The Killer in Me ITV1, 9pm
River Cottage: Gone Fishing Channel 4, 8pm
At the start of The Killer in Me, its Z-list celebrity cast was filmed standing in what looked like a dank, defunct prison cell or a long-abandoned Victorian asylum. Circled by a wary camera, each celeb favoured its lens with an ominous, mildly bonkers stare.
Surely, such odd behaviour could indicate only one thing. Breakfast-telly presenter Fiona Phillips, former Celtic manager John Barnes, radio DJ Toby Anstis and crazily coiffed media panjandrum Andrew Neil were going to reveal the truth of The Killer in Me's title: they were all undiagnosed psychotic serial-murderers!
But no. That would have made for compelling TV. Instead, The Killer in Me clod-hoppingly dogged the quartet as they undertook a DNA test to discover which common killer diseases or conditions could be lurking within their genes.
Just what we needed: a celebrity-reality-genealogy-health-scare-forensic-detective show. No so much Who Do You Think You Are? as What Do You Think You're Going to Die Of?
Reassuringly for the celebs - but less entertainingly for us - a consultant physician was able to tell all four that they weren't about to die imminently. The medic bore a disconcerting resemblance to Rowan Atkinson, but at no point did he pull any silly faces, shout "Wibble!" or clown slowly a la Mr Bean. Sigh. Instead, bulky Barnesy was dully advised to take more exercise. Andrew Neil was told what was obvious just from looking at him, or reading about his amorous antics in tabloid gossip columns of yore: he's prone to obesity and overly active testosterone.
Fiona Phillips agonised slowly and at vexatious length over whether or not to hear her full test results (understandably, I'll admit, given that her mum had contracted early-onset Alzheimer's), before revealing herself to the doc as a wittering hypochondriac. "I've had a dull pain in my chest for a long time - it's coming on now," she instantly gasped on being told she had a heightened chance of heart disease.
Toby Anstis, meanwhile, was being prescribed extra mealtime helpings of broccoli and cauliflower. The absence of drama from this process was palpable, even when Toby did the one thing celebs must do when handed a personal revelation on a reality TV show: cry.
Tony was only confronting extra cruciform vegetables, of course, and not an early grave: his were tears of relief, not shock, sadness or horror. At home, our tears were ones of boredom.
In River Cottage: Gone Fishing, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall went scuffling around in shorts in the summer sunshine on a little boat off the Channel Isles with his two piratical Scrabble-playing mates: groovy bow-legged Nick, ace angler and crafty cook, and skipper Pat, a gnomic smoker of roll-ups.
Hugh's culinary eco-mission was to line-catch, gut, fry and hymn Britain's many unsung instances of finny marine bounty (what with established cod stocks being under threat of disappearance). He thus sampled gurnard, pouting, pollock, bass, launce, limpet, black bream, grey mullet and the off-puttingly green- boned garfish.
All of these were freshly cooked on the boat's deck al fresco, with heaps of local runner beans plus lashings of lemon juice, wine and bay leaves. Convivial angling badinage and mutual blokey mockery were exchanged as assorted quayside sages were welcomed aboard to sample the nosh they'd caught.
The sun shone. The sea ebbed and flowed. Hugh hopped into it to swim beside a basking shark. Blokey games of Scrabble were played. Cups of tea were drunk, as was wine. It was like watching an organic, non-toxic version of Top Gear. I want to be Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall - or, better still, his mate groovy Nick.
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