GEOFFREY Perkins, who was tragically killed last week in a traffic accident, enjoyed a long and distinguished career as a comedy writer/producer for the likes of Spitting Image, Father Ted and The Fast Show.
It's somewhat unfortunate, then, that h
is final production turned out to be Harry and Paul, a mediocre sketch show starring his old chums Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse.
The second series sidled on to our screens to virtually no publicity fanfare whatsoever, almost as if the BBC are mildly ashamed of it. In some ways this treatment is unfair, as the show is no worse than Armstrong and Miller or The Catherine Tate Show (another Perkins production), both of which received far greater exposure. And yet many viewers and critics, for reasons best known to their psychiatrists, seemed to like those shows, whereas the first series of Harry and Paul was an absolute disaster.
Sadly, on the evidence of this opening episode, it hasn't improved. The Polish waitresses, the amorous chocolatier, the arrogant antiques dealer and the pretentious builders, none of whom were funny the first time, are all back to no avail.
Their new characters, two ageing Radio 3 hip-hop DJs, fell embarrassingly flat. Was a listener baking them a chocolate sponge in the shape of an Uzi really the best – and only – joke they could come up with? Like their unfunny Harley Street surgeons, these are characters that Enfield and Whitehouse obviously enjoy playing, so much so that they've forgotten to write any funny material for them.
Whitehouse, however, is such a naturally gifted performer that he can usually eke a few comic morsels from even the most unpromising material. The sketch in which he played an irate football manager delivering individual pep-talks in a variety of different languages was funny simply because Whitehouse knows how to sell a sketch. The only other highlight was a satisfyingly odd skit featuring a children's author and a sinister landlady.
The programme would benefit immeasurably from more of this sort of thing. Unfortunately, they're obviously more inclined to repeatedly hammer the same handful of terrible ideas into the ground (Enfield clearly wasn't lying when he cited Little Britain as an influence).
These men have been responsible for more classic comedy than BBC3 will manage in a lifetime. Let's draw a veil over this half-baked effort and remember them as they were.
Without his film-star friend Ewan McGregor, what is the point of Charley Boorman? The two of them together are irritating enough, but Boorman solo is nothing more than an amiable chancer. In Charley Boorman – Ireland To Sydney By Any Means the portly opportunist milks the Long Way Down/Around format by travelling from his birthplace of County Wicklow to Australia via whatever mode of non-commercial transport he can hijack.
As usual, half of the opening episode was devoted to preparing for yet another overgrown boy's outing. This involved visiting the family estate in Ireland where his entire family (including his father, legendary film director John Boorman) told us what an incredible guy he is.
I'm guessing that McGregor's wife has finally demanded that he stop going on these pointless adventures, as during his brief cameo he seemed genuinely disappointed that he wasn't joining Boorman and crew. "I've got a lot to thank Ewan for," admitted Boorman, with some understatement.
The full article contains 585 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
