Yuletide on the Gogglebox

Gavin and Stacey has done the impossible and out-underwhelmed Doctor Who. From personal experience, this is an unrivalled occurrence. Doctor Who is my problem child, so promising yet forever missing its potential by a mile. But Gavin and Stacey? Former blue-eyed boy currently not only bottom of the class but in fact warranting getting its parents in. Ruth Jones and James Corden, you need to come into school for a chat.


Part of Gavin and Stacey's appeal - and I find it hugely appealing generally - is its bruising yet warm portrayal of everyday life. One of the funniest moments in the episode was Gwen and Pam's kitchen politics with the constant cry of "is there anything I can do?" perfectly mirroring Christmas Day in most houses.


Unfortunately, the hour length and single episode emphasised the how non-eventful it is without capitalising on the charm. Smithy and Nessa were once the funniest things in the programme, and still to a certain extent were - Smithy's observation that his baby was coming "albeit with his mother and her boyfriend, but such is the modern world" and Nessa's brilliant interaction with the baby monitor: "Oy! He's on his way!" - but their tension went unresolved, despite providing one of the most painful moments in this year's television with Smithy's distress at his son's early indoctrination into supporting Cardiff City. Gavin's move to Cardiff was brought up and then abruptly dropped, presumably to be reintroduced in the third series - but what was the point in bringing it up at all? Jason and Bryn's fishing trip was brought back for an encoure but not elaborated upon and the neighbours' mother-in-law was dragged in for a laugh that oddly never paid off. The whole thing seemed like an elongated season premiere that didn't work because there is no premiere for months. It was a huge misfire, and given the attention Gavin and Stacey has deservedly won, and earned its move to BBC1, it was a great waste. Why would you then cripple it like this? Who would be converted by that? I'm already converted, and I hated it! The Office's sensational Christmas specials were brilliant because, as the Last Hurrah of the series, they wound it all up so the Extra Special Length and Timing was okay. This Christmas special, as a place-holder, frustrated me so greatly it has actually diminshed my love for the series. Even more than those awful in-vision commentaries on the DVDs did. Which are, incidentally, a dire concept.


Elsewhere, Doctor Who giveth and taketh away. But I'm so delighted Doctor Who giveth at all these days after two desperately poor years, that I'm giving them a pass. Great writing for once, and a dazzling performance from David Morrissey who somehow rose above the whole thing and made it into a dramatic piece of epic proportions that reduced my seven-year-old niece to tears in the best possible way. How often are children moved that way simply by a middle-aged man sitting quietly and thinking of his dead wife? It was magnificient, such an amazing performance that I got over my disappointment at the fact David Morrissey was NOT, as a matter of fact, going to be the next Doctor. Even David Tennant's maddening Doctor failed to drive me to blind homicidal rage. All in all, it was a success. In fact, my enjoyment of it was equalled only by the unveiled competitiveness on Dancing on Ice, a programme which not only stirred up the battle of the sexes but handed electric cattle prods to both sides. I personally favour the ice dancing over Strictly, if only because you can generally tell when the dances have gone wrong on the ice, often because of the flowing blood. As my brother remarked when my mother attempted to put forward Strictly as the best viewing: "If they start doing the headbanger on Strictly, I'll watch." Also, the fluctuating and fantastically tense relationship between Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean on Dancing on Ice is hypnotising. And Suzanne Shaw's merciless nettling of Chris Fountain's arrogance was a thing of beauty.


BBC4 weighed into the Christmas spirit with Renaissance-man Mark Gatiss and his Crooked House, paired with Lee Ingleby, an actor I adore from Spaced, Master and Commander and the Wind in the Willows. The less said about that Martin Shaw police thing set in the 60s the better (Martin Shaw - there's a man whose career has had some swerves. The Professionals = awesome. Then - The Lost Years. Judge John Deed/60s police thing = depressingly safe but successful. Apparitions = off-the-fucking wall batshit). Once you readjusted to the Crooked House's pace - i.e. BBC4's pace - you realised it was marvellous television, albeit slooooow. Nothing wrong with that. Lets you breathe. Has an actual story you can muse over without being whacked over the head. And walls seeping blood. What more do you want with your mulled wine?

Not much motivated to catch the most-watched programme this year, Wallace and Gromit, since I am not three and since my niece and nephews find them annoying for reasons I can't establish apart from the fact they are extremely spoilt and are more interested in their Wii. The 39 Steps looks promising, if oddly scheduled.


Meanwhile, I am driving Monkey raving mad by watching all my new DVDs commentaries. "You are the only person in the world who watches them," he claims. I maintain this is not true - there must be others who watch them purely to enjoy Schadenfreude as the producers recall a particularly cold day or a nightmarish location. And who cares anyway. Currently my brother's cat is lulled into a coma by my stroking, Monkey is lulled into a coma by Mad Men and I am lulled into a coma by my mother's roast dinner. Merry Christmas, one and all.

Blast from the Past: Dancing on Ice

When I was eight or nine, I was obsessed with The New Adventures of Superman (or, as my sojourn in the United States corrected me, "Lois and Clark" - Christ, what an awful name, no wonder they changed it). Anyway. I clearly remember one beautifully sunny Saturday being informed by my parents that I wouldn't be watching Dean Cain that night, because we were going to see Torvill and Dean for my older sister's birthday. This, in the days before a VCR, before YouTube, back in that dim and distant past when a TV programme missed was a TV programme missed, and that was that.

The trauma. The drama. The shouts. The threats. I vividly recall grabbing my father by his waist and saying I'd pay for the babysitter myself (big of me, considering he'd paid for Torvill and Dean). It was all to no avail. I was dragged thither to Wembley Arena, with no clear idea of who the hell Torvill and Dean were, or what they did; but totally convinced that whoever they were and whatever it was, it was rubbish: determined, in short, to ruin the whole thing.

It all changed that night. My childish infatuation with Dean Cain was revealed to be the immature delusions of a girlish imagination! My one true love was Christopher Dean. It was all clear to me now. Of course, Jayne Torvill impressed me too (even though I thought she had horrible hair, a fact I stand by - the poor woman had dreadful hair for twenty years, though happily she's sorted it out now), even now I can feel the goosebumps I felt watching them all those years ago. After that night, Superman was never quite the same again.

In the intervening fifteen or so years, I mostly forgot about Torvill and Dean. I went ice skating once, fell over, realised that ice was cold and hard; observed that I was unlikely to rival Jayne Torvill enough to tempt Christopher Dean away, and left again. I know I saw them lose at the 1994 Olympics, and took it personally. I saw Bolero repeatedly on a various things, and wondered what I'd seen in Christopher Dean, but of course Bolero was ten years before I had come across them, and the intervening ten years had been extremely kind to him. As, in fact, have all the years, to both of them.

Then, suddenly, Dancing on Ice. I was at university for the first series, and my flatmate lived in a state of perpetual fear that our lack of television licence would cause the vengeance of Tony Blair to crash through the door at any given moment, so our TV watching was strictly limited to Hollyoaks, Neighbours and Doctor Who. Occasionally we could branch out, but a talent show was not considered a big enough priority to risk imprisonment. Then I was in America for series 2. So, this year, good God. I don't like reality TV. I hate it. But my life actually feels a bit empty now Dancing on Ice has finished.

It was brilliant in so many ways. Behold Philip Schofield trying to look anywhere but at the demurely dressed Holly Willoughby's gaping front! Swoon at Christopher Dean's apparently endless supply of flattering, scrumptious shirts! Cheer as, perhaps for the first time in television history, the right person won (well done Suzanne!)! Wow as Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean apparently can't do anything not in time! Speculate as to whether they have fought or not before the show, if he kisses her head and she looks annoyed about it (this happened two or three times, and my sister and I would lose interest in the next fifteen minutes as we pondered the possible scenerios)!

I am completely back to applauding my ten-year-old self's sense of taste in men, not to mention in entertainmnet, and may practice an axel in my room tonight, happily without ice. Christopher Dean and Jayne Torvill: God bless you. You are amazing dancers. But most of all: you soppy old romantics, you. I am a cold-hearted individual, and yet your routines warm even my cockles. Them were the days.

And thank God for YouTube. That paso doble blows my mind every single time.