That’s the skinny on Pushing Daisies, the hit US show that made its ITV debut on Saturday.  Ned (Lee Pace) is the possessor of the mysterious power and Anna Friel is Chuck, the object of his affection that he must avoid physical contact with.  Along with Private Detective Emerson they solve murders and explore what it really means to be alive blah, blah, blah.

Pushing Daisies contains the odd moment of humour but is far from good enough to compensate for such a ludicrous premise.  Ned is supposed to be an unassuming hero but surely he’s got to be able to boast a smidgeon of charisma if we’re to care enough to keep tuning in.  He can’t and I won’t.

The saccharine methods Ned and Chuck dream up to display affection for each other already feel nauseating and you can only imagine it’s going to get a lot worse as the series progresses.  Not one of the better transatlantic imports of recent years.

If comedies were judged quickly, and without the opportunity to develop then some of the shows we consider classics today would never have made it past the end of their first series.  Even the atrocious Jam and Jerusalem was slightly better in its second season.  Slightly, I said.

Pulling (9.30pm, Sunday, BBC Three) is another example of a sitcom, poorly-received first time around which has improved immeasurably into its second run.  Actually, that’s not quite fair.  Watching re-runs of the first series you notice depth and humour that you missed before.  The second series is still much better however.

The tale of three thrity-something female flatmates may not be the most original, or most clever, thing to appear on our screens in recent years but it has improved dramatically since its debut season.

Pulling is shown at 9.30pm on Sunday nights, directly after Gavin and Stacey, meaning there’s a whole hour of laughter to enjoy before gloomily contemplating the return to work the following day.  Every silver lining has a cloud, however, and this week’s episode of Gavin and Stacey is the last in the series.

Not that mainstream drama likes to ape the hysterical concerns of the tabloid nation or anything, but last night’s series opener featured hoodie-clad, gun-totting feral youths that had you muttering about the strap, national service and withdrawing benefits as soon as they appeared on screen.

It was also the most unrealistic depiction of gang warfare since the Sharks and Jets first settled street scores with a dance-off.   ”Yo bruv, let’s get ‘em.  Dem pigs dont care about ‘is blood” rambled one kid, who probably took a “ghetto lingo” module at drama college.   “They don’t know how it is in da streets blood” complained another stereotype, who was wrapped up in a cliche and wore a hackneyed hat.

 To be fair, the programme-makers at least attempted to provide some depth to the ghetto kids with a suitably horrific background the root cause of their misanthropic actions.  The cops, on the other hand, were as one-dimensional as it’s possible to be.  Played by an array of former soap actors, and the guy who was Gruey in his youth, the cops were banal, cliched and unlikeable. that any sensible person would be wanting the battling gangs (the ludicrously named Sweet Boy Killers and The Glory) to call a truce and turn their anger on the pigs.  Gruey was even a facist.  Well, I thought he was until I realised that he was actually referring to his estranged son and was talking about wanting to “see Kyle” and not give a Nazi salute.

The cops repeatedly talked about the sink estate residents they were charged protecting being scum but any sensible person would be wanting the battling gangs (the ludicrously named Sweet Boy Killers and The Glory) to call a truce and turn their anger on the pigs.

As NWA so eloquently put it, “fuck tha police”.

Maybe not, but at least Kevin Spacey (unlike the millions of gullible idiots who tune in each week) has the nuance to realise that Maria, Joseph and the Nancy hunt (I’d Do Anything, that is, and not some gay-bashing crusade.  Although you could see why Spacey would be worried if that was the case.  Allegedly.) is just one, big shameless advertisement for Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s latest production

 Another programme which fits that description perfectly is The Apprentice, now returned to BBC One for it’s millionth series.  Let’s be frank, The Apprentice is a huge publicity machine for Sir Alan Sugar and very little else.

The wankstain star may complain about being presented as a caricature but he wasn’t so bothered when it first guaranteed he could get his hideous, bearded coupon permanently beamed over the airways and plastered across every newspaper and magazine in the land.

The Apprentice is supposedly be more high-brow than other reality shows, X Factor for people who can read as well as text, but scratch beneath the surface and it’s every bit as tacky, exploitative, self-serving and, well unrealistic, as any of them.

 What makes The Apprentice stand out from the crowd is the way it’s made.  Industry buffs wax lyrical about the production and editing standards and it is these factors that manage to hide just how dull and shallow the show really is.

There’s a lot of nastiness, delusion, pretension and back-stabbing but very little of substance.  It’s been credited with generating interest int he world of business where it didn’t previously exist but I’ll put all my wealth (approximately £234.65) on the fact that no Sunday magazine will ever feature an interview where some sickeningly-wealthy individual reflects on their career from the Monaco mansion they call home for reasons of cheating the Exchequer out of its rightful income and says, “you know, I was a lazy, dope-smoking, binge-drinking ne’er-do-well until the first time I heard Sir Alan say “You’re fired”".

And does The Apprentice’s depiction of commercial life actually bear any resemblance to the world of commerce anyway?  As someone who Trotsky was a bit too right-wing for, i’m not exactly qualified to speak on such matters but I’m pretty sure Bill Gates didn’t get the funds to start Microsoft by selling fish out the back of a van.

 More than any other reality show, The Apprentice is almost entirely dependent on the audience’s hatred of those taking part.  It’s all a case of hoping the least-worst candidate emerges triumphant and the people you really detest have their lives utterly ruined and for that, The Apprentice has a lot more in common with the world of politics than big business.

 Sid’s relationship with EastEnders is like that of a spurned lover who can’t get over their ex, no matter how appallingly they’re treated.  EastEnders is the stronger partner who, realising they could do better, kicked Sid into touch but still consider him a proficient enough shag to call up in the early hours when drunk and desperate.

 And he’s back for some more unsatisfying inebriated humping tonight when Ricky Butcher returns to the Square to mourn the passing of dad, Frank.  Did Mike Reid not die ages ago?  Certainly died on stage enough times.  Keep up EastEnders people please.

And then ex-missus Bianca turns up tomorrow for a special storyline that proves how desperate the writers are for fresh material.  Ricky and Bianca are, like, SOOOOO 1990′s but I suppose it means not having to fill screentime with tenuous plots concerning Wellard the dog or dullard the Gus.

EastEnders really is atrociously bad these days isn’t it?

 There are one or two reasons to tune in from time to time.  They are:

1. Stacey (for the filth factor alone)

2. Dawn Swann’s right pap.

3. Dawn Swann’s left pap.

4. To ensure your hatred of Ian Beale never wanes.

5. To do more research on the “Fat Pat or Old Mo?” debate.

And that’s it.

 Sid’s relationship with EastEnders is like that of a spurned lover who can’t get over their ex, no matter how appallingly they’re treated.  EastEnders is the stronger partner who, realising they could do better, kicked Sid into touch but still consider him a proficient enough shag to call up in the early hours when drunk and desperate.

 And he’s back for some more unsatisfying inebriated humping tonight when Ricky Butcher returns to the Square to mourn the passing of dad, Frank.  Did Mike Reid not die ages ago?  Certainly died on stage enough times.  Keep up EastEnders people please.

And then ex-missus Bianca turns up tomorrow for a special storyline that proves how desperate the writers are for fresh material.  Ricky and Bianca are, like, SOOOOO 1990′s but I suppose it means not having to fill screentime with tenuous plots concerning Wellard the dog or dullard the Gus.

EastEnders really is atrociously bad these days isn’t it?

 There are one or two reasons to tune in from time to time.  They are:

1. Stacey (for the filth factor alone)

2. Dawn Swann’s right pap.

3. Dawn Swann’s left pap.

4. To ensure your hatred of Ian Beale never wanes.

5. To do more research on the “Fat Pat or Old Mo?” debate.

And that’s it.

 In fact, the only thing more disturbing is Jake’s brief appearance on the title sequence, you know the one when he’s sneering in a desperate attempt to make it look like he belongs among the sexy people who make up the majority of the Hollyoaks cast.

And you know what?  Jake Dean is such a loser he didn’t even succeed in becoming a rapist, murderer or suicidee.

 Holllyoaks, of course, can only be appreciated when you accept that it’s as a heap of steaming crap.  Thing is, unlike most other heaps of steaming crap that masquerade as drama, the ‘oaks is capable of poking fun at itself and actually making you laugh more than 70% of new comedy series’.

 The funniest lines are, for the main part, given to two characters at the minute – camp Chris and little Tom.  Compare Ellis Hollins to most child actors and you almost don’t hate children on TV anymore.  The finest moment of his young career came last week after he swallowed the engagement ring half-brother Max was about to present to Steph.  “It’s a really nice ring Steph – you’ll see it when I have a poo!”  Don’t hear lines like that down Weatherfield and Walford ways do you?

 Uurgh!  The cosy chit-chat.  Aaaargh!  The inane babble.  Eeeek!  The endless human interest stories of interest to no-one but Daily Mail readers.  Nooooooooo!  The humdrum, mainstream pap aimed squarely at the type of person who think Saga Magazine is a little too risque for their liking.

 The ONE Show pollutes our screens each weeknight from 7pm and it never fails to ruin my day.  I mean, I occasionally watch to see if it’s as bad as I remember (it always is) but most times I instantly switch over.  Even so, just knowing that this bland drivel gets shown every night makes my blood boil.  I fly into a rage and smash things.  Then I remember that millions of people watch this shite and I start issuing bomb threats, so great is my hatred for the world.

 The only excuse for Adrian’s involvement is that he’s humping both Myleene and the ludicrously-smiley Norn Irish bird they got to replace her when she fell pregnant with AC’s baby.

If you’re the type to say, “honestly, I wasn’t inside you, your sister, mother and best friend all within 24 hours of each other” then you’re a lying, cheating scumbag.  Albeit one I have quite a bit of respect for and would like to shake by the hand, nay sniff the fingers of. 

If you’re the type to lie about narrowly avoiding sniper bullets in the Balkans in order to bolster a faltering campaign to secure the Democratic nomination that makes you Hilary Clinton.  And if you’re the type to pass yourself off as a top forensic detective after watching one too many episodes of CSI and even have the gall to give evidence in court whilst posing as an expert witness then you’re Gene Washington.

Gene (real name Rocky) starred in one of the news stories of 2007, one of the great many “here, that’s fucking brilliant” tales that would have received a far bigger press were it any other, non Madeline-obsessed year.  His story was highlighted in Crime Scene Conman (Tuesday, BBC One), a documentary that examined the crimes of this latter day Walter Mitty.  Featuring interviews with police officers, those he came into contact with professionally, friends and those who paid for his services as well as irreverent reconstructions, CSC was a surprisingly amusing watch.

Claiming non-existent qualifications and a host of specialisms that no human could possess, Gene/Rocky somehow managed to live out his elaborate fantasy for years, convince people to contract his services and not only escape censure from the authorities but work alongside them.

The specialist equipment to be found in Gene’s office amounted to a magnifying glass, he knew nothing about forensics other than what he learned watching TV shows and asked women if they wanted to go out with him when they were taking a lie detector test.  He may have conned people out of money, upset grieving parents and brought the criminal justice system into disrepute but it was hard not to like Gene.

Everyone interviewed – even those responsible for eventually banging him up – commented on how affable he was, even allowing for the fact he clearly lived in a fantasy world of his own creation. 

 Thing is, Crime Scene Conman seemed somewhat rushed and could have been so much better.  It shouldn’t have been tucked away late at night when no-one was watching and it should have been afforded a full hour so this brilliant tale of how the entire legal profession was fooled into accepting submissions from someone no more of an expert than you or I, could be told in fuller details.

 Thing is, the loveable lunatic probably welcomed the exposure and was just happy to be receiving attention.  He was likely to be less impressed by the actor chosen to portray him in the off-beat reconstructions, a lardy lad weighing in a good two stones heavier than the real Gene, however.  Still, they’ll probably get Gail Platt to play Hilary Clinton someday so, five year jail sentence or not, things could be a lot worse.

I didn’t get to play Oliver.  Or Dodger.  Or Fagin.  Or even Mr Bumble.  I was Noah Claypole, the bloke what pisses the hero off and causes him to run off from Sowerberry the undertaker and into the arms of Dodger.  If this hadn’t happened then he never would have been accused of robbing Mr Brownlow and ultimately discover that the kindly old gentleman was in fact his grandfather.  So, you see that I, along with my fellow Noah’s, are in fact the glue that binds this rather shabby, coincidence-dependent tale together.

Anyway, I’d Do Anything is the latest camped-up Saturday evening crap on offer from BBC One as Graham Norton returns to once more uncover the next star of the West End, this time attempting to recruit an Oliver and a Nancy.  Why not Noah, the real star of the show, I hear you cry.  My thoughts exactly.

Anyway, my hatred of X Factor comes from resentment about the way such gaudy talent shows pollute the musical landscape.  I don’t care about musicals so I’m not really fussed if I’d Do Anything brings about their end but I hate the programme all the same.

For a start, the evil John Barrowman is involved.  As previously discussed, he’s an absolute prick.   And he loves the attention being a big shot in this crap.  Oh, doesn’t he just.  The end of “Nancy School” saw the remaining hopefuls lined up and instructed to sing whilst Barrowman walked up and down them tapping those on the shoulder who hadn’t made it to the next stage.  The power had clearly gone to his head and he looked as if he might explode with excitement as he marched around, pausing at some poor girl to make her weep with fear before turning and delivering the dreaded tap to her neighbour.  And the production people slowed this down for dramatic effect, making the tapee look like they had just been felled by a bullet in combat.  Horrible.

The Phantom of the Opera Music that met every appearance of “the Lord” on screen?  Horrible.  The usual tears-and-tantrums pantomime?  Horrible.  The posh little shits aiming to become the new Oliver?  Horrible.

Anyway, in spite of the BBC’s attempt to sully its good name, I’m still fond of Oliver!  It was, during my time as Noah, that I received my first lessons in sex education as Mr Sowerberry had a girlfriend a couple of years older than him who was willing to do things I’d never heard of and he was keen to share this information with me.  She’d do anything apparently…