And that’s just one shadow darkening the picture as we’re gently – oh so gently – reminded this incarnation of the (time) traveller is embarking upon his final voyages. The Doctor and Jackson walking off through the streets of 19th century London marked not just the beginning of the end, but also a nicely subdued climax to an – at times – melancholic Yuletide adventure.

Doctor, Doctor

Jackson Lake remembers

 The big idea, of course, played on the Doctor’s mortality as he encountered Jackson Lake (David Morrissey), a possible future incarnation of himself. Morrissey brought us a hugely likeable character, a credible, almost archetypal, take on the Time Lord. He spoke like a Doctor of the old school – lots of usage of “sir” where the current incumbent might say “mate”;  formal English, no contractions; and allusions to the classics (Robert Burns: “Let’s pull this timorous beastie down to earth!”) rather than pop culture. Throw in the pre-Eccleston Doctor garb – all frock coat and cravat – and faintly patronising attitude to companion Rosetta, and you could believe Russell T Davies was paying tribute to all the elements of the Doctor’s character he jettisoned for the 2005 revival.

Ultimately, though, “The Next Doctor” mystery was done and dusted all too quickly, the truth about Jackson revealed some time during the second reel, and the character efficiently demoted to another bystander, sobbing ineffectually as the real McCoy (er, not that McCoy – we’ll get to him in another couple of paragraphs) swung in and rescued the curiously static Frederick from a fiery bath. A real shame, as Morrissey’s lust for the fruitiness of his Pertwee-style dialogue had brought real sparkle to the screen.

Ashes to ashes

"Excellent!"

So what of the Cybermen, this episode’s other draw? Demoted to brainless henchmen, they interacted with the tale more as – ahem – cipher-men. They were but fun icons of steam-punk Victoriana, ball-less knights in shining armour easily subjugated by scarlet woman Miss Hartigan. That funeral scene aside, this lot were eclipsed by their pet dogs, the lurching Cybershades, and that Transformers-alike Cyberking, a stomping salute to younger viewers who’ve been hanging on through Jackson’s tragic back story waiting for some merchandise-able mayhem to kick-off.

This Christmas won’t be remembered as a vintage venture for the Cybes, but other small moments will surely be celebrated for some time to come: The feign with the fob watch, the “Tethered Aerial Release, Developed In Style” and – chiefly – that cameo from messrs Hartnell, Troughton, Pertwee, Bakers (mk I and II), Davison, McCoy, McGann and Eccleston.

Colin Baker! On Christmas Day!

Available in the shops soon...

All Doctors, fleetingly back together again? It doesn’t auger well. Having flagged up that one day there will be a next Doctor, Davies then reminds us ‘our’ Doctor is soon to become another face from the past. As the episode finishes, he’s opting to travel alone once again (“I suppose in the end,” he says, referring to his companions, “they break my heart”). It’s almost as though he’s reverting back to that wounded, lone wanderer we first met in a Cardiff department store. The show, tidying itself up, ready for a new regime to take control…

“But this is nonsense! Complete and utter wonderful nonsense! Very silly!”

Dawn of the dead

Not quite a match to the titles of old

 From an opening shot of planet Earth that’s hugely reminiscent of the first moments of the 2005 series of Who, we have entered an age where telefantasy need no longer mount stealth attacks on the television schedules – it is a genre that is currently out and proud.

It’s slightly perverse then, that it’s the traditional sci-fi overtones that slightly let down what is otherwise a fine opening episode, but we’ll come back to that in a minute. With Dead Calm and Spooks: Code 9 not long having left our screens, not to mention cinema releases I am Legend and 28 Days/Weeks Later, the end of the world is a territory  viewers are now very familiar with. As such, the extended opening sequence which outlines the scale of the disaster is slightly redundant, albeit perhaps it is setting the groundwork for future plot developments to come.

What’s of more interest is the way in which each of our heroes deals with the unfolding nightmare. Those characters plucked from the original series cope in much the same way as their mid-1970s counterparts (with the exception of Jenny who is killed off Lisa Faulkner-in-Spooks style) suggesting  the apocalypse is immune to fads, trend and even technology. The new additions to the storyline though, smack more of a contemporary production, with both Tom (Max Beesley) and Al (Phillip Rys) essaying different studies on the theme of nihilism. Although Al’s function is yet to be clearly defined, Tom’s as the snake in the camp makes for an intriguing addition to the programme, and one which should safeguard against this series developing into The Good Life as per the original version.

However, in the main this version of Survivors surprises by sticking so closely to the original source material. Nation was never the wittiest writer of dialogue, or a particular master of the twist in the tale, but what the 2008 version of his series shows, is that he did know how to lay in a solid plot. Abby’s search for her son Peter, was and remains, exactly the right drive to underpin what otherwise would become simply a drama about staying alive.

"Please God..."

"...Don't let me be the only one"

Storywise what may be the least successful element however, is the wholly new addition of a plotline featuring as yet unnamed figures working in a top secret laboratory. First glimpsed at the end of the episode, the early signs are that the insertion of this kind of well-worn sci-fi trope may well hamper Survivors. The original series was about how to exist in a world without infrastructure and control, and the suggestion here that some form of Government may still be in operation, threatens to seriously undermine all that lies at the intellectual core of the series.

Still it’s too early to tell, and from the first 89 minutes, Survivors has done more than enough to ensure it’s going to get the benefit of the doubt for now.

But that’s not the main reason the BBC has become increasingly nervy about Apparitions . The Corporation is currently more scrutinised than ever, while the media at large seems likely to react with histrionics to any of the topics the series puts on the table: the Catholic Church and it’s place in society, homosexuality in the priesthood, exorcism in modern day Britain, the potential abuse of a vulnerable child… Gulp! There’s a strong argument for claiming the time is just plain wrong for this show – but that’s really why I like it.

Falls the shadow

Tears for fears

Right from the off this is a portentous drama, sombre but sincere. The titles feature religious iconography set against time elapse footage of – well – life going on. The Church casts a shadow over all of us. Somehow, there’s something almost 1980s about this. It has the same sense of self-importance as Edge of Darkness, and grasps for gravitas wherever possible. And yet, on paper it looks utterly bonkers.

Martin Shaw – with sonorous voice and beatific smile – is Father Jacob, next in line, it seems, to become the Catholic Church’s exorcist-in-chief. Satan and his cohorts aren’t happy, and while a little girl drops in to tell Jacob her dad’s possessed, demons are creeping out of the woodwork with the revelation that they, not Mother Theresa, miraculously cured protege Vimal’s (Elyes Gabel) leprosy 11 years previously. Yet, on screen, all seems frighteningly plausible.

That beatific smile

"I need to see her!"

Jacob is a grinning incongruity, stalking through a lighting appliance shop, trying to sell the olde worlde concept of exorcism to Liam (Shaun Dooley). “Just a couple of prayers, that’s all,” he buttercoats, standing unnaturally close to his quarry. The possessed dad responds as we probably all would; a mixture of incredulity, humour, and anger. And then, later, Liam’s malaise is treated as an addiction. “I need to see [my daughter]!” he pleads. “Not until you’re clean” is the response. Throughout, Jacob is unwavering, the laying on of hands is the only solution. And I don’t know about you, but I found that single-mindedness slightly unnerving.

Deep waters then. But do they hold perils for Apparitions? Possibly. I’m still not fully reconciled with Vimal’s story which seemed to depict him swapping one ‘disease’ (leprosy) for another (homosexuality). Urged on by a demon to “use the skin I gave you – love thy neighbour as thyself”, it’s hard not to conclude this nascent priest lost his life because he gave in to his sexual urges. What to make of that? I’m not really sure.

But this is an unusually rich show that touches upon dozens of topics (the Vatican baptising the dying, no matter what their religion was one I found particularly interesting).

It should also be noted that unless my memory is playing tricks on me, this episode received a couple of trims between its screening to the press at the start of October and its transmission. The scene with Liam hurling insults at a football match on TV (“Don’t use that language in front of a child” – er, what language?) and the final reveal of Vimal’s skinned corpse, both – I’m pretty sure – toned down for TX. Perhaps, when it comes to it, no-one really knows what to make of this unusually fecund offering. But, as the weeks continue, with episodes lined up about abortion and the fall of the Pope, you can be assured it’ll send demons screaming out of the television screen. Don’t worry. Exorcise is good for the soul.

Granted, election night television is never the slickest of endeavours. An element of improvisation and unexpected mistakes can add a bit of levity to proceedings. But only if those proceedings are rooted in a self-evidently sure-footed, fired-up attitude in front and behind the camera.

An assistant floor manager makes his mother very proud

Such an attitude had scant presence here. David Dimbleby was crabby from the off. Tired, unable to summon useful observations (“We don’t know what’s going to happen until we get some votes in”), falling back on crass elucidation, and invariably resorting to asking yet another guest yet another variation on “so, what does it really mean?”, this was definitely not vintage Dimbleby.

Just minutes in, he appeared on a giant screen behind Jeremy Vine’s head, gesticulating furiously at a studio assistant. He then tied himself in knots over the difference between baseball and basketball; went on to refer to a key swing state as “a toss-up steak”; and finally announced that Virginia had been “Republican since 1964 when LBJ [a Democrat] took it”.

In fact, his grasp of American states, or more precisely his grasp of viewer-friendly labels for American states, was his greatest failing of the night. Tennessee was dismissed as “the home of Nashville and Memphis”. Minnesota was summed up as a “state of lakes and forests”.  South Carolina was merely “proper southern territory”, Iowa had “eight pigs for every resident” and Pennsylvania was “the big potato”.

"They move so fast...eight pigs...those dresses...big potato"

This wasn’t just lazy, it was verging on the actively ignorant. David also seemed to show his age, in terms of turns of phrase, slow-wittedness, and – sad to say – all-round curmudgeonly moaning. Sounding like a 1960s Man Alive reporter, he recalled how Barack Obama “wasn’t seen as a black”. “Oh dear, they move so fast,” he whimpered when faced with a moderately-paced on-screen results update. His verdict on Sarah Palin? “Those dresses…she looked good in them.”

He was lucky he had, sitting to his left, the BBC Washington correspondent Matt Frei, who revealed himself to be a walking bibliography of American facts and fancies. Whenever David allowed him to speak, Frei certainly proved to be the most useful of the permanent guests, more so than the US analyst Professor Larry Sabato – never afforded enough time to develop his arguments – and America’s own Dimbleby doppelganger, Ted Koppel, whose ponderous interjections (“let me ramble for a moment about American history”) even spurred our host into a somewhat ironic plea for less jaded chat.

Ted Koppel reminisces about 200 years of American history

Back in London, Jeremy Vine essayed a more sober tone than he’s chosen, or been forced, to do of late. No jeans, no jumping around, no Roger Rabbit-esque interacting with virtual politicians. But what he gained in dignity he lost in relevance.

The graphics at his disposal were dull and cumbersome. He was made to walk up and down a gantry for no reason. His microscopic analyses of random districts were always cued in at the least appropriate moments. Some of the comparisons he drew with previous polls were just plain meaningless.

Jeremy Vine updates viewers on Ross Perot's latest prospects

Out in the field, Justin Webb was sorely underused, as was John Simpson (noting, sniffily, that this was the 13th US election he had covered) who was made to walk around outside Grant Park in Chicago talking to whoever he could find like Paddy Haycocks in a particularly sonambulant edition of As It Happens. Jon Sopel had been relegated to lurking in a Virginian coffee shop; “the place is really rocking” he insisted, as the camera panned round a half-empty room.

Other less experienced troops were handed much bigger gigs and their lack of experience and gravitas was often cruelly exposed. Laura Kuenssberg had got the worst gig of the night: the inevitable, pointless, look-how-trendy-and-modern-we-are internet café party.

Two women watch "everything that happens on the internet"

Yelling into the camera from Times Square (or “Time Square” as the on-screen caption insisted) Laura explained this was where “people don’t just come to celebrate the new year, they come here to watch elections too!” Get away. She interviewed Ricky Gervais. “Who would David Brent vote for?” she asked.

Then she introduced the people who would, for the BBC, be watching “everything that happens on the internet”. Everything? Absolutely everything? What on earth comprised this multi-brained, uber-hot-wired army of digital soldiers? Two women at a trestle table. One of whom was looking at Facebook, the other at Twitter. “It’s the hottest ticket in town,” Laura pleaded.

Elsewhere Laura Trevelyan was standing next to some balloons in Pennsylvania. “These are the balloons,” she observed, pointing. “We don’t have anything predicted,” she went on, seconds before a caption predicted that very state to be won by Obama. Katty Kay struggled to be heard above the children’s choirs at John McCain’s HQ in Phoenix, Arizona. And Rajesh Mirchandani was at another Republican base in Colorado, being taken down by a local party chairman after getting his facts wrong about local politics. “You don’t know your history very well, do you?” the bigwig grunted.

Laura Trevelyan points at balloons: "these are the balloons"

When it came to handling the conveyor belt of pundits and special guests, David made tough weather of even the most favourable of climates. He was unclear on names; thrown by quick changes of personnel; ineffectual at interrupting rambling point-scoring (Christopher Hitchens: “Sarah Palin believes in witches…she can’t tell the president of France from Inspector Clouseau”) and ill-disposed towards eliciting much by way of insight from a raft of Republican and Democratic insiders.

Confronted by the two-headed ravenous beast that was historian Simon Schama and former UN ambassador John Bolton, however, David finally jerked into something close to life. He merrily slapped down an overwrought Schama for wanting him to anoint Obama the winner too soon (“You’re such a wuss,” Schama retorted), indulged the pair in some caustic ideological nitpicking, then attempted – not that successfully – to pop Bolton back in his place after he began an unashamed anti-BBC rant.

Schama gets emotional (again); an outraged Bolton blushes

First to feel the ire was Katty Kay, who ended up in a direct exchange with Bolton over the significance of Sarah Palin. “I think all your comments show is a fundamental ignorance of the Republican party,” he snapped. But it was Rajesh Mirchandani’s lame grilling in Colorado that really stoked the fires. “You,” he raged at everybody and nobody, “should fire that reporter! That man wasn’t conducting an interview! He was having an argument! I realise you’re a guest here [to David, or possibly the entire BBC] but that was outrageous!”

“Well,” sighed David, “you’ve had your say about that,” and hastily moved matters back onto less torrid ground. It was an unpleasant yet slightly surreal explosion. Bolton infused the coverage with a bit of energy, but of the wrong kind: negative, not positive; destructive, not constructive. Nonetheless it was energy, something the entire programme had not exactly been doused with up till then.

Granted, some of the lethargy was not the fault of our host or the BBC. Projections that should have turned up on the hour every hour failed to do so. Repeatedly, David hyped up the countdown to Results O’clock, climaxing in a bombastic musical sting, only for little or nothing to happen. “We have only two results,” he complained shortly after 12.30am, “what’s going on?” The Beeb were also erring on the side of propriety and not following network such as Fox or CNN in jumping the gun. “We will wait for the Associated Press and our affiliate, ABC,” David intoned.

"Yes we can" - students at Morehouse College in Atlanta

Even so, much more could have been made of the delays and their possible explanation. When results did arrive, their significance was acknowledged in a cursory numerical fashion, and that was usually it. Not until 4am, when mathematics pushed Obama over the 270 total needed to become president, did coverage suddenly become infused with a sense of importance – and that was chiefly thanks to stirring shots of joyous crowds punching the air, embracing and weeping buckets, scenes you would never witness in this country even if Obama agreed to become Prime Minister.

David had one last shot at redemption in the unlikely shape of a live link-up with Gore Vidal. Slumped in a swivel chair, hair and clothes perilously askew, the salacious chronicler appeared intoxicated by the spirit of the occasion – or rather, intoxicated by an occasional spirit. Most probably several. Kicking off by mistaking David’s query about “being excited” as “being expected”, he proceeded to speculate on the absence of “an eruption”. Puzzled, David pressed for an explanation. “May I talk the facts of life to you?” Vidal drawled. “The BBC audience I know very well, and they like the facts of life…”

"May I talk the facts of life to you?...I don't know who you are"

He then commenced an exposition of such mind-jarring monotony as to make any discussion of electoral college mechanics seem as palatable as a particularly well-baked big potato. In response, David did his best, perhaps realising this was his final chance at a reputation-enhancing roustabout. But as Vidal’s syntax became steadily garbled, so the writer’s line of vision steadily veered off towards a point somewhere on his far left.

Barely-disguised titters began to trickle from the guests back in the studio. Still Vidal went on. “I don’t know what you’re saying that I’m saying…I don’t know why you would, because I don’t know who you are…” By now Vidal was virtually side-on to camera. David hung in there: “I know who you are!” he chided. “Well you’re one up on me…this is the BBC…you like to get people who don’t know much about the subject…”

Enough was enough. Yet another pop at the corporation? This was clearly too much. “I think,” David announced, “we’ll quit while we’re ahead.” If decorum had not prohibited as much, his studio panel would surely have got to their feet in acclamation. They contended themselves with roars of laughter. “Well that was fun,” deadpanned David, “and unexpected.”

It was certainly the latter: David hadn’t been this feisty and downright awake all night. Trouble was, everybody else was already asleep, or past caring, or busy trying to find a replay of Obama’s victory speech on another channel. The party was over, at least on the BBC, and like a guest suddenly remembering where they’d put those eight pigs they’d brought with them when they’d arrived, it was too late. The viewer was full up: with emotion, with fatigue, with history.

Moving pictures: a million people punch the air in Chicago

There was nothing more, nothing new, to be said. David and his guests had a go, but more, you sensed, out a duty to fill up the rest of the programme than a love of live television. The coverage succumbed to total insignificance. One of the Times Square ladies of letters talked about an invitation she’d received on Facebook. Ted Koppel sounded even more depressed. When the end came, David didn’t even say goodbye.

This was a night that did not reveal the Beeb in its best light, in particular one of its otherwise esteemed broadcasters, but nonetheless supplied a window onto a country that was very visibly hauling itself into the 21st century, and doing it with an electoral college-sized smile on its face.

Much earlier on in the evening, David had struck an oddly wistful tone in noting “one of the sadnesses of modern communication…it’s brilliant television, you just can’t hear anybody.” Wrong. This was one time when television worked most of its magic through pictures, and where the sounds emanating from BBC television failed to add any colour to an occasion where colour, literally, meant the world.

Fat chance. “We’re all looking rather sombre this afternoon,” drawled Carol at the top of this anniversary show. *Click*. Thanks but no thanks. Oh, but hang on. Maybe she’s being, well, ironic. Maybe she’s about to lead the studio in a rousing chorus of felicitations? Maybe Des is about to read out a batch of cards, and some celebrities will turn up on film to proffer messages of congratulation?

Yes, and maybe Countdown is still the warm and satisfying afternoon rock cake of the schedules it once was. For this was the birthday show that wasn’t. Not one mention was forthcoming. Not one reference dropped, not a single joke essayed. It was the great unmentionable. And the occasion was all the less for it.

Heavens, even Des Lynam, who struggled continuously to absorb and radiate Countdown‘s once-stout conviviality with its own past, at least had a go. At least he tried to sound like it was a special day. At least he observed that Countdown actually had a history.

The right way to celebrate a teatime TV anniversary

Not this time. This was the most depressingly-staged birthday the show has ever had. A pall hung over proceedings, which it was impossible to separate from recent off-screen events concerning not so much the business of Countdown‘s past, but the nature of its future.

Was this edition recorded, you wondered, before or after Des O’Connor and Carol had decided to quit? And that they had revealed as much to the production team? Or the public?

It was very easy to read into their respective personalities a pointed sense of going through the motions. Of a duty to be discharged. Of eyes fixed firmly on the finishing line off in mid-distance, their gaze never once raised to the horizon or cast down for a moment’s introspection.

This was not comfortable viewing. It seemed Countdown‘s star turns were no longer reconciled to our presence. A bond felt like it had snapped. Even the contestants were addressed coolly. The special guest in Dictionary Corner, Sir Ranulph Fiennes, didn’t smile once for a full 13 minutes.

Reticence was something Countdown shook off in the 1980s. Formality it discarded a decade later. Here both were on display, and unambiguously rampant.

"What have you got for us, CECIL?"

12 months ago it was possible to say the programme was “more alive and distinctive than ever”. There was no spark to this particular affair, however, nor joy for the moment. The fact it was also a birthday compounded things to the extent of turning an excuse into a felony. Each 30-second voyage down the left side of the clock felt twice as long. To echo Clive James, any funeral moving at such a pace would have been dispersed by the police before it got to the graveyard.

It would be heartless not to document the positives. Des and Carol were perfectly capable as host and foil, appearing professional throughout. The primacy of words and numbers were respected. Knowledge was rewarded, mistakes tolerated.

On the evidence of this edition, all the fundamentals of Countdown are still sound. But they said the same about the UK economy, up till about four months ago – coincidentally the same moment both Des and Carol announced they were off. And it’s unfortunate that this most austere of quiz shows is teetering just at the point when the country is once again embracing, admittedly not by choice, a degree of frugalism. Nobody could ever accuse Countdown of promoting greed or avarice. It might still become an emblem of recession Britain.

Yet if it’s heartless to dispute the programme’s worth, it’s worthless disputing the fact it has lost some of its heart. Sulking on your birthday is just not on. Susie Dent discussing etymology is no substitute for a giant cake.

"Watched myself in Countdown. It was terrible."

Maybe Countdown is not, and should never be, a crucible for Dylan Thomas-esque emotional grandstanding. You’re not going to see Des O’Connor raging at the dying of the light, even if he’s only got a few weeks left on his contract. But if this show is still meant to stand for anything, it’s got to be that television can take the mechanics of a parlour game and twirl them into something bewitching enough to dance with an audience’s soul.

Old age should burn and rage at close of day. And if not, as close to 3.30pm as possible.

If I was going to be unkind – and all signs are pointing towards that – I’d say this moment from tonight’s opening instalment of Stephen’s six-part Stateside sojourn could be extrapolated to encompass the whole of the episode. It’s suffering profoundly from an absence of meat, and our hero is left struggling to conjure up whatever he can with only traces of something interesting… something that fled the scene shortly beforehand.

But do all the pieces fit?

A bit of Fry and... Washington et al

Let’s go back to the start. Since Michael Palin paid his respects to Phileas Fogg, every authored travelogue has required a high concept to grease the wheels. Fry’s is a little squeaky. “I was so nearly born an American,” he tells us at the top of the programme. “I came that close. In the 1950s, my father was offered a job at Princeton University, and he turned it down. And so I was born, not in NJ, but in NW3. And I was born a Stephen, not a Steve. But ever since I found this out at a later age, I’ve been intensely curious to discover more about the world of my other self, this strange American… Steve.” Surely this is barely motivation to get out of your chair, let alone clock up 50 states? But then, let’s remember, it’s a TV show. All the conceit has to do is get us there – and even an unconvincing one can be forgiven if it’s quick. But unconvincing is the word that seems to underpin this project.

Arriving in Eastport, Maine (driving “a trusty London cab – albeit one hired in the US”), Stephen catches lobsters with a trawlerman. “What do you call yourself?” he asks. “Maine-iacs?”. “I’ve been called worse” comes the response. The encounter is unedifying and uneasy. Then it’s on to New Hampshire. Stephen is trailing the Governor of Massachusetts, Mitt Romney. “Stephen Fry, from the BBC…” he offers, stepping in front of the prospective presidential candidate at a political house party. “Nice to see you again” comes the response, as the quarry makes a deft sidestep. America, it seems, is just slipping by.   

From here, the programme continues as a series of bullet points: Stephen ascending a hill in a steam train; eulogising unexpectedly about ice cream (“That feeling of comfort you get”); momentarily materialising on board the deck of the 1962 America’s Cup-winning yacht, poking around the log cabin-themed playpen of a super rich banker while nobody’s home, and delivering eggy links to camera – “New York State, dominated by the Adirondack chain of mountains and Niagara at the top. They say it’s the size of England…” 

Perhaps he’s been ill-served by the production team, who’ve set him down in places where there’s little to say, or with people who say little. A conversation with scene veteran Oatsie Charles about the previous generation of super-rich in Newport, Rhode Island is just hard work. “Why did they call them cottages?” asks Stephen, referring to the mansions around. “I wasn’t there then!” is the reply. “No you weren’t,” he mollifies, “but you know about the history”. And then, giving up: “There’s your drink – don’t forget that”.

Stephen Fry, not seeing a deer

Oatsie Charles not talking about the Newport social set

What makes all this even more frustrating is at times there’s a breakthrough. A hint of something really interesting. Oatsie talks fleetingly about the marriage of John and Jackie Kennedy. “It was too funny,” she says, recalling the Kennedy family arriving in almost ceremonial garb. “Always in Newport you were slightly under-dressed, unless it was a big occasion. And this was just Jackie getting married.” But then it’s gone, and it’s off to New York City for a meeting with a gang of wise guys, who greet Stephen at the door with: “There’s tea, coffee, cake, soda in the refrigerator”.

“Thou shalt not question Stephen Fry”. It’s one of the Ten Commandments, and normally an edict sensible to stick to. The notion of the greatest living Englishman undertaking any mission, talking on any subject is normally a pleasing one. But here, the heroic, witty Fry falls a long way short. 

Back on “the green side of the Big Apple”, a man comes over the hill looking slightly baffled. “Did you guys see it?” he asks. No, confirms Stephen. We didn’t see the deer.

A dip into its present incarnation reveals a programme peppered with anxiety masquerading as hyperbolic shouting. Too many faces have been too rapidly replaced; too many motifs have been too forcibly mangled. This elegiac tribute rightly acknowledged its heritage as an indispensable institution. But Blue Peter, at the moment, is neither of those things. There’s virtually nothing within the fabric of the show to distinguish it from any other kids’ entertainment series. And it’s certainly no longer an institution.

Matriach of Studio One and supply teacher to the nation

Does this matter? As long as people have eyes to see there’ll be someone watching the BBC’s longest-running children’s franchise. And there have been serious wobbles before, characterised by the same hasty shedding of personnel (the late ’70s) and unfocused makeovers (the early ’90s).

Just at the point in proceedings when salutations like this seek, and usually fail, to persuade you the subject in question is healthier than ever, in stepped Janet Ellis. Seconds before the closing credits rolled, she insisted: “The modern child still finds the sense of discovery in things that Blue Peter reflects, and I think that’s an extraordinary ability”.

Her pedigree urged the viewer to treat her views with hushed authority. But though her argument in itself was sound, the preceding 59 minutes of television seemed concerned with something else entirely – namely, the eulogising of faces and places long gone. Blue Peter at 50 was a totaliser-sized doff of the hat to how we used to live, but with scarcely a polite nod to where we go from here.

A snake does a piss; Konnie makes sure we all know

The celebration of memory is a tricky one to pull off. You need poise, intelligence and a killer cast list. What you don’t need is clutter, waffle and people who had nothing to do with the matter in hand.

At least this enterprise made sure it had the right tools to finish the job. No diversions into unrelated anecdotes. No tangential clips. And, mercifully, only a few contributions from celebrity viewers.

Nobody needs to be told what to think about the history of Blue Peter. All that’s required are the people who were there, both then (in the form of highlights from the archive) and now (contemporary interviews). Both were on offer here in plentiful abundance, and to the exclusion of almost everything else. Including any or all sense of chronology.

Biddy in action: "Apply your mind & stop panicking"

When, a minute in, the programme lurched forwards 30 years, then back 10, then forward 25, before any mention had been made of how Blue Peter even began, at least one viewer felt a palpable queasiness that was more than just motion sickness.

Surely this wasn’t just going to be another exercise in nostalgia-by-numbers? Was it all going to be just pissing elephants, lifeboats and Mark Curry mishandling Lego?

Such concerns were misplaced. Yes, there was no order to the thing. Sure, it was as scattershot as it was selective. But with such rich pickings up for grabs, it was impossible to feel discomfited for that long.

For the old Blue Peter magic soon began to work. Incidents and epiphanies shuttled past, triggering emotions long buried. Even the very look of the old show, the bareness of the set, the colour of the cooking utensils, the sound of a dog barking from across a cavernous studio floor… these revealed themselves to have immense associative power. This was the stuff teatime dreams were made of.

Pete nobly steers the subject away from Shep - again

If you surrendered yourself and your 21st century scruples, and weren’t bothered by quirks of editing or narration that went nowhere (asking questions – “What made it so special?” – that were never answered), few faults could be found.

Almost every presenter had been rounded up; many were reunited for collective reminiscences both ribald (Duncan/Greene/Groom) and crotchety (Singleton/Purves/Noakes).

These were great fun and could have formed an entire programme in themselves.

Peter Duncan recalled blithely dishing out badges to plumbers and builders. Peter Purves earned the right to become the next prime minister when he berated John Noakes for droning on about Shep.

"Our fans? I can see four, Miles"

Anthea Turner summed up her entire existence in a flash when she casually declared her house possessed “a craft cupboard”. And Lesley Judd struck the most wistful note when she concluded: “I lived an entire life in seven years”.

A hand of forgiveness was even extended to the Cheech and Chong of BP folklore, Richard Bacon and Stuart Miles, who were allowed a few moments’ air time to ruminate awkwardly in the Blue Peter garden. This wasn’t a tribute about to bury any less than dignified episodes in a subterranean time capsule. Well, apart from Michael Sundin.

No, Bacon’s sacking was covered, as was the bogus telephone call from a competition entrant, as was the rigging of the cat-naming public vote. Richard Marson, on whose watch the latter two occurred, pleaded that a “mistake is very different from a wilful mindset where you think the audience don’t matter”.

Richard Marson: "It wasn't me, guv!"

This sounded like a dash of whitewashing. Few could ever accuse anybody who either appeared on or worked for Blue Peter of not acknowledging the audience. Marson’s error was thinking they mattered too much, to the extent of wilfully misleading them for fear of acknowledging that things go wrong on live television.

As the clips confirmed, up until a year or so ago Blue Peter had nothing to fear. It had adapted itself to a multi-channel, interactive world. It had found a fresh way to serve up that familiar rich mix of fun and education.

And it had enjoyed a run of presenters remarkable for consistency of entertainment and capability. It’s telling that, of the show’s two best ever hosts to date, one hails from the last decade (Matt Baker – the other being Sarah Greene). 

Just another day at the office for Matt Baker

Yet when the only real reason for something to exist is for the sake of it, that’s no sane reason at all.

Apart from that valediction from Janet, not a breath was spared on the consideration of Blue Peter‘s current form, let along its future.

If the show is to have a future worthy of its past, it needs to pay more attention to the values on display during this superb, evocative excavation. Otherwise, while the idea of “Blue Peter at 100″ sounds tantalising, the reality of watching a second half-century of clips is bone-chilling. 

In the words of Biddy Baxter: just apply your mind and stop panicking.

Any series that can boast “now with no Sharon Osbourne” must be on to a winner.

Yes X-Factor series (what is it now- four? Five?) is definitely feeling the benefit of the lack of “Mrs O”.  I for one won’t miss her cutting some shapes and pouting on the live shows, not to mention playing to the gallery like some Anglo-Transatlantic Margi Clarke. With those live editions round the corner, now seems like a good time to comment on yet another one of those series that, through sheer repetition, has fallen off the broadsheet agenda, while remaining resolutely ever present in the tabloids. 

So is anybody who loves telly still watching ITV1′s talent show beast?  I am, but I am beginning to suspect I might be alone.  For those of you who’ve jumped ship, I can tell you that you’re not missing anything.  I mean literally, you’re not missing anything – it’s like an identikit version of itself. 

Scott's in tears, but the swelling music means...

..."You're through to the live show!"

So rigid now is the formula, that in this last whittling edition, you can actually tell who is going to be in and who is going out based on the incidental music (if a contestant walks in to face judgment to any track 30 seconds away from an ascendant key change then they’re through, otherwise they’re out).  Similarly, the knowledge they always leave the last two candidates vying for one place, allows you to pretty much work out the configuration of yes and no’s before they happen.

So if the format is turning against the programme through sheer repetition, how is the rest of it working?  Dannii Minogue is becoming increasingly superfluous, not helped by the obviously unfavourable editing, which excises her from many of the judges’ reaction shots.  Talking of editing, that much lampooned X-Factor style of sticking in any old reaction shot, regardless of continuity still prevails.  Indeed, this series has been so blatant, in one instance Dannii appeared to briefly change outfit mid-audition.  Such audacity is almost commendable.

New judge Cheryl Cole has actually worked very well, despite many people’s misgivings that she would be too street tough (in fact she is quite the opposite).  However, The X-Factor‘s main draw remains Simon Cowell.  Somehow there is just something wonderfully “in synch” about the man, even after all this time he has a great knack for verbalising what most viewers are thinking.

Less successful, and mysteriously so, is Dermot O’Leary.  As a slightly free-wheeling presenter he really is in his element, and brilliant at exuding empathy. But on this show, none of that is present and I’m not sure why.  Perhaps the production team just don’t have enough faith in him.  Whatever the reason, Dermot  is in danger of losing the last vestiges of what Simon likes to call the “likeability factor”.  Hopefully he will jump ship soon and find something that better suits his talents.

So all in all, The X-Factor  finds itself still outperforming (most) of the competition, but it is not the thing of pomp it used to be.  Perhaps it’s found its comfortable Saturday night groove now, and rather like – say – Stars in their Eyes – will continue to pump out watchable, but inessential telly for a few years to come.  Not a bad fate.

Yowser. As a piece of expositional dialogue, that’s a pretty lumpy way to get the show back on the road. But it didn’t really matter. The TV schedules are that bit more effervescent thanks to the return of this, the best of all Doctor Who spin-offs.

Sure, The Sarah Jane Adventures doesn’t quite have the swaggering joie de vive of its parent series – I’m sure its core viewers are always secretly pining for the Doc – but it comes really close. When Clyde (after SJ herself, the best thing in the programme) snorts: “An alien computer debunking flying saucers – now I’ve heard everything!”, you  can almost see the squared brackets in the script: “[Wink to mum and dad, watching alongside Junior]“.

Sarah Jane meets her oldest enemy...

...a Sontaran!

Granted, at times it doesn’t feel like there’s a truly original thought in this afternoon’s opener – “Strange lights in the sky, a creepy sounding village and a radio telescope” – but it’s having a whale of time with the tenets of children’s drama. You’ve got a gang of kids sharing in the biggest secret on Earth. A world of grown-ups (bar the obvious exceptions) ignorant to what’s going on. A baddy about to be undone by his failure to recognise the credibility of his opponents (“Half forms, what trouble can they cause?”). And the odd bit of homework set for the viewers (how many will go on to check out that reference to the Marie Celeste?).

It’s wholesome, fun stuff – the sort of thing children’s TV should be doing – and given the occasional twist by allusions to the likes of Predator and the Cold War.

At the heart of it all, of course, is Elisabeth Sladen, who never fails to impress with her breathless, slightly vulnerable characterisation. When Maria tells her she’s off to America,  Sarah Jane turns surprisingly spiky. “Nothing stays the same forever,” she spits. “People always move on”. It’s a brave interpretation, at times alienating the show’s central character from the juvenile cast. But, let’s face it, we’re always ready to forgive Sarah… Even during an interminable scene of chat with her Sontaran tormentor, which goes on and on and on.

And what about that Sontaran? Complete with a rather affecting facial scar, he’s a perfect bogeyman. A little bit buffoonish, the source for a dozen baked potato-related jokes, but able to turn on the terror when required. The implication he’s going to keep Clyde alive to run “tests” on him is maybe one of the most terrifying concepts to air in this time slot.

So, come the Bane, the Slitheen, the Gorgon and the Trickster. Come one and all. Sarah Jane and her Scooby Doo gang are back and, as she says, “there’s still so much to discover”.

Reinterpreting this kind of legend is a double-edged creative butter knife – stray too close to the established elemental expectations and you risk tediously regurgitating what’s gone before, stride too far away and the exercise becomes pointless; you might as well have made up your own thing. Like Hood, the Arthur myth is a fairly well trodden journey and emphasising Merlin as the main character has also been tried fairly successfully before, notably in the Hallmark mini-series with Sam Neill.

They cram-a-lot of action in

Portrait of the wizard as a young man

For me, the best Merlins have been tricksters, elemental forces in humanoid form who have strayed into Camelot or Middle Earth or wherever they’ve got their beards caught and get wrapped up in human affairs. I’m not sure there’s been anything as good as Nicole Williamson in John Boorman’s Excalibur in this regard, who managed to be deadpan and dotty as well as dark and demonic – though I’ve also a soft spot for the druid seen in the underrated King Arthur.

I often wonder if it’s possible to tie all of these different versions together by saying that it’s the same force or man, existing on his own plane and we’re simply seeing how it or his manifestation is bent to fit within each reality. I’m sure there’s a book to be written about that some day.

BBC1’s Merlin takes the Smallville approach of making the familiar characters much younger and showing their “adventures” before the time we’re more familiar with. In this iteration, Arthur and Merlin are of the same generation, though not social class, a prince and his manservant and – in an interesting twist – they hate each other, though that’ll change in the future (think Flash Thompson and Peter Parker in the early Spider-man comics). Arthur’s fated to be king anyway through succession, which should make for less amazement when he pulls Excalibur from the stone and declares himself master of the realm. And by that point, Merlin will be about the same age instead of the wizened old gent we’re used to.

Around them buzz the kind of Propps that Joseph Campbell crystalised – the mentor in the form of Richard Wilson’s Gauis (rather fulfilling the slot that Merlin had in Disney’s Sword in the Stone), a companion in the shape of Angel Coulby’s Gwen(iviere) and the unattainable princess Morgana (a glacial Katie McGrath). Anyone who knows their Camelot apples will have spotted an abundance of mythology ripe for the picking. Morgana’s already got her eye on Arthur – will they introduce the rather lovely stumbling branch that she’s his half sister or decide instead to emphasise the potential love triangle between Gwen, Merlin and Arthur… or will the writers simply chuck all of that out for something else?

The real innovation the BBC introduces, is that far from being an autonomous collective, this realm is governed by the usually much talked about but not seen Uther Pendragon who’s banned magic because as far he’s concerned it was used for the wrong ends 20-odd years before. That puts Merlin in the position of being naturally magical without the ability to be practical, not only keeping down the budget because he can’t just fly around or walk through walls without being seen, but also suggesting a future moment when someone he loves is in peril but he can’t risk wobbling his nose (or in this case make his eyes glow) for fear of being found out – see also Clark Kent watching Lois Lane fall from a building without a telephone box or alley in sight. That’s the season ending cliff hanger right there, you mark my words.

On the whole then, really good fun and well directed by Who veteran James Hawes. It’s not perfect – some of the performances have a bit of genre-itis (I’m in a chainmail so that must mean they want my best panto acting) – but Colin Morgan is a real find and brings some geeky charisma to Merlin. He stole many of his scenes – the magnesium chemistry with Coulby’s Gwen a particular pleasure – and the production design is very clever, managing to be both convincing medieval and yet modern at the same time, something which First Knight tried but failed. Plus any series that has John Hurt voicing a dragon can’t be all bad.

Writer Julian Jones’s haikuic revenge plot was good enough for the first episode and helped immeasurably by Torchwood‘s Eve Myles as a witch who sang like an angel. But if all Merlin does is spend the next 12 weeks defending his prince from magical men and women, it could become very repetitive. It just has to be careful not to fall into the trap of having our hero become too powerful so that his magic can simply save the day every week, this series’s equivalent of the kind of deus ex machina brought about whenever the Doctor whips out his sonic screwdriver.

And I managed to get through all that without mentioning a certain other in voguish boy wizard…