Big Fat Idiot

How quickly things can become stale. Take the annual panel show (comedy is too strong a word) “The Big Fat Quiz of the Year”, which was first broadcast only five years ago in December 2004. It now seems incredible that viewers once considered this programme original, anarchic or even faintly amusing, as it has now morphed into a tired collection of in-jokes and tried and trusted anecdotes. At its inception, this was edgy, funny television, but it’s time to kill it off, as it has now become a pathetic parody of itself and is clearly only an excuse to feed the insatiable egos of some of the guests. Yes, I am looking at you, Jonathan Ross.

For anyone who has enjoyed the good fortune of never watching this annual bore-fest, it is a bit like a pub quiz, only without the ambience and wit of your local. Three teams of two publicity seekers (sorry, celebrities) have to answer questions relating to events of the past year, presumably in a witty and engaging manner. Not that you would necessarily guess, as the over-riding objective seems to be to massage the vanity of the contestants.

"Act your age"

The lofty ambitions of the enterprise are established “early doors” (as Big Ron would have said), when the celebrities are invited to demonstrate their rapier-like wit by naming their teams. Hence, Rob Brydon and Claudia Winkleman opted for “The Newlyweds”, because one is a man and one is a woman. Yes, I know – it didn’t make me smile either. Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand went for the immensely self-serving “The Moral Minority” in the first of countless tedious references to the Sachsgate affair, which they appeared to have forgotten took place not in 2009, but in October 2008. Why not go the whole hog and call themselves the “Sex Pistols”? After all, isn’t Brand some sort of sex god? And I suppose that Ross might consider himself a bit of a pistol, a son of a gun, though on this performance others might prefer son of a b… (I think you get the message).

David Mitchell and Charlie Brooker advertised their intellectual, uncompromising stance with “Ignorance and Want”, the ghastly children in Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”. Not a bad effort, which, of course, went straight over the head of the imbeciles in the audience, who were primed to laugh at every single inane, headline grabbing remark, but managed to miss anything that was genuinely funny. So, every time Brand tossed his ludicrously coiffured locks, he was given an ovation by the adoring crowds, but the one time he exhibited some genuine wit, it took the audience ages to catch on:

Ross: I spent three months looking at cats on the Internet.

Brand: I did a similar thing.

"Can I be your best friend?"

Brand’s tiresome obsession with sex meant that he had the ideal partner in Ross, because he was up his backside for the duration of the show. In fact, if they had blended this programme with the “Apprentice” spoof about a loathsome boss televised a few years back, they could have re-branded (geddit) it as “My Big Fat Obnoxious Ross”, as he was easily the worst thing about the show – against some pretty stiff opposition.

There has been a lot of public outrage over Ross's exorbitant BBC salary and some recent talk about this being reduced by at least 50%, but I think that his managers are missing the point here. It’s not so much that people are unhappy with the amount of money he earns, but more that they don’t think he’s worth any money at all. Or, put more bluntly, isn’t it time that Ross’s twelve-week suspension for leaving a series of obscene messages on the 79-year-old actor Andrew Sachs’ answerphone was given a rather more permanent status? At least his partner-in-crime Brand did the decent thing and resigned from the BBC, while Ross treated his punishment as an extended holiday before once again poking his snout into the trough.

"Mutton dressed as lamb"

You would have thought that he would have learned his lesson, but you can’t keep a good playground bully down, as we saw with his puerile hectoring of David Mitchell during the quiz. This was because Mitchell quite correctly refused to be the performing monkey to Ross’s organ grinder, when Wossy berated him for not dancing to Lady Gaga’s dreadful “Poker Face”. This was a deeply embarrassing display from Ross, as he “busted a few moves” (to quote the man himself) in a desperate attempt to show that he is “down with the kids” (again, a direct quote from Mr. Ego). You felt like you’d gatecrashed the party of your nightmares where a fat old man had totally nailed the charade for “a dad dancing at a wedding”. Here we had a 49-year-old chubster trying to pretend that he was still somehow young and hip, while teasing another middle-aged man about his inability to dance. I feel sorry for Ross’s children, who no doubt were squirming in mortification at their father’s exhibition.

Ross seemed blissfully unaware that the more he tried to humiliate Mitchell, apparently for the crime of being more intelligent and witty than Mr. Showbiz, the more he showed himself up as a narcissistic buffoon. As he became more childish, I wondered whether Ross had persecuted his mates at school in a similar way and fervently hoped that one of them had punched him in the face – after all, they could hardly miss. However, I fear that in the same way he hangs around the likes of Russell Brand like a bad smell today, he would probably have also hung on the coat tails of the cool kids at school, so coming under their protection. Oops, bit of a double meaning there, which I’m sure that Ross as a master of smutty innuendo would appreciate.

"Never mind the quality, feel the salary"

In another wretched attempt to appear trendy, Ross decided to diss Twitter as being full of banal contributions. WTF? This is a man whose contributions to the latest social network are hardly going to trouble Oscar Wilde’s memory. Yesterday’s highlight was “I am off for a post-minestrone nap. See you later”. Oh no you won’t, sunshine. Talk about having your cake and eating it – lots in his case. To be fair, he did use Twitter to slam the quality of TV over Christmas, which few would argue with, though they might counsel him to leave the glass house before starting to throw rocks.

Surely I am not the only one who is sick to death of seeing Ross’s smug visage all over the aptly named idiot box? I would again blame the BBC for his ubiquitous, oily presence, as whenever they think they have an asset they certainly know how to sweat it. Take David Tennant, whose spiky-haired, astonished expression could be seen absolutely everywhere over the festive period, like the beer of the same name on the streets of Glasgow, making the most of the incredible success of Doctor Who – though this is the same corporation who suspended production of the show in 1989 for fifteen years, so I suppose that they can’t even take much credit for that.

"When will I, will I be famous?"

At least Tennant does not have a sibling in the world of show business, unlike Jonathan, whose older brother Paul is even more vomit-inducing than the chat show king. He’s an awful movie critic, whose work is barely good enough for those august journals “News of the World" and “Daily Star Sunday”. His acidic comments are left far behind when he (frequently) attempts to scramble upon the celebrity bandwagon, appearing on “Comic Relief Does Fame Academy”, “Celebrity Mastermind”, “Celebrity Weakest Link” and, most embarrassingly, “Celebrity Stars in Their Eyes” as Tommy Steele. The only humorous thing about Paul Ross is an Internet campaign to take the mickey out of a portrait of the great man on Amazon, which has attracted nearly 300 ironic comments, e.g. “If you only buy one 20 inch canvas print of Paul Ross this year, this is the one to get”.

Jonathan, a man that the great Frankie Boyle described as “a £500 haircut on top of a melting mound of ice cream”, was paired with Russell Brand, most probably in a deliberate attempt to get publicity from the permanently outraged hacks at the “Daily Mail”, but the only result as far as I could see was a relatively subdued exhibition from perhaps the country’s biggest exhibitionist. His constant references to last year’s belittling of Manuel only emphasised how tired and irritating his routine has become. Apart from an absolutely abysmal piece of “acting” in the eminently forgettable “Forgetting Sarah Marshall”, what else has he done in 2009? His feeble efforts at getting a laugh on the “Big Fat Quiz” were encapsulated by his child-like drawing of a plane to illustrate the story of the pilot landing on the Hudson in New York. He clearly missed last year’s partner, Noel Fielding, who’s also not particularly funny, but was a vast improvement on the shouty “Rosser” sitting next to him this time round.

"What do you mean, I'm Welsh?"

Serial Welshman, Rob Brydon, also appears to have lost his mojo, probably in the enormously over-rated “Gavin and Stacey”, which now seems to be more of a soap opera than a comedy. Brydon’s little man trapped in a box is admittedly very good, but is there anyone that hasn’t seen this routine by now? I’ve personally heard it on at least five different shows in the last fortnight alone. Of course, he’s very good at impressions, but they’re usually of people who left the limelight 30 years ago like Ronnie Corbett, so why not just get Mike Yarwood? To be honest, impressions just aren’t funny anyway, as anybody who saw Alistair McGowan’s execrable performance on last week’s “Live at the Apollo”, when he was effortlessly outshone by the emerging talents of Kevin Bridges and Reginald D Hunter, would undoubtedly agree. At least Uncle Bryn got into the spirit of this year’s “Big Fat Quiz”, when he bullied host Jimmy Carr by constantly mimicking his laugh (like a “molested seal” according to the genuinely witty Carr) – not funny the first time, it certainly got no funnier each time he repeated the “joke”.

"Are you sitting comfortably?"

As Charlie Brooker observed, at this point the over-long (two hours!) show had been reduced to “just a series of noises”, which prompted the useless Claudia Winkleman to give us the benefit of her horse impersonation. There’s no foal like an old foal, I suppose. Although this was an incisive contribution, Brooker is rapidly turning out to be a right Charlie. So brilliantly acerbic in print, he struggles to deliver in person and appeared in awe of his fellow panelists. You can see why he took the writing route, as he’s not very quick on his feet, only once demonstrating the verbal dexterity that his readers in the “Guardian” know so well, when he described his own dancing as “like a frightened horse on a frozen lake”. Usually on such shows, he goes for a cheap laugh by using the word “shit” as his pejorative adjective of choice. Unfortunately, like a PR man turning into the story, he is a writer famous for eviscerating rubbish television who now appears all too often on sub-par nonsense like the “Big Fat Quiz”. How can he now critically review terrible TV shows with a clean conscience when he features in so many of them himself?

"Put on your dancing shoes"

Winkleman gormlessly played the part of the token woman, which is annoying on at least two levels. First, she is spectacularly unfunny, invariably using some totally inappropriate street slang (“hello?”, “whatever”) in the place of anything resembling humour in a bid to become this year’s Davina McCall (the undisputed queen of the inane, wide-mouthed comment). Secondly, her presence prevents authentic female talents, such as Lucy Porter, Sarah Millican or even Josie Long taking her place. Or how about Victoria Coren, who would definitely have the balls to stand up to the sexist insinuation that Ross loves so much. Instead, we have to suffer Winkleman, who contributes precisely nothing, except maybe a deep orange glow on a cold, dark night.

"The Day The World Turned Day-Glo"

The only contestant that made me laugh consistently was David Mitchell, whose intelligent wit stood out like a diamond in a dustbin. He managed to rise above Ross’s increasingly awkward efforts to induce him to dance, e.g. renaming Mitchell’s team “The Dancing Queens” – oh stop it, my aching sides. Mitchell is the real deal, a comedian who can speak well and amusingly on whatever topic is thrown at him. Brand and Ross should look and learn from a master at work, someone who long ago realised that you don’t need to scream and yell to be funny (even in 2010).

Nor do you have to abuse others for a cheap laugh. Speaking of which, where was Ricky Gervais, given that he’s Jonathan Ross’s great mate? His absence can only mean that he has nothing to plug at the moment, no awful film like “The Invention of Lying”, crappy children’s book like “Flanimals” or dreary stand-up like “Politics”. OK, his seminal comedy “The Office”, based on an idea by his writing partner Stephen Merchant, was absolutely superb, but increasingly Gervais resembles a one-trick pony, as his later ventures pale in comparison. To be fair, let’s call him a two-trick pony, as the podcasts with Merchant and Karl Pilkington are also hilarious.

"The Producers - Mr & Mrs Ross"

The comedy world feels just a bit too incestuous at the moment. Even the genial host, Jimmy Carr, is at least as famous for being the tennis buddy of Jonathan Ross as he is for his one-liners. If “The Big Fat Quiz of the Year” really aims to feature the hottest comedy talent around, then Ross surely should be nowhere near the show. In fact, he has appeared every year since it started, except 2008 when he gave it a miss due to the public outrage after his infamous phone call to Sachs. Maybe we should ask the show’s producer why Ross always has a seat at the table? She’s called Jane Goldman – better known as Mrs. Jonathan Ross.

What's Cooking?

Masterchef is back on our screens, though in truth it feels as if it has never been away. The previous series seemed to run for months, quite possibly because it did, and the whole brand feels like it’s gone a bit stale or even past its sell-by date. The format has been much the same for many years with the same kitchen, the same shouty presenters, the same hyped-up drama and the same catchphrases. Millions have come to love the comforting recipe, but isn’t it just a bit too familiar and formulaic now?

Like any successful programme, the BBC has not hesitated to squeeze every last drop of juice (or jus) out of the franchise. In much the same way that The Apprentice has been flogged to death, Masterchef has produced a number of spin-offs, including Celebrity Masterchef and Masterchef: The Professionals. It may be that we have just gorged too much at the Masterchef trough over the last two years, but it’s high time that Masterchef found itself a new flavour. They have forgotten a basic kitchen rule – to use fresh ingredients. By the way, if you thing I am over-using the food puns (over-egging the cake, if you will), you should watch the show: if I had a Pound for every awful food-related pun they wheeled out, I would be the proverbial millionaire.

"Before Masterchef, my career was this big"

Celebrity Masterchef was bad enough, though at least it had a clearly defined purpose, namely to kick-start the flagging showbiz careers of a bunch of non-entities and has-beens. Seriously, how many of the “celebrities” did you recognise? This year’s winner was Jayne Middlemiss, who those with long memories may recall was once a television and radio presenter. When she was announced as the winner, the look of joy on her face was partly for the pride in her ability to wield a frying pan, but was probably more because her declining career may have been resurrected. Of course, the celebrities are given a far easier ride on the show than Joe Public with the experts generally being as sweet as pie to them, however dreadful their culinary cock-ups.

Conversely, it is difficult to see the point of Masterchef: The Professionals beyond the programme being a hefty schedule filler for the BBC. What do the contestants (who cook for a living) really stand to gain by taking part when they are likely to be ridiculed for their inability to fillet a fish to Michelin Star standards? On the vanilla Masterchef, the contestants embark on the famed reality television journey. As we’re reminded ad nauseum, “This competition is going to change somebody’s life … forever!”

"One of these men needs a good meal. One doesn't."

The show is not helped by its totally insane scheduling: on Monday we have 2/3 of heat one (30 minutes), with the final third crammed into an hour-long extravaganza on Tuesday that also include heat two; Wednesday features heat three in all its glory (45 minutes); by Thursday we are back to the epics with not one, but two 45 minute shows – heat four and the quarter-final. As the judges often put it, “It’s messy, it’s confused. There’s too much going on on the plate”. One of the virtues of Masterchef in the early days was its simple, bite-size nature, but for some reason they’ve decided to disguise the new schedule as an unwelcoming buffet.

However, this show does indeed deliver us professionals in the form of “legendary double Michelin-starred chef Michel Roux Junior” (to give him his full name, as the tiresome voice-over does every five minutes) and his trusted sous-chef Monica Galetti. Despite weirdly looking like a stranger to a square meal with his spooky death mask, Michel is a TV natural, a completely impartial judge dispensing well-earned praise and justifiable criticism in equal measures. Monica is also very fair and has the rare ability (on this show, at least) to deliver her comments in a complete sentence.

"The Churchill dog"

In the presence of a culinary genius like Michel Roux Junior, regular Masterchef expert and professional baldy Gregg Wallace has become little more than his nodding dog (oh, yes). Once the great man has given his views after tasting the food, Gregg’s opinion tends to be “what he said”. The relationship is so obviously deferential that Gregg just agrees with the master, though I suppose there is some fun to be found in the way that he manages to twist the words a little in a vain attempt to avoid resembling a big fat parrot:

Roux: I can see what you were trying to do, but it lacks seasoning.

Gregg: It is going in the right direction, but you need to season it more.

Roux: Your skills are there, but you have tried to do too much with flavours.

Gregg: There is just a confusion of flavours going on. You need to tone it down.

Roux: The rabbit is beautifully cooked but it is lacking a sauce. It’s screaming out for a jus or something to act as a vehicle for flavour.

Gregg: The flavour of the well-seasoned rabbit is a dream. It’s just too dry without a sauce.

Although Masterchef: The Professionals has the better qualified experts, this unfortunately means that we have lost one of TV’s funniest double acts: Gregg Wallace shoves his shiny head into each plate like a pig hunting for truffles, while John Torode shouts his head off as if he’s advertising Cillit Bang. They may be annoying in many ways, both being overweight, middle-aged men who are way too smug and condescending, but there’s no doubt that they have chemistry. There’s something about the way they keep bellowing at each other, even when they are in full agreement. When there is actually a difference of opinion over who should go through, John will always win the argument, which might be because he’s an actual chef, while Gregg is just a fat bloke who loves jam roly-poly.

"Needs to work on the presentation"

Gregg is (metaphorically) the lightweight, as he is only a greengrocer, though the BBC frequently upgrades his CV, so that at various times he is described as a “vegetable guru”, “vegetable expert” and most laughably an “ingredients expert”. I’m not sure what that means, but he’s certainly not a chef. He may well have supplied cabbage to the country’s finest restaurants, but so what? If you work in an off-licence, are you qualified to pontificate on the merits of a Brunello di Montalcino? I have been known to compile a shopping list, but that hardly makes me the next Jamie Oliver. On the other hand, looking at his girth, there’s no doubt that Gregg’s sampled more than a few dishes in his time.

One unwritten rule of Masterchef is that the presenters are only allowed one mouthful of every dish, so Gregg the Veg has become a master of piling food high on his weapon of mass ingestion. It is a little known fact that he is the proud owner of the world record for balancing the largest amount of Tiramisu on a dessert spoon. This may be why he sticks the spoon (or fork) in his mouth and keeps it in there for what seems an eternity, as if he is also tasting the utensil.

"One of the easier ingredient tests"

On the rare occasions when his mouth isn’t full, he will be barking out his tried-and-trusted comments, such as: “I just want to take my shirt off and dive in”; “I could easily lick the plate clean”; and “I’d like to stick my head in this pudding”. Whatever he says, it will be at a volume last heard when Murray Walker was putting in a shift, though to be fair to the former commentator he had to compete with the almighty sound of a Formula 1 car. Other times, Gregg eschews the spoken word completely, opting instead for his vast repertoire of grunts and gasps, or grinning manically like the village idiot, usually after scoffing something chocolaty. This is a good move, as whenever he dares to venture off piste, he will put his foot in his mouth (if there’s any room), saying something like, “there is mistakes throughout your cooking”.

His partner in crime is John Torode, who at least is a chef, running Smiths of Smithfield, though this is arguably only a posh canteen for office workers, specialising in simple food like steak, sandwiches and salads. John is an Aussie, but he’s been in the UK so long, that you don’t really notice until he says “parsta” with an incredibly irritating long “r”. Despite his jowly cheeks, he can’t have eaten for weeks before the show, as he also wolfs down the food in the manner of a starving man. He has a little more elegance than Gregg, sizing up the dish with his hooded eyes like a bird of prey, before a quick, neat manoeuvre of unrivalled accuracy. Either John is half-hamster or he does special mouth-stretching exercises, as he has an unbelievable capacity in those chubby cheeks. I swear I once saw him insert an entire pear in his mouth. His critique is usually subtler than his meat and potatoes sidekick, “And you think beetroot and mascarpone go together?”

"Enjoying the salad days"

Of course, the combustible presenters’ self-important performance is part of the relentless desire to increase the dramatic tension: “Cooking doesn’t get tougher than this!” The frantic, doom-laden music suggests that the contestants are cooking for their lives, rather than the chance to be interviewed by Richard and Judy. Every night the cooks face their “toughest challenge yet”, even though it’s only 24 hours since we were told that the last challenge was (you’ve guessed it) their “toughest yet”. This is just a little bit over-the-top for a cooking competition: Gregg screaming, “You’ve got 30 minutes!”; Gregg and John melodramatically pretending to argue about something they decided hours earlier, forever making the “hardest decision they have ever had to make”; the contestants interviewed every 2 minutes for the inevitable emotional outburst; the lame, manufactured cliffhangers, when it’s obvious who’s going to win/lose. Pass the sick bag, Alice.

The high testosterone levels are part of a general trend among television chefs to portray cooking as a dangerous sport, just in case anyone watching should confuse an interest with balsamic vinegar with being a wuss, but, frankly, what’s macho about a couple of fat gourmands piling food into their puffy faces? Monty Python did this much better with Mr. Creosote, but he hardly looked as if he was trying out for the SAS.

"The Cheeky Boys"

Despite the misguided efforts to make the programme more exciting, the actual evaluation of the dishes is somewhat predictable. For every, “that packs in the flavours, but you need to work on the presentation”, there will be a “great technique, but needs to deliver more on the flavours”. Sometimes, the level of criticism is exceptionally banal, “Mmmm … salad, tuna, broad beans, sweet cherry tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, olives and anchovies. That’s absolutely lovely.” Well done, Gregg, you’ve just successfully listed all the ingredients of a Salade Niçoise, which is indeed the dish we can see on the plate. Or John’s trademark, “Your sauce need more oomph” – helpful and constructive to the aspiring chef.

The quality that Masterchef most admires is passion, but the flagrant over-use of the word strips it of any meaning, beyond possibly shorthand for enthusiastic incompetence. In the quarter-final, there’s even a “passion test”, where the contestants have to demonstrate how much they want this, removing any shred of remaining dignity. If you’re wondering, they all want it an awful, awful lot, though the reason they want it appears to be mainly because they “want it”. Yes, I know, but there’s no requirement that chefs have to be articulate. This is presumably why whenever the competitors are asked a question, any question at all, they will blather incoherently, randomly inserting all of the following words: passionate, honest, rustic, local, hearty, simple ingredients; culminating in the universal, “my dream is to run my own restaurant”.

"Runner-up in Bryan Ferry lookalike contest"

For that reason, Masterchef is a programme best viewed on fast forward. In that way, you can skip past the absurdly long intro, when they show tantalising clips of what will be broadcast just minutes later, and the mid-show recap for the mentally deficient. You will also avoid the earnest voice-over, which again repeats what John and Gregg have said seconds earlier, though you absolutely have to watch the tasting sessions, just in case you miss an unintentional comedy gem like, “It’s a lovely dish, it’s being true to the crab”.

Although Masterchef has on the face of it a compelling format, there are many annoying aspects:

• The irrelevance of cooking in a “top London restaurant”, where the most embarrassing performance does not make the slightest difference to the final decision. It’s almost as if this section is just a plug for the eateries.
• The inconsistency of the judging, particularly where salads are concerned. One moment, it’s fresh and bursting with flavour, the next it’s a cop out.
• The ubiquitous scallop. How many of these little buggers are left in the sea, given that almost every starter dish will feature a (yawn) scallop?
• The foolish determination to make a chocolate fondant, which invariably ends up looking as if Gregg has sat on the dish. Learn from others’ mistakes, people.
• The ingredients test, where contestants have to identify spices, cuts of meat, etc. In other words, they can be eliminated without getting a chance to cook.
• The lack of a hairnet for female celebrities. How would you like your eggs, sir? Liberally dusted with long blonde hairs, please.
• The inevitable foreign trip, usually to somewhere hot and uncomfortable like Mozambique. On the one hand, this is a huge waste of licence payers’ money, but on the other hand, we may see Gregg sporting his safari suit like an extra from It Ain’t Half Hot Mum.
• The sudden transformation of the chefs. Having been ruthlessly mocked for weeks, out of the blue they become miraculously brilliant (à la X Factor) once they reach the final, “I don’t want to go overboard, my friend, but that’s one of the best dishes I’ve ever eaten”.

Masterchef was always something of an acquired taste, but now they’re really making a meal of it. No matter how much they pump up the volume, cooking doesn’t get duller than this.

Inbetween Days

Will, Neil, Jay, Simon

While we can all agree that the general standard of British television comedy is pitifully low, every now and then you stumble across a diamond in the dustbin. One such gem is The Inbetweeners, a razor sharp celebration of the highs and lows of being a teenager. Perfectly capturing the relentless disappointment of suburban adolescence, the show follows a group of ordinary schoolboys who yearn for sex, booze and cheap thrills, without the emotional maturity, money or ID to get them. Basically, they just want to get laid. Named the best new sitcom of 2008 at the British Comedy Awards, it is about the squirming humiliations of teenage life with the four friends constantly finding themselves in embarrassing situations.

Simon's Dad: You've had an eventful day: bunking off school, buying alcohol illegally, defacing Carli's drive and insulting Neil's dad. Have I missed anything?

Will: We also hit a spastic with a frisbee.

None of our heroes is exceptional. In fact, they’re distinctly average. They’re not the biggest losers in class, but nor are they cool, attractive or popular. They hide from bullies, can’t pull girls and are denied service in pubs. You might think that Inbetweeners refers to that group straddling the social gulf between the in-crowd and the outcasts, but it also describes those awkward years between a teen and becoming an adult, that moment when you’ve entered puberty, but have no idea how to play it. These are pivotal times in most people’s lives.

An obvious comparison would be Skins, but The Inbetweeners are far removed from the beautiful, bed-hopping hedonists of E4’s other hit series about teenage life. While Skins is a sex and drugs filled fantasy about the youth experience, The Inbetweeners shows the way teenagers actually live their lives. The writers have flawlessly captured what middle-class teenage life is really like in their depiction of four slightly rubbish boys, so almost everybody will relate to the characters.

"I've been driving in my car, it's not quite a Jaguar"

It’s a bit like eavesdropping on a lads’ night out, when teenage angst and libido frequently cloud their judgment. Although there are many (painfully funny) incidents, it feels honest and, on the whole, realistic with banter that is both believable and hilarious. The main laughs come from the exquisitely accurate dialogue, which captures the feel of adolescence perfectly.

Jay: Carli doesn't really fancy you, so if you're waiting to lose it to her, you're gonna be waiting till you're dead.

Simon: I think she likes me a bit though.

Jay: No she doesn't, she thinks you're a twat. Becky likes you. And she likes sex. It's the perfect combination. Just don't go for anal straight away.

Simon: OK, thanks man.

Jay: No problem. Look here they come. Don't worry, I'll distract fatty boom boom with the buffet.

And that is why it is utterly charming. It never tries to be anything it’s not; it never pretends to raise moral issues; it simply shows that being a teenager can be fun.

"Briefcase mong"

The main protagonist of the show is Will, whose parents have divorced, leading to his mum moving him out of an independent school into the sixth form at the local comprehensive. Will is a geeky, well-educated, socially inept young man, whose haughty ego battles with his crippling shyness. He desperately tries to fit in, but his efforts are immediately scuppered by the head of sixth form, who makes him wear a badge proclaiming, “My name is Will. Stop me and say hello”, leading to casual abuse from just about the whole of the school. At first his classmates hate him, but he blithely ignores their insults and insinuates himself into a group of friends, which is greatly helped when they meet Will’s gorgeous mother, who is “so sexy, she could be a prostitute”:

Jay: Have you had a wank over Will's mum?

Will: Please don't have a wank over my mum!

Neil: I can't promise that, Will.

Will is like a teenage version of David Mitchell with his pompous and patronising outbursts. He is invariably wrong, but his enthusiasm and optimism keep him going, even though this often leads him into the most awkward situations, such as when he confronts people pushing in on a rollercoaster:

Get them off! Get them off! Fucking pushing in! Are they so dumb they think it’s OK to push in? Make them move! … Fine! Fucking fine! I’ll just get on. I’ll just get on and sit at the front next to these inconsiderate arseholes!!

(On realising that they’re mentally handicapped) … I’m the worst human being in the world.

When the boys bunk off school and get drunk, it ends badly after their parents find out what they’ve been doing all day:

Will: Oh, piss off.

Neil’s Dad: Don’t talk to me like that in my own house!

Will: Oh sorry, my manners. Piss off PLEASE!!

Neil’s Dad: I've had enough of your lip.

Will: Oh you'd like my lip wouldn’t you? Right round your bell end! If Mr. Chippy doesn’t get there first! What’s he gonna knock up, a closet for you to hide in!? You BUMDER!!

When the end of term examinations loom, Will’s manic preparations include consuming vast quantities of energy drinks, resulting in: (1) a messy accident in the exam room; (2) a barrage of insults referencing his unfortunate bowel movement: shit pants mong, Shitty Shitty Bang Bang, Wayne Pooney, Take Shat, Dr. Poo, Brad Shit, Bumlog Millionaire, Vladimir Pootin and The Lion The Witch and the speccy kid who shit himself.

"Hopelessly devoted to you"

Simon is the romantic of the group, who is secretly in love with Carli D’Amato. Well, it was a secret until he drunkenly spray-painted “I love Carli” on her driveway. His efforts to impress Carli always end badly, most notably when he drunkenly vomits all over her younger brother. His mates are initially impressed when he is the first one of them to get a car until they realise that it’s bright yellow and would make a Lada look cool.

Simon: Shit, stalled it.

Jay: You dick head. They’re getting away!

Will: Jesus, you make it sound like we’re about to attack them.

Jay: I can’t believe you lost the muff wagon.

Simon: Well, what are we going to do anyway? Follow them until they’re forced to drive to a police station?!

Jay: They love it, you tool. It’s called flirting.

The useless car does at least enable them to insult the “losers” standing at the bus stop with the legendary “Bus Wankers!!!”, though this also has an unfortunate conclusion when the car stalls.

"Let's talk about sex"

Jay is the cockiest member of the group, though in reality he’s a porn-obsessed master of exaggeration, if not downright lies, about his sexual conquests. He’s a potty-mouthed, verbal bully, who is unbelievably crude, yet extremely funny:

Jay: See you at the Fox and Hounds tonight, Neil. Oh and bring your wellies!

Neil: Why?

Jay: Cos’ you’ll be knee deep in clunge.

 

Simon: You wet the bed when you were ten.

Jay: Yeah, I wet your mum’s bed...with my spunk. 

Of course, once we meet the monster that is Jay’s father, we have more sympathy for him: 

Jay's Dad: I know what you're up to, you think cos’ she’s so massive, she'll count as two shags. Well she doesn’t! 

Will has no hesitation in pulling apart Jay’s boasts and the two quickly become verbal sparring partners: 

Will: Has she got any special dietary requirements? Only I’ve never cooked for an imaginary woman before.

Jay: Well I know she’s not allergic to nuts…my nuts!

Simon: Brilliant.

One of the funniest moments is when Jay meets a new friend, foolishly giving him the thumbs up. His mates predictably rib him mercilessly until Jay cracks, jumping up and down on the bonnet of his friend’s car, shouting out expletives in a scene reminiscent of Alan Partridge (or even Basil Fawlty) at their finest.

"Shut up, Del Boy!"

Neil is the obligatory stupid one with a vacant stare inspired by Rodney from Only Fools And Horses. He lives in a world of his own, but sometimes does say something almost profound. His uncomplicated persona, not to mention his slick dance moves, very occasionally see him triumph with the opposite sex. To his horror, his dad, a single man struggling to raise his family after his wife walked out, is often the butt of the gang’s jokes with constant aspersions cast on his sexuality:

Neil: My dad's not gay!

Jay: Well...let's look at the evidence...1) your mum left him because he loves cock!

 

Neil: Come round tonight. My dad’s out.

Will: Oh, at last!

Neil: No, I mean going out.

Simon: Cottaging?

Neil: No, he’s playing badminton actually.

Will: That’s a euphemism.

 

Simon (to Neil about his new job): I suppose your dad needs the money.

Neil: No, he doesn't.

Simon: Rent boys don't come cheap, you know.

Neil: My dad’s not gay.

Jay: Why’s he paying for rent boys then?

Neil: He's not paying for them.

Simon: What, they're freebies?!

Although the situations are funny, one of the keys to this being such a great comedy is the relationship between the main characters. The banter between them is realistic and very funny, with most discussions soon turning into arguments before coming to an end with a classic puerile insult. Some would see this as vulgar and simple, but actually it's a very accurate (and extremely funny) portrayal of male teenage mates and what they get up to.

Will: Your dad's moved out?

Simon: It's no biggie. They've not been getting on lately, so he's moved out for a few weeks while they sort stuff out.

Jay: What, like her face? It's gonna take more than a few weeks to sort that mess out.

Yes, at times it’s crude, crass and even offensive, but it never plumbs the depths of Little Britain. Granted, you have to find schoolboy sexual innuendo funny, but the script is consistently amusing with side-splitting one-liners coming thick and fast (as Jay might say). It may be immature and even childish, but that’s what gives the show its charm – a sort of down-market version of The Rotters’ Club.

The Inbetweeners is obviously aimed at young people, but it has a universal appeal and can be enjoyed by any adult with an open mind. After all, everyone was a teenager once; so older viewers can buy into a memory, rather than an actual experience. Mucking about and laughing with your mates is a timeless pursuit and The Inbetweeners captures the awkwardness, frustration and humiliation of being a teenage boy better than anything else on television in recent years. Teenage dreams – so hard to beat.