Roasting in celebrity hell

You know it's summer because Big Brother is back, RTÉ cleans out its schedules for repeats, and regular TV reviewers go on their holidays (is it any wonder?).

Which is worse is not for me to say, although surely, surely, there is nothing worse than Big Brother. The Channel 4 reality TV show has returned for its fifth series and, really, that's about all you can say about it while retaining your dignity. (Marco? Sweet Heaven above, what planet is he from?)

In any event, the 12 - or 11, by the time this goes to print - obnoxious housemates have failed to dislodge the Obnoxious One as the chief subject of water-cooler conversation this week. This notwithstanding the fact that Gordon Ramsay's Hell's Kitchen is flagging faster than one of Belinda Carlisle's soufflés.

The celebrity chefs concept had all the hallmarks of an exposure too far for Ramsay, a three-star Michelin man who has previously fronted a series of fly-on-the-wall documentaries. The combination of the foul-mouthed proprietor, a handful of unemployed actors, an athlete banned for taking drugs, one half of the 1980s pop act Bros, and disgraced TV presenter Angus Deayton certainly promised little.

Yet Hell's Kitchen has been an awful lot better than its composite parts. Despite the bad language, Ramsay comes across as a decent skin, giving his charges as much encouragement as abuse. Management gurus will have their own take on his four-letter style of command. But one can't deny he gets results. The work-shy cadets, who couldn't chop a carrot without taking off half a finger in the first week, were crushing lobsters with aplomb by week two.

Annoying ex-minister Edwina Currie and teachers' pet Al Murray gave a nice balance to proceedings. But, for all their toil, the volunteers have only proven what every Irish Mammy knows, that, after a while, cooking is boring.

Not surprisingly, as the series progressed and the trainees became more efficient in the kitchen, the focus switched dramatically towards the diners - a desperate array of liggers whom Deayton artfully slagged. Scanning the audience of C-list celebs, from Jim Rosenthal "on a rare night off" to the "extremely irritating" Nicholas Parsons, Deayton reflected: "So many TV personalities . . . if a bomb dropped on the place Michael Barrymore could get back on the telly." If Deayton has come out of Hell's Kitchen with a new spring in his step what of Ramsay? The series is predicated on the assumption that his reputation will suffer if he fails to turn the restaurant into a success. But that hardly rings true as the made-for-television restaurant closes regardless tomorrow night when the "winning" volunteer is announced. The truth is, Hell's Kitchen is too artificial a dish to tickle the taste buds. It was never going to rock Ramsay's world, nor anyone else's.

As an antidote to contrived celebrity cooking shows, Darina Allen made a welcome return to the small screen this week after a two-year absence. Gossip-mongers will no doubt have read much into the close-up shots of her wedding ring, and the repeated references to "we" at happy-clappy Ballymaloe. But before you draw any conclusions - not that it's anyone's business but her own - bear in mind this series was recorded before the trial and conviction last year of Darina's hubby, Tim, for downloading child pornography from the Internet.

In coming back for a second term, Ballymaloe Cookery Course reminds us of just what a nifty TV performer Darina is. A champion of organic ingredients, she is a natural herself in front of the cameras - genuinely enthusiastic, busy about the place, and capable of giving detailed recipes, cooking times, economising tips, etc. as she performs delicate operations on the chopping board. For this viewer, who is incapable of holding a conversation while peeling potatoes, that is some feat.

The secret of her success is that she doesn't patronise the viewer, yet assumes you know nothing. In the first episode, she demonstrates how to take the spine out of a squid and, displaying the gory body-part, whispers: "You don't eat that, obviously." Her motherly advice extend to recognising fresh fish - which "shouldn't smell fishy" - and how to keep, as she puts it in her own inimitable way, "toma-r-toes so-o fresh" (don't leave them in the fridge).

Sustaining the culinary metaphors a tad longer, BBC Northern Ireland this week served up its latest comedy drama, taking a fair slice of Bachelor's Walk, sprinkling it with Cold Feet and adding a pinch of Only Fools and Horses. The result, Pulling Moves, is neither fish nor fowl, a West Belfast tapioca that, in fact, pinches from all over the place. Episode one features a defecating burglar (see When Brendan Met Trudy), episode two a scene with a severed animal's head in a bed (The Godfather). As for the main characters, they will be instantly recognisable to anyone who has seen the ad for Harp lager where some lads in a football stadium get their beers transported to their seats on a Mexican wave. Wardrobe, Ta, Shay and Darragh are likewise pulling wholly implausible moves in a backslapping, aren't-we-only-hilarious kind of way. Not only that but the quartet like nothing better after a hard day's attempted scamming to relax over a few cans of, yes, Harp.

Simon Delaney in the lead role maintains a strong screen presence, despite his Lenadoon accent occasionally going AWOL, while Gerard Jordan (Hoker) stands out in an able supporting cast. Ultimately, however, the predictability of the gang's scams - and their inevitable failure - drains the series of its humour. Those familiar with the West Belfast vernacular might smirk knowingly at its regular use. But the dialogue generally moves at a snail's pace, and isn't helped by characters laughing at their own jokes.

Example: Wardrobe lifts a dead rat onto a shovel and declares, "Do you want chips or rice with that lads?" Cue raucous laughter from Ta and Co.

The best that can be said for the series is that it manages to avoid any mention of the Troubles, and that's probably a first for a drama set in West Belfast. If the normalisation of the North means sitting through the odd inoffensive sitcom it's surely a small price to pay.

Meanwhile, this week saw a rash of Party Political Broadcasts geared towards next week's European Parliament elections. The only time in several years when parties get unimpeded access to the viewing public, these little vignettes make interesting viewing - if only to give us an idea of what we'd be watching 24/7 if we lived in a communist utopia like North Korea.

Needless to say, each broadcast tries to win your vote but uses strikingly different methods. Sinn Féin goes for the "we own the shop" approach with Gerry Adams as a Godlike figure narrating in front of a screen of rapidly changing images. The party's candidates then appear, like colossi, dwarfing office blocks, mountains and lakes from around Ireland.

Fianna Fáil also oozes power in its broadcast but with a subtle difference. Bertie is seen mingling with EU big-wigs at Farmleigh House. A power-broker on the inside track, he speaks like he is featuring in The Alan Clark Diaries: "When I'm talking with the leaders of other European countries I always say that we must never forget what it's all about." Apparently, "it's all about" peace and prosperity, although the main gist of the ad is that Bertie is on the inside of the house, and you're not.

Labour goes for a more modest strategy, opening its broadcast with a shot of Pat Rabbitte at a poorly-attended trade union meeting in Dublin. Attention switches to a nearby housing estate where some local kids who are running around a lamppost get as much airtime as the party's candidates. Determined to avoid any whiff of arrogance, Labour finally unveils Prionsias de Rossa who is being thanked profusely by a housewife for the great things he did for her. "I don't remember, I have to tell you," de Rossa replies.

Apart from a mood - angry or optimistic, discordant or celebratory - there's little else the parties can convey in the two-minute slot. If complex messages aren't condensed they tend to be misunderstood. Perhaps for this reason the Greens were ill-advised to open their broadcast with someone displaying the cryptic slogan: "I am not attractive - never been considered beautiful by anyone. But I am the most effective and loving person I know." (Seemingly, it represents the thoughts of an "ordinary" voter.) Socialist Party candidate Joe Higgins had a better idea, underlining images from recent anti-war rallies with the straightforward claim, "A vote for me says Mr Bush is not welcome in Ireland".

Fine Gael, meanwhile, opted to convey a message in pictures. It showed people sweeping doorsteps, walking greyhounds, and rowing boats. Birds flew overhead as Mairéad McGuinness strutted down the street with a jacket slung over her shoulder. No doubt about it: Fine Gael stands for busy-ness.

The prize for the best political broadcast, however, goes to the Referendum Commission for its explanatory ad on the citizenship ballot. An Irishwoman goes to a restaurant counter and puts a tea-set on her tray. Is she a waitress? No, she is a customer in a café, where - remarkably - there's not a foreign worker in sight. She sits down and lifts a cup to her mouth.

Simple and unequivocal: Vote Yes, and you'll be serving your own tea and coffee in future.