They’ve done it again! Our pals over at UnrealityTV (who’re a lot more disciplined about finding this sort of thing out than us) have discovered what tunes the remaining dullards in The X Factor will be singing this week. What’s more, it’s WHAM WEEK! And George Michael week. So – wake me up before you go go, let’s head on over to Club Tropicana and see what’s occurring!

This list will be updated over time as we let them get on with the legwork of actually finding this stuff out, but for now, here’s what we’ve got:

John and Edward Grimes will laughably be having a go at I’m Your Man – which is weird, because there are two of them. We’re Your Men?

Danyl Johnson has shuffled and wobbled, then settled on Careless Whisper. But it could be Praying For Time.

Lloyd Daniels will be parping his way through George Michael solo single, Faith (it says here).

Olly Murs will apparently be dad-dancing to Fast Love.

Stacey Solomon will once again overcome her small brain capability to tackle If I Can’t Make You Love Me and…

Joe McElderry will adapt Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me for musical theatre.

And I think that’s it.

Ah, the ladies! Sweet, tender ladies; Sugar and spice and all things nice ladies! After a hard couple of sleepless nights on the jungle floor, poor Camilla broke down in tears. As she was smothered by the other cooing contestants (all but Jimmy, who watched from a distance as part of an apparent suss-it-all-out strategy) the cynic in me wondered whether this might be a ploy to curry audience sympathy early in the game.

Next morning, the Strictly star was fresh as a daisy after a good night’s kip.

But no, on Wednesday Ant ‘n’ Dec reported that Camilla had made her exit. The nightly scheduled nature of this programme means that this inevitably feels like events unfolding but we’re still hardly flies on the wall here compared to previous years. Further evidence of the death of the Reality style? Or perhaps it reflects the producers’ respect for Camilla’s obvious exhaustion, her innocence, her gentle purity and her lawyers. What I wondered – having not seen the papers; everyone else knew apparently – was the identity of the pretty wee thing that would replace her. Every series needs its Girl Next Door Sweet Lass. What young beauty would be called upon to step into the shoes of this lovely, graceful beauty?

Joe Bugner, conveniently resident “just down the road” from this remote rainforest location, will look odd pouting from the cover of FHM or sporting a bikini in a Nuts photo feature. No offence to the man, but eye candy he ain’t, resembling Freddy Krueger actor Robert Englund after a Vic and Bob style frying-pan fight. And before I’m accused of blatant sexism, let’s remember what show I’m reviewing here. I’m merely astonished that the casting has strayed from its usual adherence to reliable character types at camp and replaced a dancer with a pub man. Admittedly, though, Joe’s arrival on screen brought back memories of that Monty Python link, which pans across a field of swimsuit babes to rest on John Cleese, similarly attired, reclining on his desk.

Boxer Joe’s eagerness to assure his mostly-British campmates that he was indeed a celebrity, having decked a man that used to try to flog them aftershave in the 70s, came across very like the pub bragging of the experts that prop up the bar of my local, claiming to have flown helicopters or been close mates with the Beckhams. Or invented the roof rack.

Perhaps his likely arrival prompted the makers to include a knocker segment the night before, reminding us that there are still plenty of ladies to ogle. And they’re saucy ladies! Rude, naughty, don’t-get-many-to-the-pound ladies!

“Wherever you turn around, there’s knockers everywhere,” Gino complains before Gordon grills Kate about her boobies and whether the texture resembles concrete or cheese soufflé and describes Kim’s set of pendulous, swinging melons as a “theme park in themselves”. Tabloid backing is guaranteed as cutaways show the gals bathing their chaps in the camp’s waterfall cum shower.

(Those last two words should make a good tag for the article).

But what’s that noise? What’s that smell? Oh, dirty ladies, noisy, filthy ladies – pardon-me-for-being-rude-it-was-not-me-it-was-my-food ladies! Segued through nightmarish coverage of Kim’s violent snoring keeping poor George awake (no doubt exacerbating his much-mentioned “health grounds”), we move on to a discussion of women’s farts and burps which flusters – and perhaps further alienates – Gino, whose romantic cultural heritage leads him to define the fairer gender as “the beauty and smell of flowers all the time”. Waving his hands at the diary cam, he admits that he is unable to speak to his wife for 24 hours after she has let one go from either end.

Katie Price, meanwhile, faces trial after trial. I’m actually starting to quite like her, whether she’s going through with this to get the public onside (and the callers are certainly putting her to the test) or whether this is a “personal quest for closure” as she claims and I’m beginning to believe. Her genuine terror at gushing water in the Deathly Burrows was as convincing as I need (Ant and Dec looked like guilty schoolboys for a moment) and is matched only by her clear relief that the Bottle trial didn’t involve being immersed in anything liquid. Humiliation upon humiliation, punishment after punishment – the campmates sat and watched her School Timetable themed trial: actually a series of challenges based around the National Curriculum and featuring Snakes-sphere (a clever play on the name of a playwright grossly misquoted by Kim earlier), gloves full of ants, a cockroach coat and a hideous beetle based milkshake that she wasn’t able to down. The other challenges, though – cerebral, physical or just icky – she went ahead and did with spirit, suggesting that the eel featuring in one challenge would make a good supper.

So here’s to tough ladies, kick-ass Tomb Raider ladies, Zig-a-zig-ah-Grrrl-Power ladies! A trial that came a little too close to school bullying has clinched it. It may not have put me on Team Jordan but I’m edging nearer the bench (not that I was ever on Team Andre or Team Anyone. I’m not entirely sure what any of that means).

What the world really needs right now – especially as it’s a Friday – is the sound of two atonal lads squealing their way through a Backstreet Boys number. So, courtesy of the News of the World, have some footage of the Grimes twins, better known these days as ‘Jedward’, doing just that before their fateful audition for this series of The X Factor.

My ears! My ears! They are bleeding.

Seriously though, VOTE JEDWARD.

“Oooooooooooh, old MacDonald ‘ad a farm, ee-eye-ee-eye-oh! Aaand on that farrm ‘eee ‘ad zum ducks, ee-eye-ee-eye-oh! With a … ahem … with a …”
“You’m won’t get no noise out o’ them ducks today, Jethro.”
“Woi’s thaaaaaat, Jebediah?”
“They’s aaaall watchin’ thaaat new tee veeee show.”
“New tee veee show?”
“Aye. Stroike It Ducky.”

Good morning! Down here at Watch With Mothers Farm we’re wondering what TV would be like if it were made by animals for animals.

• Would lions make wildlife programmes where we see humans hunting for their prey in the meat isles of supermarkets?
• Would seagulls make shows about mackerel that border on the pornographic?
• Would monkeys tune in night after night to watch shit being pelted at a perspex screen?

Well there’s only one way to find out, WWMers! Today we want YOU to walk like them and we want you to talk like them as we invite you to imagine what telly would be like if the animal kingdom was in charge.

And no shitting on the pavement, please!

‘Cripes!’ You might shriek… ‘that’s early!’

And you’d be right. It is early. Because we put in something of a poor show last week, here’s a slightly longer than usual podcast, early!

In this outing, we discuss Richard and Judy in dangerously sharp detail – catering to your every Madeley and Finnegan requirement.

Aside from Dick & Juds, we also:

• Discuss the top speed of a standard mobility scooter
• List the world’s most despicable people
• Agree that Doctor Chris is probably a Transformer and…
• Play the Dick-a-Juddy classic, You Say, We Pay – as well as…
• Have Napoleon perform a song with musical assistance from the genius, Nick Tann!

Subscribe in iTunes, join us on Facebook and follow my Twitter feed… or get stuck in below- it’s back to the old M4a format for the haters! Woo!

Lagging on this one, especially after I missed Cantface’s summation of the first episode.

We also didn’t cover the occasionally hilarious second episode in which contestants nearly brought about the implosion of such gargantuan chain monsters as Pizza Express and Yo Sushi  – so here’s the lowdown on the remaining contestants in the culinary Apprentice.

Wash down your work surfaces and start the prep – service begins now.

Chris & Nathan

An interesting coupling, Chris is a scary, competent cook with an iron will and the ability to rescue a ruined dish from certain disaster, while best mate Nathan is a former hairdresser who only seems to be there for the fun of it. In the first couple of episodes, little was expected of him and thanks to Chris’ work in the engine room, they passed each task with flying colours. Come the third show and Nathan was expected to act as front of house in their restaurant, Rags To Riches. He failed this challenge, blaming everything on the kitchen, cussing guests and explaining that he couldn’t give a shit any more. Nathan is also not to be trusted in the area of interior design, if the child’s jewellery installation he set up is to be used as a point of reference.

JJ & James

The jewel in the crown of this series – JJ and James have already provided enough footage to make a half hour weekly spin-off show featuring only footage of their own mistakes. From the off they’ve been hapless and fragile, from JJ constantly winking at Blanc the first ever time he met him (and being reprimanded for it) to the constant reference to the quality of JJ’s scotch eggs. Looking like they’ve just escaped from some nihilistic, Bret Easton Elis penned cocaine and gore thriller, take a look at JJ’s eyes whenever he’s geared up for a day in the kitchen. Don’t the BBC drug test their contestants?

Rebecca & Stephen

Looking like the kind of couple who seem to have swapped faces, Rebecca and Stephen are, I’m sure lovely people. Whether they’re cut out for this kind of show remains to be seen. Actually, scratch that, it doesn’t remain to be seen, we’ve already seen that Stephen cooks huge portioned lumps of comfort food that are all served up in a variety of shades of brown. Add to this the fact that Rebecca retches at the very sight of 90% of the food in the universe, and they’re surely doomed to failure.

Daisy & Nadine

Cooking authentic Nigerian food, Daisy and Nadine are apparently brilliant at spicing their food and they seemed to handle their first few services well. Despite this, every episode the camera returns to one of the three judges theatrically trying to chew their way through their overcooked goat-meat. And no, that’s not a euphemism.

Barney & Badger

Two ex-army lads, Barney & Badger, presumably having parted ways with Bodger, have a very disorganised approach but used their training and cunning to rope in punters from nearby army barracks and RAF bases. A canny move. This means their front of house is always filled with forgiving, friendly faces. The fact that Badger is a bit slow on the uptake and Barney freaks out at the mere sight of a pan is neither here nor there. Potential winners?

*     *     *

Catch up on previous episodes here.

Well done Von. Yes – very well done.

You’ve gone and started watching another very, very average science fiction show haven’t you?

You’ve been Sky Plussing Stargate Universe since it started, and I think you should own up.

Ahem. Yes. I have been watching Stargate Universe. And I don’t know why. It’s not actually very good. Even for tea time sci fi, it is a bland, grey, hour-filling tub of space Pringles. It’s not good for you, the consumption of it makes you feel a bit ashamed but, the fact is, you keep jamming your hand in to grab at those last crumbs.

Taking the general premise of the Stargate franchise (big stone circle things can transport you through space) and then entirely ignoring it, SGU throws together a bunch of mismatched soldiers, – square jawed American GIs, naturally and also scientists – including Robert Carlyle – prompting me to shout ‘Begbie in spaaaaaccceee’ whenever he appears. There are also civilians, normally represented by a fat nerdy kid and a Senator’s daughter who seems to be used as eye candy rather than as a functional character – and sticks the lot of them on a huge, run down space ship on the other side of the galaxy.

The plot has been done to death. Voyager, Battlestar even Space 1999 – all have a mismatched crew struggling to survive in the coldness of space searching for a place… to call… home.

But what makes SGU different?

NOTHING!

Therein lies the problem. The plots so far have been straight from major sci fi franchise writer’s playbook.

Low on resources? Send your characters into mortal danger to get it! The clock is ticking!

The ship is going to explode! We can only save so many! Noble sacrifices all round!

There is even an episode where some characters on a shuttle have to use a planet’s gravity as a slingshot so they can catch up with another ship. This technique was lifted wholesale from an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation first seen twenty years ago! (Booby Trap, Third Season – yes I am a nerd).

I’ve established that it’s awful, so why am I watching it?

Robert Carlyle is very good as Doctor Rush – a character in a sci fi show who is not a goodie, or a baddie but simply a guy trying to have his own way. Carlyle is clearly having a great time hamming it up and yelling at the Americans. And David Blue is likable enough as Eli, the fat nerd who acts like any nerd would in his situation – saying ‘woah’ a lot and be amazed by everything.

But the characters aren’t the deciding factor. I think it’s because there isn’t a huge overarching plot structure. That’s why I like it. I’ve burned through many a box set and series where you MUST see every episode to have some idea of the plot.

This is far gentler. It’s a self-contained, crap story every week. I just hope they don’t get any worse.

Settling down to a show dubbed ‘Skins with Superheroes’ by The Guardian, or possibly the show’s own press office – fifty minutes of yoof TV coiling a large one on Marvel and DC legends – was a daunting prospect. Big surprise then that Misfits is a bit of an unlikely treat – and I’m happy to report that the attributed synopsis is a big load of balls.

Perhaps it was down to low expectations, but I found myself laughing out loud at points during episode one, despite occasionally cringing at the more overtly clanging one-liners. What really lifted Misfits from certain awfulness were the strong performances from the young cast.

The special effects were decent enough, in a slightly-better-than-Doctor-Who sort of way. What seemed to be a radioactive snowstorm was believable and the transformation from visible to invisible for vanishing man, Simon was well executed. But it didn’t really matter, as the acting was so fine. The critical plaudits will probably go to Robert Sheehan – here playing a fast-talking idiot called Nathan – who previously impressed as the confused and abused BJ in Red Riding. He’s undeniably good here, but Iwan Rheon playing Simon stole episode one for me.

What Misfits seems to be doing, on the evidence of the first chapter, is playing up negative or undesirable character traits in these young offenders and making superpowers of them – perhaps a clever way of making a case for rebellion as a form of self-expression. But if it is a smart parable echoing our mistreatment of criminal youth, then that’s just a happy bonus in a programme that’s far more amusing, well-acted and brilliantly shot than it perhaps ought to be.

Matt Edmondson – that cheeky scamp who makes amusing interviews for celebrity gossip site Holy Moly – is blogging his thoughts on The X Factor on a weekly basis, then sticking it up on Youtube for our viewing pleasure.

And it’s pretty funny stuff – along the lines of TV Burp, but a bit more obsessive and hyperactive.

If you want the previous weeks’ instalments, they’re all over here.

There’s something strange going on at The F Word restaurant. For a start, there’s very little effing and jeffing, which was so central to the previous four series that the rude word made its way into the title of the show.

Shocking!

Is it possible, do you think, that somebody upstairs at Channel 4 has had a eureka moment, finally coming to the realisation that, as far as most of the British public are concerned, watching an ugly chef swear at people for an hour isn’t the best form of entertainment going?

Maybe production are aware that the recession has made us a little less carefree. It could be a reaction to the heap of bad press Ramsay’s experienced since the last run of this show. Either way, there’s very little trace of the old Gordon left as each episode opens. Yes, he still bears his lumpy chest unnecessarily as he strides through the opening credits and, indeed, he still punches his hand and boxes at the camera like a wallaby in an overzealous huff, but in the opening half-hour of each show, at least, he seems far less of a cock this time round.

This is partly down to the opening section in which Ramsay has launched a competition to find the best small, independent restaurant in the UK – a great idea on paper, slightly marred by the execution. And, to a greater extent, by the host.

Essentially what we have here is a Masterchef clone, but this time looking for an established restaurant rather than an individual. This is a pretty robust concept and, given an hour or even half that on a daily or weekly basis, it might be worth watching. But because The F Word is a show without a coherent clue about itself, the competition is jammed in alongside footage of Janet Street-Porter quacking about woolly pigs and Gordon going off on a jolly and biting his way through the odd octopus head.

Because there’s too much going on, they try to cram all the phony emotion and every Snow Patrol Moment you might usually expect to get in a prime time competition type show into a very short space of time. Thus, having only just been introduced to an independent restaurateur, within five or six minutes we’re expected to be emotional about their having made it ‘through to the next round’. Despite the fact we’ve barely heard them speak, and despite the fact we haven’t seen who else was in the running.

And from there, things go from bad to worse. The moment they darken the studio doors for the final cook off, the whole contest sinks into the mud of terrible formatting. The scoring system makes no sense, for starters, as members of the public decide whether or not they’ll pay for the dish they’ve just been served. This may have been a decent way of doing things when celebrities were being judged under the studio lights for a laugh, but in the context of a proper contest, it makes a mockery of the poor sods who’re trying to make a name for their restaurant. Their success hinges on whether or not the presumably free-ticketed public have maxed their credit cards that month – and it also makes the assumption that the customer’s palette and knowledge of food is considered enough to judge the grub they’re presented with. Considering he’s the only one with any proven knowledge of the game, it’s actually only Gordon’s summation that bears any real relevance.

To make things worse, Ramsay has two members of the restaurant’s collective talk about the food and vote on the outcome – a blatantly stupid idea because they’ll not only be familiar with the kind of food served up by their pal, but will also tend to be so heavily biased that their vote will be wasted. Compounding this outright idiocy, armed with the knowledge of which way friends and family voted, Ramsay then goes and hammers the final nail into a totally blown format.

Like a leopard hastily reapplying his spots, in the final half hour, Ramsay barracks and bullies the staff of the restaurants until they’re so emotionally confused, they screw up their service. In the most recent episode, a French chef who displayed a sense of humour and an ounce of personality was clearly judged in the beady eyes of Ramsay to be a major threat to his alpha male status – so the obnoxious turd began bullying him into the ground until he completely ballsed up his crêpe suzette.

The result is so totally skewed by the man with the radiator-face and the 90s blond highlights that Channel 4 have effectively birthed a great idea and then strangled it with misfiring brainstorms the moment it breathed its first breath. As it’s early days, there may be a chance of resuscitation for what’s essentially a good idea but, if they’ve got any sense at all, Channel 4 can’t let Ramsay anywhere near the revival.

Good lord. It’s not strictly television, but it is video - and your computer monitor is becoming more and more like a television. So, excuses for its appearance here on WWM made, let’s have a quick look at a slightly disturbing video that appears to be ‘going viral’ at present.

Only watch this if you’re okay with the idea of a little light, geeky self-harm and the sight of milk bubbling from a furious teenager’s mouth.

If it’s not a hoax – and the bashed up hand suggests it isn’t – this lad’s surely just handed over plenty of grist for the violent-game-naysayer’s mill, hasn’t he? 17 hours straight on a video game (what about school?) and self-destructive and emotional as a result of it?

I’d hate to see the boy after he’s been dumped and downed a 2 litre bottle of Dry Blackthorn…

I was too late to grab a pair of bins from Sainsbury’s, but luckily WWM stalwart Piqued had already bagged a couple of sets – so it was dinner round his last night, as we prepared for a visual feast.

Spag bol consumed, all kinds of strange things in the ashtray and glasses at the ready, we tuned in for the eyeball-assault.

Admittedly, expectations weren’t soaring when I first had a good look at the glasses themselves. Using the self-same technology used back in the days of pop-out comics, it seems this strange piece of desperate TV scheduling is really this kind of 3D technology’s last hurrah – and what better way to go out than with footage of Her Majesty the Queen followed by a Derren Brown masterclass in magic?

Except that’s not what we got!

Firstly, we got a documentary about the minutiae of the coronation that went on for an interminable hour, when it could simply have stuck up the standalone special footage and completely dispensed with the keen, grating voiceover. I lost count of how many times the narrator reminded us that the show was in three dimensions, as he didn’t miss a single trick every time he got the opportunity to provide some filler. Three minutes in and he’d said ‘3D’ at least two dozen times, and by this point, with the glasses wedged on the tip of my nose, the immense headaches began.

Partially caused by the right lens being much darker than the left, both hemispheres of my brain decided they were feeling fighty, and a clash began as both lobal regions sought to outdo one another on the squinty eyes front. By the end of the Her Majesty documentary, I was starting to think I’d gone blind behind my eyes.

So, on to Derren Brown, who immediately exploded hopes of fun footage with the news that we were going to be watching what was essentially a load of duff old clips from the archive. Some not-so-funny comic magicians performed middle-of-the-road tricks, cards were inevitably flicked towards the TV screen and Brown, in his introductory segments, pointed sticks at the screen. By the time Siegfred and Roy came on, I’d given up as my brain was telling me my right leg was longer than the left, and I could no longer feel my own pelvis.

When a thrown-together 3D advert for a JLS album eclipses a whole night’s viewing, something has gone terribly wrong.

Last night the much publicised appearance of Katie Price in the untouched wilderness of the I’m A Sleb studio came as no surprise, even to me. The introduction of this second stunna with a quite different career history was a cert.

This series is continuing to promise no surprises but does that mean no more laughs?

Meanwhile, this side of the screen, I’m continuing to feel all nervy about Ant and Dec and there are a few questions raised concerning the illusion of TV reality that warrant further investigation.

Price’s entrance was presented in flashback: further evidence that the vogue for a live-effect Reality format is on the way out. No big reveal concerning who would be joining the camp and no night spent off-set, sleeping in a cage as befell Timmy Mallet and David Van Day last series. Katie was spared a night’s imprisonment, instead facing an impromptu trial scooping up balls in a stagnant pool.

After gagging briefly (perhaps this could be put down to airline food), Katie set about her task like a trooper, picking up yellow globes from the murky depths. An old hand at Jungle games, she was clearly keen to show off her expertise and understandably at pains to win favour with her new campmates (“they’re gonna luv me!”). She did manage to secure some luxuries: sugar, biscuits, coffee and tea (this last item not appreciated by Gino, but surely winning her some understanding from a British audience. Beer and smokes were not on the menu and I know I’d be needing a cuppa by now). Sadly, Ant and Dec made no reference to bulbous floating spheres, waiting to be grabbed at. Fortunately, though, I’ll not be pursuing that analogy any further. Suffice to say – the balls were about the same size as her tits – and we’ll leave it at that.

George (who had never heard of Jordan) described her as “very beautiful… a welcome addition,” which is a very sweet and not at all lechy thing for an old man to say. Gino (who apparently does a show with Peter Andre) said that he’d prefer to have Pamela Anderson, which made him sound, for better or worse, a little bit like Borat. The manner of Katie’s introduction, though, and the breakneck speed with which we’re moved from trial to trial seems to be further evidence that a change of tack is being taken this year and not just because of lower budgets.

Very curious, too, was Katie’s last contribution, cut short by a return to our hosts: “Hang on. If this was shown last night in England…” Has this shrewd businesswoman pulled back the curtain and stumbled upon the conjuror’s bag of tricks? It’s like our generation’s Capricorn One!

Reality schmeality: this is a Game Show with a jungle theme, like On Safari with actual trees and no Christopher Biggins, at least not this year.

Or is there? Just as I’d overcome the habit of nervously checking the power button on my Wii and listening for the sound of a Cheeky-Geordie-Chappie invasion at the door, a new nagging question emerges:

Is Kim Woodburn actually Biggins? I know players are cast according to certain character stereotypes but the similarity is already becoming eerie. Think about it: the penchant for dressing up as an old woman (Widow Twanky. Plymouth Theatre Royal. Tickets now available), words like “bosom” and “lovey” spilling from her lips, the posh-voice swearing (two fucks, two bloodies, one bugger and half a bastard during her trial – not that I’m criticising her for that). And the innuendo: “I’ve got to get it in!” as she wrestles with her game tokens and a big net and, when immersed in a tank of slimy creatures: “Get it out of my mouth!” (…oh, maybe it’s not him.)

Not that I’m getting paranoid about this world of illusions, but one other thing has been brought to my attention. Ant and Dec are definitely changing size. Maybe a clause in the contract has just expired that said Ant has to stand further back from the camera (like Tom Cruise making everyone stand in a trench when he gets married) but I’m pretty sure Dec is shrinking or Ant is growing in size. At an enormous rate, in fact – he was a good foot taller by the end of tonight’s show. Maybe it’s a side effect of a secret radioactive dumping ground or it could be something in the buffet food they scoffed off-camera…

…Curiouser and curiouser!

…And I ought to go, what with that being the outlet providing free 3D glasses for the entire country in readiness for the festival of 3D, courtesy of Channel 4 on the box this week.

And this is all ahead of Sky rolling out 3D TV across their platforms as previously reported here, ages ago.

You can find out if your local supermarket has the squinty lenses here.

Looking at the schedule, there’s not a huge amount to be excited about. Paul O’Grady will presumably be thrusting that dog of his at the camera, The Queen will slowly walk towards us, regally and Derren Brown might toss some lottery balls our way.

But the real treats are the movies they’ve lined up for us. Classic, crappy horror – namely Friday the 13th Part 3 and Flesh For Frankenstein.

I’m off to the supermarket to grab some specs and change all my tuppences into tobacco.

Anyone want anything?

And why haven’t they done a 3D Last of the Summer Wine with a tin bath hurtling towards the screen?

I’m a nervous sort. For the last few weeks I’ve been scared of those Nintendo adverts, afraid to turn on my Wii console in case Ant and Dec wander into the living room. Yet there I was on Sunday night, inviting them into my home as that pinnacle of hybrid genre, lowest common denominator telly starts its 2009 run.

Speculation that Brian Blessed would be among the happy campers in this year’s I’m A Celebrity… were, alas, already quashed by ITV’s decision to reveal the names during the week. Still, at least I’d not got my hopes up as I tuned in to watch eleven ‘famous’ people (only a few of whom were familiar to me, as ever) “overcome every single fear” they have, as Sam Fox put it. Producers, meanwhile, are surely fearful themselves that, with BB having whimpered its last on Channel Four, this slice of ‘reality’ programming may no longer hold appeal for a mass audience low on bread and demanding new circuses.

Changes in audience appetite, coupled with tighter funding (we’re all trying to make ends meet in these difficult times) may have left producers quaking in their sturdy, jungle-terrain walking boots but how apparent was the reduced budget and what did they do this year to hook us in and keep us glued, to use an awkward mixed metaphor?

Unusually, the celebrity names were revealed from the outset but, as Dec pointed out in his intro, they’d been in the papers for days. The strategy is apparently to play up even further the tabloids’ obsession with big names and to do away earlier with guessing games, though the enigma has had Sun readers of both Sam Fox and Katie Price’s generations drooling for a few weeks.

The opening montage even gave the impression that the whole thing had been filmed already. Our lust for live surveillance may be less rampant but we were reminded that WE have the power to vote the slebs off. Don’t you just love this celebration of democracy? The audience was further empowered by the opportunity to vote on a Bush Tucker Trial’s victims after just half an hour. What active participants we feel as we call those premium rate lines.

So the audience feels involved and a part of this strange jungle universe and ITV gives them what they want: the promise of sordid sleb sex and gross-out dares! Romances have started in previous series, of course (however much they may have been engineered) but I think this is the first time a couple have entered the jungle together. And they’re gay! Because they’re gay we get to congratulate ourselves on being all enlightened and accepting before we bitterly condemn her out of Mis-teeq for eating MacDonalds abroad or Kim Woodburn for scratching her arse. Because they’re gay they’re also allowed to say “show us your tits” within seconds of meeting an ex-page 3 stunna because it’s only a bit of fun and there’s nothing sexual in their interest because they’re gay.

Moments after the opening credits, Ant promised that the first Bush Tucker Trial would be happening in this episode. Cutting to the chase in this way suggests that this is what it’s perceived the audience tune in for above all else, while it also saves on expensive opening stunts. And a varied bunch of trials it turned out to be: Gino D’Acampo and Sam Fox doing that Peter-Duncan-in-Flash-Gordon thing, fondling hidden crabs, eels and octopuses, and Gino ironically munching away on a nasty insect (ironic – as is pointed out for us – because he’s a chef and has probably eaten quite a variety of things in his career but, oh no, not an insect!!)

I’ve thought before that Iceland seems an unusual choice of sponsor for I’m A Celebrity, particularly pushing their range of party nibbles, as they do in those annoying bits that bracket the ad break. Maybe we’re being encouraged to feel like active participants here too, chomping on mini scotch eggs as unfortunate slebs scoff marsupial balls. This is an idea I’ll be developing as the series continues but I have already discovered that Twiglets make very convincing stick-insects-covered-with-marmite. I wonder whether anyone else has ideas for creepy crawly/ snack food juxtapositions that would enrich our enjoyment of the show?

Budget cuts were apparent as contestants met initially on a jetty instead of a plush hotel suite, denied soft couches, a glass of bubbly and even an Iceland party food buffet during their last hours in civilisation. Then only a few of them got to skydive this year, under the guidance of Dave, a bald man who smiled like a happy egg as they sat in the plane, bricking it and who peddled a good line in AQI: Australian Question Intonation, where a speaker’s voice goes up? After a statement? So it seems like they’re asking a question? (Oddly, he didn’t do this when he asked “Has anybody got any questions.” What’s with that.)

Other slebs had to make their way by swimming (the budget apparently not stretching to another dinghy) or on horseback: a daring adventure, undertaken every Saturday morning on Dartmoor by many 12 year old girls. Nevertheless, this did liven up when the horses crossed a river and rapid editing, a symphonic musical score and cutaways to the riders recounting their experiences like survivors just about kept up the illusion of visceral thrills.

All in all, from the Jurassic Park/ Apocalypse Now flight to the studio – sorry, hostile wilderness – (“Take a last look at the Twenty First Century!”) to the serendipitous technical hitch an hour in, which fortuitously made it all seem like thrilling live news reportage, I got what I wanted from this series opener. Camilla Dallerup tells us her game plan is “to survive” and that’s just what I’m A Celebrity is hoping to do in the fickle, recession-hit world of TV.

I’m not relishing the approaching entrance of Katie Price (half-heartedly presented as a cliffhanger here) and the tedium of an inevitable Sam vs Jordan debate (I’ll change my mind if there’s less yelling and more mud wrestling). Even so, I’ll leave my Wii turned off for the moment and keep playing along with Ant and Dec’s bizarre form of a reality on the other side of the world on the other side of my screen.