IF TELEVISION can be regarded as an accurate barometer of the nation's tastes, then Britain in 2008 is morbidly obsessed with obesity, ASBOs, teen mums, pornography, paedophilia and the housing market. If someone, possibly at ITV, could combine all
of these elements into one package (I won't contrive a title for such a programme, as frankly it's impossible) then all competition would be rent asunder.
During this week alone we've been treated to Glamour Girls, Page Three Teens, Britain's Youngest Grannies, I Own Britain's Best Home, Channel 4's week-long Grand Designs hootenanny and now Too Fat To Toddle from ITV.
I fully understand that in this multi-channel age there is a desperate need for more programmes, but if half of them disappeared from the schedules tomorrow, nobody would bat an eyelid. Unfortunately, they'd probably be replaced my more repeats of Two Pints Of Lager And A Packet of Crisps.
Slinging these programmes together must be easy. First, nab yourself a topical issue from the tabloids – in this case child obesity – and come up with the most insensitive title possible. The fact that the kids featured here weren't actually toddlers didn't matter: it's lurid alliteration that counts. Then hire an understanding expert, such as Professor Paul Gately, and send him on a mission to tackle said issue head-on.
This involved gathering four ordinary families, chucking them into a nice house for three days, and making them cry. "This will be one of the most important things you'll ever do," frowned Gately, as the camera lingered intrusively on a parent's tear-stained face. "It's going to be tough," blared the narration over a montage of overweight kids throwing tantrums.
But of course everything turned out all right in the end, although not before the audience were given plenty of opportunity to chastise the participants' parenting skills. The frustrating thing was that Gately gave sound advice that many parents could learn from, but the tediously formulaic trappings tended to overshadow his message.
Reality shows adhere to a strict formula, of course, but when the results are as sublime as The Baron that's no bad thing. The premise was fantastically simple: send three celebrities to the devoutly Christian Highland community of Gardenstown and watch them compete to become the new village Baron. What set this above most reality shows was the inspired choice of celebrities. The anodyne Suzanne Shaw aside, The Baron struck comedy gold with the incongruous pairing of former Sex Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren and the late Mike Reid.
McLaren spent most of the final episode in hiding after being run out of town by a lynch mob. This was due to an hilariously ill- considered speech made before the entire community, during which McLaren called for an annual Anarchy Day wherein the good people of Gardenstown would gorge themselves on sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. "Don't you know that Jesus Christ was a sausage?" he sneered inexplicably, before being forcibly dragged off stage.
Reid was eventually crowned Baron following a campaign of overt sincerity and generally just being Frank Butcher off the telly. Even the rather poignant closing scene in which he talked about his plans for the town (he died not long after filming) couldn't overshadow the fact that this incredibly funny reality show was far more entertaining than most.
The full article contains 569 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
