Lionel Blair’s a cabaret of sunshine in the BBC’s 5-star The Real Marigold Hotel
IN Southern India, last week, Three Degrees singer Sheila Ferguson was being pummelled senseless by a reiki healer until she “delved into her subconscious mind and re-balanced her soul”.
Or said something funny.
And as luck would have it . . .
Sheila suddenly started making an ungodly din and sobbing an apology into the ceiling: “I’m sorry, I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”
Not to Prince Charles, as I first suspected, but to the other two degrees, who she walked out on in 1986 and has been burying the guilt ever since, apparently.
A precious moment from The Real Marigold Hotel, a BBC1 series loosely based on a similar-sounding Judi Dench film and the deceit British celebrities “might retire to India”.
They won’t, obviously. In fact there’s more chance of Bill Oddie walking out of the sea in a mankini, on tomorrow’s Ex On The Beach, than there is of him retiring to India.
’Cos what’s actually going on here is an apology. Vast parts of the television schedule are now saying sorry to famous OAPs, for ignoring them, by sending them all on a lovely holiday.
Normally it’s on a river or canal barge, with Nigel Havers.
But the BBC is much richer than any other broadcaster, so they packaged eight off to a Kochi mansion, complete with cooks, drivers and a yoga instructor, which, if you tried to book it for a similar one-month stay would cost you in the region of £300,000.
A sum so far beyond the means of those Indians the series was attempting to celebrate/patronise, it’s almost obscene.
Just this once, though, I’m prepared to overlook the Beeb’s casual, spendthrift arrogance. Because, almost uniquely for this sort of show, I recognised everyone taking part.
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As well as Sheila and Bill, there was Lionel Blair, Dennis Taylor, Rustie Lee, Corrie’s Amanda Barrie, who now looks like comedian Charlie Chuck, and toilet-troubled Paul Nicholas, who went into it with “eyes wide open”, as did Dr Miriam Stoppard, but for purely surgical reasons.
A combined age of 597, that little lot, and a lesson for I’m A Celeb in how to book a reality show.
Once the Beeb had carted them off to India, however, there wasn’t actually much for them to do, beyond the search for physical and emotional peace and all that cobblers.
It must have rubbed off, though. ’Cos the weirdest thing happened during The Real Marigold Hotel. I started quite enjoying the series.
This may have been partly down to the amazing backdrop, but I think it owed a lot more to a couple of the trip’s spikier characters.
One was Sheila, who was clearly the prototype for Mel B, or her Bo’ Selecta! alter-ego, and has “a lot of energy”. (Sex drive).
The hypnotic star of the show, however, was Lionel Blair, who’s 88, doesn’t do political correctness and silenced everyone, week one, by describing the place as: “Horrific.”
Practically a hanging offence at the Beeb, where you’re only allowed to abuse two countries, Britain and America.
The thing about Lionel, though, is that all the world IS a stage and India was just a new audience.
So by the end of the series the mad old goat was tap dancing down Kochi High Street singing old Ella Fitzgerald numbers.
The locals weren’t going to escape without his full cabaret night back at the mansion, either.
Oh boy, there was song, dance, Lionel’s striptease, Paul Nicholas nipping off to the loo and there was a fully-restored Sheila Ferguson finally ready to embrace The Three Degrees’ finest moment.
When Will I See You Again?
Probably Celebrity Carry On Barging, series three, with John Sergeant. But thanks for the ride.
GREAT Sporting Insights. Martin Keown: “He was like a Rolls-Royce, galloping through the defence.”
Paul Merson: “You’ve hit the head on the nail there.”
Phil Neville: “David Moyes will be trying to suck every bit of energy out of his players.”
Emmanuel Petit: “The one thing that helped was we’re at home, the Bosman rule and that we were mentally strong.”
(Compiled by Graham Wray).
TELLY quiz. Just to see how closely you’ve been watching, who said the following, last week?
“The smell is a combination of armpits, genitals and back passages in a sweet and sour cocktail.”
A) Ship’s doctor Luke, on the smell aboard Mutiny?
B) Susanna Reid, on Piers Morgan’s interview technique?
Random TV irritations
ITV killing Ant & Dec’s Saturday night momentum with two mercilessly dull hours of The Voice. This Morning embracing the full diddly-diddly-diddly nightmare of St Patrick’s Day. The Replacement losing its mind and all credibility, right at the death. BBC1’s SS:GB leaving open the threat of a second series.
BBC2 adventurer Steve Backshall meeting “shut off from the outside world tribes”, who look like they got dressed at Sports Direct.
And the disproportionate, virtue-signalling thrill studio audiences are expected to display whenever a gay celebrity, like Julian Clary, announces he’s getting married, rather than the far more honest and accepting response – I couldn’t give a toss, you’re still not funny.
ON Friday night, The Last Leg gang, who are nought per cent female, ridiculed the boardrooms of Britain’s leading companies, which are 26 per cent female, for not employing enough women, without so much as a blush of irony. Or indeed anything other than the smug, witless, simpering, left-wing hypocrisy which has become Adam Hills’ calling card. Remarkable really.
Davina's fright nightly
ABOUT four-fifths of the way through her car crash run on The Nightly Show, Nineties throwback Davina McCall admitted: “When I was asked to host this show I said I’d only do it if I can have two things.”
“They were . . .”
Yeah yeah. We know, we know. A light aircraft to South America and a new identity flogging barbecued guinea pigs to backpackers in the foothills of the Andes.
And we all wish Davina well on the Inca Trail, obviously, but I’m still none the wiser what the hell she was trying to do with The Nightly Show format.
Before her arrival it had been a comedy, under David Walliams, then more of a chat show when John Bishop hosted.
First guess, with the appearance of her DJ sidekick, Fat Tony, was that it would be TFI: Monday.
But as the show got progressively louder throughout the week, and the poor old dear insisted on dancing, it turned into something more like The Hit Man & Hernia.
There were also FAR too many references to Davina’s vibrator for anyone’s comfort.
The nadir was probably reached, though, during Wednesday night’s grizzly interview with Julian Clary.
While the BBC News was discussing the greatest climbdown in Budget history, over on ITV Davina and her mate were fondly recalling the Bum Grapes game on Prickly Heat, which was: “What passed for light entertainment in 1998.”
But in light of current events it will now probably go down as one of television’s golden eras.
May it rest in peace.
THE Nightly Show, Davina McCall: “The most disgusting habit you have is . . . ?”
Boy George: “Farting.”
Wow. Worse than handcuffing a Norwegian escort and beating him with metal chains?
That’s some farting.
Quiz show imbeciles of the week
Tipping Point, Ben Shephard: “From 1922 to 1943 fascist dictator Benito Mussolini was leader of which European country?”
Nic: “Russia.”
Fifteen To One, Sandi Toksvig: “In 1995 which British boxer defeated Oliver McCall to become WBC heavyweight world champion?”
Jane: “Charles Bronson.”
The Chase, Bradley Walsh: “Who was the only British king to abdicate in the 20th century?”
Phoebe: “Charles II.”
AND the best quiz show answer of the week? Cloth-eared Rachael responding to Bradley Walsh on The Chase.
“The title of which Dane’s autobiography is usually translated as The Fairytale of My Life?”
“Edna Everage.”
Pause . . .
“It’s Hans Christian Andersen.”
Copper drops a PC clue
TO these ears, at least, the key moment of Broadchurch, so far, has been David Tennant’s DI Hardy, above, claiming the case made him: “Ashamed to be a man.”
This is normally a sign the writer is prepared to let his PC agenda dictate the plot and the guilty party will probably be the bloke who’s most likely to enrage a Guardian reader.
Charlie “Ian” Higson is also comedy royalty and probably doesn’t need the work half as much as the bit-part actors whose male weaknesses have already been thoroughly trashed.
Jim the mechanic and taxi driver Clive are both unfaithful.
Leo, the fishing net salesman, is stereo typically arrogant and Aaron, who has a conviction for rape, is porn obsessed.
Which currently leaves my finger pointing at Arthur, the rich-but-thick owner of Axehampton House, where Trish’s rape took place . . . unless it’s not him at all, of course.
Either way, I’m engaged enough by Broadchurch to keep watching until a superior police drama comes along.
Sunday, 9pm, BBC1, Line Of Duty.
TV GOLD: Harry Hill finding a useful role for Bridget Christie on Alien Fun Capsule (cheese-rolling stunt).
Sheila Ferguson yelping out her Three Degrees demons on The Real Marigold Hotel.
TLC’s reliably hilarious Dating Naked show contriving to unearth a name/location caption for a penis pump salesman that read: “Chase, Morehead.”
And Frankie Boyle consigning “celebrity atheists” to Room 101 with the stinging observation: “I don’t need Ricky Gervais to tell me there’s no God – I saw Derek get recommissioned twice.”
LOOKALIKES
THIS week’s £69 winner is Jeremy Corbyn and Stinky Pete from Toy Story II. Sent in by Irene Emerson, Grimsby. Picture research Marta Ovod.