Before disappearing to America ex-Channel 4 boss Michael Jackson specifically commended this drama as having “the right tone and attitude” for his station, conveniently omitting a qualifying sentence explaining just what were said “tone” and “attitude” and what was so amazing about them. Sensing, perhaps, there was something C4-ish about the first series of Teachers, he commissioned another run and 12 months on – plenty of advance warning, admittedly – a second series is in full flow. We’re already halfway through, however, and it’s wearily clear there’s not any kind of tone or attitude present whatsoever. TV to do your homework to, really.

Advance publicity promised a repositioning of the focus away from the gritty mechanics of the school day and onto the nature of the staff’s relationships. Andrew Lincoln was also supposed to be given more of a supporting role, and wasn’t even scheduled to appear in all the episodes. The absurdity of this premise – Lincoln’s is the only name deemed worth billing at the start of each programme, and he’s still the only obvious “face” amongst the cast – feels somewhat confirmed by the fact that he has been the centre of attention in virtually every episode so far. And it’s unfortunate to point out that, given this supposed shift in emphasis, more scenes are set in the school than ever before. We’ve lost most of the supporting environments, something of an error of judgement as previously the action roved around the characters’ flats and various pubs, restaurants and clubs, at least making for some variety.

Yet at the same time efforts to try and maintain continuity with that first series have, so far, just added to the lethargy even more. Those quirky establishing shots which framed an announcement of the day of the week in a neat visual gag or reference are still here, but now feel, inevitably perhaps, less of a slightly superfluous inoffensive trademark and more of a desperate hook to hang whole dramatic sequences upon – providing an ending of sorts when resolution is possible.

Other changes include two brand new characters added to the ensemble: JP (known only by his initials: a bad sign), and Penny. The first is gay, the second, as viewers are constantly being reminded by all and sundry, has enormous breasts. “False tits, false personality” the hippy secretary shouted across the staff room, and that was really all this particular episode was about. No Carry On Teacher, however (shame); Penny was to be exposed as incompetent, even though all the male teachers fancied her, then got pissed of as she wasn’t interested.

This was paralleled with a subplot involving special “open surgery” sessions the staff were obliged to hold during their lunch hour to hear pupils’ personal problems and complaints. There was no joy in stumbling, within a matter of seconds, across what blundering obvious conclusion the episode was trying to impart: teachers are just as bad at communicating with each other as students, the fools. Everything – writing, direction, camerawork and acting – seemed obsessed with hammering this blunt logic home. The whole mentoring issue was set up right from the start as being a showcase for the sad and stupid. Because the kids had problems, they were depicted as pathetic. Then “Why do I always get the manic depressive suicidal little fuckers?” wailed Susan, with a line that couldn’t possibly be delivered without sounding badly written and poorly executed.

While the staff grappled with the mores of their own students, so Penny was subject to some protracted ogling from the male contingent (except JP, who was set up as a go-between, because, in case we couldn’t work it out, “You’re gay, she won’t mind you mentioning her tits.”) On a basic level the episode was confusing simply having two chief protagonists named Penny and Jenny, and then making them rivals. Out of all the possibilities facing a scriptwriter, why give two central characters names that are virtually identical, especially for one who’s only been on screen less than a dozen episodes?

So it became dangerously easy not only to fail to follow the plot but to also not feel that bothered anyway. This series arguably continues to ignore the viewers, not by accident, but by energetic design. Right from the off we were pitched into this incredibly insular, ultra-boozed up world of the central clique of characters. Here was yet another drunken argument, based around yet another “What if …?” scenario, which is obviously how all people kill time over a few light ales. And as ever the wranglings were orchestrated by Andrew Lincoln, who is again appearing here as “Egg from This Life“. “You either eat Jenny and live, or shag her and die,” he burped. Chief purveyor of the series’ high profane count, Lincoln has also considerately maintained, if not developed, his pointedly irritating manner of EMPHAsising all the WRONG syllables perHAPS with the inTENtion of tryING to sound LIKE a professional acTOR. Or maybe – whisper it – not Egg Out Of This Life. A selfless gesture on Andrew’s part, and one that sadly fails.

It’s difficult to work out what, if anything, this series is trying to aspire to – depicting or disabling a profession, for instance – or neither? The decision to tone down the interaction with the pupils doesn’t feel like it’s enhanced anything at all; unlike the first series none of the students feature as characters, and none have been given names – let alone personalities. Where that first series did stand out was through its attempts at exploring a parity between teacher and pupil; now the students traipse around from room to room, mere supporting cast, only there to tell us what day of the week it is (or indulge in some attempts at surrealism – a donkey being led meaninglessly around the corridors – which just smack of a poor man’s Gregory’s Girl, desperate rather than decorous). Meanwhile the use of blanket alternative rock makes the whole thing feel like an especially sappy episode of Dawson’s Creek.

It seems that rather than go for the course of development – for characters, storylines, ideas – which could be detected towards the end of the first series (when Simon in particular became so annoying it was almost possible to invest some energy into disliking him) the writers and producers of Teachers have settled for cultivating, yes, a certain “tone” and “attitude”, but of a risible kind, that don’t entertain or excite or amuse. The show also fails as an ensemble piece: why do these teachers hang around together out of work – don’t they get sick of spending so much time with each other? Furthermore as a consideration of relations between fellow staff members, both professional and personal, there isn’t any subtlety or imagination – it’s just people flippantly slagging off their colleagues. Very nastily.

The first series of Teachers was blighted by the fact there was simply no-one to like, to warm to or care about on screen: certainly nobody we could side with, teacher or pupil. Nonetheless you could sense it was struggling towards something more, something vaguely significant, even quite interesting. This series, however, is just struggling. We’re all waiting for hometime.

Too much booze is bad for you. Well of course it is – too much of anything is bad for you, that’s what “too much” means. But Simon is worried. “I haven’t had sex… for three days!” he slurps during another evening of bevied-up brainstorming. “My girlfriend’s done it… everywhere!” There’s a pile of marking to be done, he’s living on a sofa with two mates obsessed with a colleague’s arse, and he’ll be late for work in the morning. “I just think it’s bollocks,” he sniffs, and goes to get the beers in.

Most school-based TV drama boasts an obvious hero or gang of people’s champions. Whether pupil or teacher, there’s usually at least one who appears to be different, who stands alone, who breaks the mould; or who represents the voice of reason, the put-upon, the rock in a storm. It’s conventional, and contrived, but when it works – and given the right mix of writer and performer (Hearts and Minds) – it’s magnificent. If the hero is accorded some massive melodramatic flaws, or ends up an anti-hero, the villain of the piece, so much the better.Teachers dares to be different, however, by presenting us without a hero from either staff room or playground: instead we’ve a curdled mass of miserablism, the teachers no better than the pupils (ho ho) and no martyr or defender of the faith to be seen. The result: confusion.

We’re four weeks in now, and the series continues to entertain a fair few plus points. There are still just enough visual gags, sharp humour and pace to snare the viewer. The obvious and familiar timeframe of the school day supplies a neat, renewable dramatic structure. The fantasy sequences are Ally McBeal rip-offs but they’re used sparingly. The soundtrack’s OK too – Britpop’s finest, with just as much class (The Bluetones) as dross (Shed Seven).

Teachers is a fictional drama, however, and by definition a dramatic rendering of real life. Ordinarily this involves enhancing the actual and the ordinary with licence and flair and an accepted exaggeration of the commonplace. So far the series hasn’t delivered that, and consequently it’s becoming more and more obvious that there’s simply no-one to like, no-one to warm to, no-one to care about – nobody at all on our side, never mind the side of the teacher or pupil. But life’s a bummer, y’see, and Simon (Andrew Lincoln) hasn’t got any answers same as the rest of us because he’s too busy thinking about his baby. “I just think it’s bollocks,” he rasps, and cycles off.

When Teachers started there was a tombola of gimmicks and sexual horseplay which spun the storylines along pleasantly. That momentum seemed to slow and judder in this week’s episode as events became secondary to characterisation. Which was unfortunate, given how flimsy and bordering on the non-existent the characterisations are. With no stand-alone hero, and Simon a token embodiment of the series’ widespread cynicism and resignation, nothing is ever proved. The plot, characters, us – we never get anywhere. There’s no tension and release, no conflict and reconciliation, and little point to anything. These are flaws which bode ill for a show that’s little over a third of the way through its run.

Simon is supposed to be everyman, but everyman’s not as plain stupid and immature as he, because everyman acts on impulse and Simon is incapable even of that. Nothing he does seems natural; everything is for show. He needs advice from anyone and everyone, then ignores it all. This could have made for a crafty dramatic conceit were his pupils demonstrably cleverer, more mature and likeable than he. They’re not. They’re all stupid as well, uniformly bewildered and vexed, with only the class swot standing out – and that’s just because more scorn is poured on him than anyone else. Since there’s no variety here whatsoever, there’s also no potential for amusing staff-student interaction. When Simon asks his class for advice on his own sex life, it’s not funny or clever, it’s just annoying – and Simon doesn’t take their advice anyway because, well, “I just think it’s bollocks.”

Andrew Lincoln is playing himself here, and therefore he is also playing Egg, his character inThis Life, which was also a version of himself. There’s no difference between Egg and Simon, not in manner, voice or personality. So in effect here’s Egg, a few years on from presumably quitting the café business following his calamitous break-up with Milly. And once again Andrew Lincoln clowns about, falls over, runs everywhere, smokes incessantly, does that annoying thing with his hands (a sort of frustrated flapping) and boozes – constantly. As Egg in This Life, he got away with all this behaviour because he could always make you feel something towards him – concern, bemusement, irritation, something. As Egg in Teachers, he’s not capable of provoking any reaction from the viewer. Lincoln still hasn’t perfected the art of playing the drunk either. His portrayal of the bladdered is one of the least convincing witnessed on TV for a while: a highly unlikely mixture of pronounced gurning, short intakes of breath as if inhaling helium, and loads more flapping.

These scenes of unfettered drinking, smoking and general hedonism have quickly become a blur – somewhat appropriately – because once again there’s no variety amongst our cast of pissed public servants. Simon has his two cronies, obsessed with sex they’re not getting and unlikely to thanks to being such irredeemable unattractive losers. A trio of principal females, two rival members of staff and Simon’s policewoman girlfriend, form an obvious counterpoint to these three male wasters. The women are more clearly defined and get the better lines, but ultimately they too end up appearing flawed and deeply objectionable, alternately mean-spirited, narrow-minded, or dippy.

I’m not sure how long I’ll stick with the series; some kind of long-term proper storyline would help and would certainly anchor the show to give it a surer future. A deviation from the repeated scenes of Simon getting hammered and stumbling in late for work the morning after would be also ring the changes.

This is easy money for Andrew Lincoln, but though it’s an advance on doing voiceovers for BBC trailers the prospect of him playing himself in different roles throughout his 20s and 30s would be a truly bad thing. It’s unsurprising to find the same person who produced This Life, Jane Fallon, appearing as executive producer here.

Teachers is fumbling with itself, and dangling and twisting in the wind. There’s still life in it, but there’s less twitching as each week passes and Egg/Simon/Andrew Lincoln mutters, “I just think it’s bollocks,” before exiting to play football with the kids.