle to match Inch High Private Eye’s intellect to a pair of interesting cops who you can identify with. Currently, the only thing that identifies this show is the smell of its own rotting flesh. And I don’t see anyone in too much of a hurry to claim this fetid corpse.

Occasionally, just occasionally, you manage to catch a little slice of history on your screen and it fills your heart with joy that you witnessed something special. This episode of Cheers is not quite one of the all-time classics but it was, undoubtedly, one of the most historic. With the unforgettable line, “Hi Sam – I’m Dr Frasier Crane” the character of Frasier was deposited onto our screens and into our hearts, where he has remained for almost 20 years.

This episode may have first aired on British television screens around (and I’m guessing) November 1984 but it has lost little in the intervening period; the season opener in perhaps the best run of the show (the third – and the only series to feature both Kelsey Grammer and Nicolas Colosanto) this slice of Boston bar life stands the test of time and remains, indomitably, a classic example of one the all-time great sitcoms. Whilst we in the UK argue over the relative merits of the contenders on the rather inconsistent and slapdash list produced by BBC2 for Britains Favourite Sitcom and further argue over the meritocracy of those involved, Channel 4 quietly and proudly slips Cheers into the early morning schedule for our viewing delight. God bless them for that, I say.

Following on from Friends and the quite magnificent Everybody Loves Raymond, Cheers is balm for the troubled early morning soul. I would urge anyone reading this to set their videos on a daily basis as there are some brilliant episodes that will appearing over the next few weeks – highlights include Nancy Marchand’s wonderful turn as Hester Crane (a must for all Frasier fans), another astonishingly brilliant performance from Dan Hedaya at the incomparably sleazy Nick Tortelli, Norm deciding to give up all his worldly goods, renounce modern living and sail away to live forevermore on Bora Bora and Frasier’s snipe-hunting trip to try and bond with the regulars. This is a living, breathing example of American ensemble comedy at the very zenith of its art form and it sets a preposterously (and almost impossibly) high benchmark for those who wish to follow it. The 25 episodes that make up this third season of Cheers are, arguably, the best situation comedy to have come out of America and deserve to be bracketed alongside the very best of The Phil Silvers Show, M*A*S*H and Frasier.

In this opener we had all the usual ingredients; a sniping, violent Carla, a Normism (“A beer, Norm?” “You smooth talker!”), Cliff failing to realise his profound unpopularity, Sam lusting after a pair of baton twirling majorettes and Coach as detached from reality as he ever is. Each part is played to perfection. The timing of the entire cast is miraculously immaculate but special praise is due for both Shelley Long and Nicholas Colasanto. Whilst Long may have been, behind the scenes, a somewhat difficult individual to work with (indeed, she tried, unsuccessfully, to have Kelsey Grammer removed from the show) in front of the cameras she was a gifted, natural comic actress. Her face showed a depth and range of expression that the likes of Amanda Holden can only dream of as she evinced her way through this episode.

But for me, as ever, the real star of the show is the late, lamented Nicholas Colasanto. The character of Ernie “Coach” Pantuso remains amongst the finest creations in sitcom history and Colasanto’s consistent level of performance elevates him to the pantheon of comedy genius. Today, we saw him brilliantly ad-libbing to John Ratzenberger, who was almost doubled-up, convulsing with laughter. To appear so monumentally idiotic and utterly childlike takes a considerable amount of talent, and Colasanto has it in spades. Such is his performance that the viewer is convinced that he really is that stupid. His timing was, perhaps, the best in the business and his comic performance is always so measured and unbelievably assured. Undoubtedly, the rock upon which the show was built, the tragic loss of Colasanto was a huge blow to the show. Another reason for viewers to drink in and marvel at his comic genius over the next few weeks.

The debut performance of Kelsey Grammer was brief but memorable nonetheless. Already one could see the early architecture and putative skeleton of the Frasier Crane character and Grammer gave an honest, deftly nuanced performance as Diane’s former psychiatrist turned lover. Thankfully Long’s protestations about Grammers’ inclusion were in vain as the show certainly needed another character to alter the on-screen dynamic, especially that of the Sam/Diane relationship. One of the great joys of seeing Frasier develop on Cheers is watching the gang slowly, but surely, smoothing out his well-refined, WASP corners and transforming him from cold, analytical uptight shrink to amiable barfly. That Frasier Crane has remained in popular culture so long (he is now the second-longest running character in American TV history) is testament to the acting and comedic talents of Grammer, one of the great talents of his generation.

This episode was a joy to watch. It was not, as I said, one of the classics but it contained all the essential ingredients that, when put together, combine to make one of the all-time great television shows. It’s an old line and one that has, in all honesty, been done to death but Cheers was a place where you wanted everyone to know your name just as you knew, and loved, their’s.