FIRST The Flood; then The Reign. ITV likes its weather-based programmes at the moment and spreads them over two long nights. The Reign was actually called The Duke, and although not strictly about weather, the rain pattering on the windscreen of the
Duke of Edinburgh's Land-Rover as he ferried Sir Trevor McDonald around Sandringham looked for some time like being the most dramatic occurrence.
Sir Trev promised unrivalled access to both the estate and the Duke's life. But he was so knee-bowing and forelock-tugging that when tour and programme were done, I thought he was going to offer to scrape the mud off the royal jalopy. At that point, you hoped that HRH – described as the most anti-establishment of establishment figures – would have roared: "Give me back that bally knighthood you ninny!"
It was a close-run thing for Sir Trev's most stunning question and I couldn't decide between "You must take a great deal of satisfaction over what you have accomplished on the estate" and "Have you always had an interest in truffles?" In the end I went for the latter because the first was hardly a question at all.
Various talking heids filled in the blanks. To begin with, Prince Philip was viewed with intense suspicion by the establishment. They would have preferred for the Queen to marry a "rather dim British duke". Whatever he is, it's not one of them.
Technology fascinated him. He understood that TV was bally useful for getting one's message across and allowed the cameras to film the Royals at play and … what's that other blighter again? Ah yes, work.
The second night came with a warning about flashing images. The Duke at a rave? Sadly no, but it did feature a good number of his gaffes, if not quite all of those listed in Duke Of Hazard: The Wit And Wisdom Of Prince Philip, one of my favourite books.
Former royal hack-packer Jane Moore reckoned he was only saying what the rest of us thought. I don't think I ever wonder if Aborigines still throw spears at each other – or, when happening across a dodgy fuse-box, feel moved to ask "Which Indian fitted that?" But I can kind of see what she means. Prince Philip was, said his biographer Tim Heald, one of nature's Australians: earthy, robust and "it sounds absurd – egalitarian".
It does, but no more absurd than Sir Trev, the famed newscaster, going two nights with HRH in a waxed jacket and coming back with nothing more "exclusive" than some unseen cinefilm of him playing deck hockey aboard the royal yacht. There was just time for Sir Trev's most urgent inquiry, which brought out a flunky from behind a tree. "You should rub truffle oil on the bitch's teats," he declared. Approximately, HRH's smirk could be interpreted as: "Bally hell! Glad I didn't say that. Or rather, wish I bally had!"
Gordon Ramsay has no need of truffle oil on The F Word, which returned last week. He doesn't bother tenderising his guests, not even the women. He just comes right out and asks: "So Janet Street-Pensioner, are you breast- feeding your veal calves?"
Or he inquires of the mother of two actresses notorious for racy storylines in Coronation Street and Shameless: "Which one's the lezza and which is the slapper?"
Or, further distancing himself from Sir Trevor McDonald and his interview technique, Ramsay listens to Geri Halliwell blabbering about her favourite Spanish meatballs and then demands to know: "What's the most balls you've had in your mouth at one time?"
I'd love to see the Duke of Edinburgh on The F Word; the plain-speaking chef would surely meet his match when confronted by the spade-calling monarch. And Ramsay needs a challenge because this show is too easy for him. As often happens when ingredients are miscalculated, the format is too thinly spread.
The food is cooked by Ramsay and his trainee chefs for a mixture of celebs and "real people". Who are the plonkers queuing up every week to be abused by Ramsay? When he seeks their verdict on the nosh, the responses are always of the "Here's one I prepared earlier" variety.
Halliwell offered up some crumbs on the Spice Girls' eating habits, including the revelation that Posh used to be addicted to Frosties. As Ramsay is a friend of Victoria Beckham, he resisted the obvious joke, and so ended up as fatally compromised as Sir Trev.
First time round, I knew Gladiators would be a hit. Nipping out to the shops when the opening edition was barely half-an-hour old, I heard cries of "Come on, Wolf!" from an open window. The voice, I was sure, belonged to a mature woman of some discernment. In a different age, she would have thought long and hard about the identity of her favourite wrestler before deciding she would like to be body-slammed by Jackie Pallo. But there she was, already in complete thrall to a man with ludicrous biceps whose eyebrows could lift what I was able to benchpress.
It's hard to see the revival having the same impact. Gladiators was pretty old-fashioned 16 years ago. I know health clubs were booming and men were super-pumped because they thought that's what women wanted, but the show actually harked back to It's A Knockout when a chap doffed a trilby to a lady, or at least Eddie Waring did. Like Knockout, it was a simple celebration of PE teachers and TA regulars. And now? Well, don't women want men to look like Gok Wan?
Originally Gladiators was Knockout minus the humour and the new version seems set to continue the po-faced tradition through presenters Kirsty Gallagher, TV's most beautiful robot, and Ian Wright, who quit the BBC's football panel because he was fed up being treated as the court jester when in truth he was lucky to have the job of pundit. That Gladiators is his idea of cerebral telly is the best joke here.
Wolf is 55 now and even his panto days are long behind him, so a new batch of he-men and he-women stand in the way of the plucky contenders. There are 12 Gladiators in all, and unless I misheard, their names are Chaffinch, Non-Committal, Meringue, By-Law, Plank, Vallance, Amble, Neighbourhood Watch, Reticent, Lumbago, Euphemia and Sid.
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