Simon Hoggart

What’s your favourite Simpsons joke? This is mine: Lisa and Bart are having a row and Homer tries to stop them. ‘Oh, dad,’ one of them says, ‘we were arguing about which one of us loves you more.’ What’s your favourite Simpsons joke? This is mine: Lisa and Bart are having a row and Homer tries to stop them. ‘Oh, dad,’ one of them says, ‘we were arguing about which one of us loves you more.’ ‘Gee, that’s sweet,’ says Homer, or words to that effect. ‘She says I do, and I say she does...’ Mind you, working on the show does sound fun. When they have guest stars they try to get them to come to Los Angeles in person, though some, such as Tony Blair, are allowed to do it long-distance.

One intriguing statistic from last year’s television went almost unnoticed. One intriguing statistic from last year’s television went almost unnoticed. In October, an edition of Jonathan Ross’s 9 p.m. chat show on BBC1 had fewer viewers than Autumnwatch. Even though Barbra Streisand was his main guest, the six-million-pound man was defeated by barnacle geese and rutting stags on the Isle of Rum. Autumnwatch took 2.9 million viewers, which is pretty good for a wildlife programme on BBC2, whereas Ross got 2.8, which is pitiful for prime time on BBC1. These days everything that can go wrong seems to go wrong for the poor old Beeb.

My favourite Alan Bennett story dates from when his play The Lady in the Van was performed in London. The piece includes two Alan Bennetts, one to take part in the action, the other to narrate. One was played by Nick Farrell, a neighbour of ours, who had agreed to do it on condition that he would be free to attend the birth of his first child. For some reason there was no understudy, so when Nick’s wife went to hospital a chap in black tie appeared on stage before the curtain rose. ‘Owing to indisposition,’ he said — an odd choice of words in the circumstances — ‘the part of Alan Bennett will be played tonight by Mr Alan Bennett.’ And there was the playwright himself.

Why do so many otherwise kindly people hate Children in Need (BBC1, last weekend)? We truly believe in helping needy children. We are genuinely pleased to discover that this year it raised £20.3 million, which is almost as much as last year, in spite of the recession, and which amounts to nearly 34 pence for every man, woman and child in the country. Actually, I chucked £2 into a collecting bucket on the Tube on Friday last, which makes me six times as generous as the average British person! We also like Terry Wogan. I think he is a national treasure, being one of the few disc jockeys who gives the impression of having read a book — or even several.

The X Factor (ITV, Saturday and Sunday) is the most popular show on television at the moment. I felt I should watch it so that you don’t have to. It’s very loud. There is a lot of clashing and banging and whooping and whooshing. A voiceover booms at you, and the presenter shouts at everyone. The audience sounds as if it’s on something which might not trouble Professor Nutt but could cause grief to Alan Johnson. The slightest remark makes them cheer or boo irrationally. It’s very camp and ironic. The two male judges — Simon Cowell and some Irish bloke called Louis — constantly niggle at each other, but it has the fake air of all-in wrestling, being mildly amusing but entirely unconvincing.

Wonderland: The British in Bed (BBC2, Thursday) consists of long periods of boredom interrupted by moments of extreme embarrassment. The notion is to get couples — old, young, black, Sikh, gay — to sit up in bed next to each other, in nighties and jimjams, and talk about their lives as partners. Presumably, the notion is that in these relaxed circumstances, even with a camera crew at the foot of the bed, they will be inclined to tell us all. But they don’t. For a start, they hardly talk about sex, except in the most general way. The fact that they’re in bed, accompanied only by a cameraman, a soundman, a director and a battery of lights, doesn’t lead them to say things like, ‘But what really gets me going is when he...

Two things puzzle me about vegetarians. Whenever they come to visit us, we always provide a vegetarian dish for them. But if you go to a vegetarian’s home, no one says, ‘I know you won’t like this lentil and halloumi lasagne, so we’ve cooked you steak and chips.’ Never. As for those who don’t eat meat on moral grounds, what’s their response to those animals who eat their comrades in the struggle against oppression? And they don’t mess around with battery farming either. Life (BBC1, Monday) had some of the most powerful images of ferocious fauna that have ever appeared on our screens.

Imagine the scene at some BBC committee meeting. The Chief Officer for Commissioning, Unit Programming is setting out the problem. ‘Gentlemen, recent controversies — the Ross/Brand phone calls, the ongoing problem of Ross’s £6 million annual salary, which is more than the entire budget for a year of the Today programme, our own excessive pay and expenses — have brought mistrust and contempt on our management, which not even the record number of Emmys for Little Dorrit has erased. We urgently need to reclaim the moral and cultural high ground. Any suggestions?’ Up pops an underling: ‘Why don’t we bring back Hole in the Wall?

There was, for a while, some debate in academic circles about whether there was such a thing as cannibalism. According to a handful of anthropologists, it was a Western invention — probably unwitting — to discredit ignorant savages. It now seems clear that this view was, to coin a phrase, political correctness gone mad. There are attested examples of people eating other people, and not only after plane crashes. But there’s no doubt that television eats itself. It nibbles at its past and chews away at its triumphs. In particular it likes to consume lovingly made programmes if only in the hope that this will enable the networks to create more lovingly made programmes, rather as some cannibals are thought to believe that eating an enemy’s heart will make them braver.

I expected to dislike Walk on the Wild Side (BBC1, Saturday), fearing sub-Johnny Morris, anthropomorphic, animals-say-the-darndest-things whimsy. Instead it turned out to be funny, inventive and even acerbic. The notion is that comedians take genuine footage of animals from natural-history programmes, and voice-over short routines matched to the creatures’ movements, often with surreal effect. It’s hit and miss, but the hits compensate for the misses. The meerkat, for example, boasting to other meerkats about his success as an actor (they might have seen him, he says grandly, in the ‘compare the meerkat’ commercials, as his bored audience falls over).

There is a word ‘deification’, but there ought to be a homophone, perhaps ‘dayification’, meaning the way daytime television spreads into the evenings. There is a word ‘deification’, but there ought to be a homophone, perhaps ‘dayification’, meaning the way daytime television spreads into the evenings. There are now only five types of daytime programming apart from films and repeats: chat, quizzes and games, food, auctions and property.

On a train the other day I overheard a teenage schoolgirl tell her friends, ‘I’m going to watch Channel 4 from eight to midnight!’ When I got home I checked the Radio Times: she was looking forward to Embarrassing Teenage Bodies, Big Brother, Ugly Betty and finally Skins. On a train the other day I overheard a teenage schoolgirl tell her friends, ‘I’m going to watch Channel 4 from eight to midnight!’ When I got home I checked the Radio Times: she was looking forward to Embarrassing Teenage Bodies, Big Brother, Ugly Betty and finally Skins. Only Ugly Betty could be called a programme for grown-ups, and opinions might differ on that. Thank heavens, there is still some non-teeny-telly left. Much of it is on BBC4.

In Britain we seem to like success but are fascinated by failure. This is reflected in our popular television. We loved a failed manager (The Office), a failed hotelier (Fawlty Towers), failed totters (Steptoe and Son), failed human beings (Hancock’s Half Hour). Admittedly, comedy is about the gap between aspiration and achievement, and that means failure, yet the Americans, who adore success, manage to find humour in largely functional characters. Frasier might have been clownish, but he was an esteemed psychotherapist. Cosby was a thriving doctor, and the various Friends had decent jobs, most of the time. Even Joey, the only idiot among them, starred in a daytime soap. It’s not just comedy.

Famous, Rich and Homeless (BBC1) Psychoville (BBC2) Famous, Rich and Homeless, made by Love Productions for BBC1, and shown over Wednesday and Thursday nights, was a mess. It almost worked, but in the end it failed. For one thing, the five participants in the experiment were not particularly famous, and I doubt if any were rich except for the Marquess of Blandford, who legged it as soon as he cottoned on. So the producers were left with a bunch of people you had vaguely heard of: a former newspaper editor, a former tennis player, a former soap star and a broadcaster. Yet the voice-over kept telling us how rich and how famous they were, as if they had managed to snag J.K. Rowling and David Beckham.

‘Hi, my name is Kröd Mändoon, and I’ll be your liberator this evening!’ says the hero of Kröd Mändoon and the Flaming Sword of Fire (BBC2, Thursday) as he bursts into a dungeon. ‘Hi, my name is Kröd Mändoon, and I’ll be your liberator this evening!’ says the hero of Kröd Mändoon and the Flaming Sword of Fire (BBC2, Thursday) as he bursts into a dungeon. It’s a funny line, imposing the formulaic talk of an American waiter on to a medieval, fantastical, witches and warlocks ersatz epic of the type dreamed up by lonely schoolboys in their bedrooms. I laughed, or chuckled inwardly. But it didn’t quite work.

So it could be that ITV is saved not by a cigar-chomping, hot-shot show-biz executive but by a spinster from a Scottish village. The appearance of Susan Boyle in the first semi-final of Britain’s Got Talent (ITV, all week) was greeted with adoration — and audience figures — that would have been apt if Maria Callas had returned from the dead. Miss Boyle looked rapturously happy, and it was impossible not to feel delighted for her. She has had an unsung life of some difficulty; now, thanks to the internet, she is famed and celebrated around the world. Jay Leno, the American late-night talk-show host, sang dressed as her. There are politicians who would sacrifice their second homes allowance for such lavish, affectionate mockery. But I have reservations.

There are wonderful lines in Fawlty Towers, many from rants by Basil. To the man who dares to ask for breakfast in bed: ‘You could sleep with your mouth open so I could drop in lightly buttered pieces of kipper...’, or to the woman who doesn’t like the view: ‘What did you expect from a hotel in Torquay? Krakatoa exploding? Herds of wildebeest...?’ But for some reason the one that makes me laugh most is Geoffrey Palmer’s as he sits famished during a chaotic breakfast. Jowls quivering, with that mixture of pomposity and despair that marks inhabitants and guests of the hotel, he declares, ‘I’m a doctor, and I want my sausages!’ I don’t know why it’s so funny. You had to be there.

Best: His Mother’s Son (BBC 2, Sunday) was, for those of us from a certain place and time, almost unbearably poignant. Ron ‘Chopper’ Harris — such a charming soubriquet — was a defender with Chelsea in the 1960s. He tells the story of his manager, Tommy Docherty, briefing him before a match against Manchester United. ‘They’ve got this new player called Best. Apparently he’s good. I want you to take him out.’ Harris pointed out that if he was too rough, he might get himself sent off. ‘Put it this way, son,’ said Docherty. ‘They’ll miss him more than we’ll miss you.’ And it is still true today. We miss him more than any other footballer.