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Take Me Out - TV review

Simon Binns gets Saturday night fever and wants to be put out of his misery

Written by . Published on March 23rd 2011.


Take Me Out - TV review

WHEN the Apocalypse does come, some people will rue the incumbent beauty of the world and ask if we did all we could to preserve it. Some will cling to memories of special people, places and treasured time.

One girl did liken him to a ‘better looking Mr Bean’, which is as back-handed as compliments come and only one step up from a “less mental Charles Manson.’’

Others, like the panel of squawking numpties on ITV’s Saturday night shame-fest ‘Take Me Out’, will simply rejoice, thinking it’s the name of a new nightclub opening in town.

The most recent run drew to a close this weekend, but as the end credits invited us to surrender any morsel of dignity we may have left, by appearing on the next series, it will be back, with the grim inevitability of a red-faced return journey to the clap clinic.

Perhaps ITV should consider renaming the show ‘Desperate Moron Lift Disco’, such is the crushing shallowness of the people involved.

A panel of 30 needy single women wink, gawp and dribble at anything that host Paddy McGuinness put in front of them, like Stepford Daleks on alcopops. I have a sneaking suspicion that if the contents of my kitchen bin were emptied on the floor in front of them, more than 20 of them would leave their lights on.

One of the girls, a dippy-looking version of Nicola from Girls Aloud, had an exacting list of qualities for a potential suitor. “I’ll pretty much take anything,” she said. Another simply stated that “a pulse is good”, which is lucky, because that was pretty much all the ensuing parade of aching bell-ends could guarantee.

How about Dan, from Warrington, wearing a woman’s top with a plunging neckline so we could see his freakish man-tits, and looking like an awful lump of fake tan and Plasticine with designer stubble and over-groomed eyebrows.

Obviously, he had a dog called Tyson, and loved his nan and Englebert Humperdink in almost equal measure. All the girls left their lights on, in an almost creepy fashion, determined to bag a date on the final show.

He picked a girl who compared herself to Ross from ‘Friends’ and had never heard of Englebert Humperdink.

Specimen two, let’s call him John from Bournemouth, because that’s his name, looked like he’d been stretched by the hair, ankles and ears and came on to ‘Danger Zone’ from Top Gun.

Perhaps this was a warning about a dangerous temper or a love of watching semi-naked men play volleyball near airfields. No matter. The 30 strumpets jumped and clapped like over-excited seals at feeding time.

John was all about table tennis and clicking his heels, two pursuits that may not perhaps instantly scream ‘HUSBAND!’ although one girl did liken him to a ‘better looking Mr Bean’, which is as back-handed as compliments come and only one step up from a “less mental Charles Manson.”

His special talent? Playing his armpits to classical music. Amazingly, he got a date with a lovely looking girl called Holly, who presumably was only still lucid thanks to a truck load of hallucinogens and the runners telling her it was all a dream.

No time to rest until we met Bobby, who came across like a gay Rainman, wearing a grin so vacant it almost had squatters living in it. Was he cheeky, or simple? Hard to tell, but even harder to care if you were one of the dateless spinsters. He received a glowing reference from two of his friends, who had the collective IQ of the monkey enclosure at London Zoo. If there was one monkey in it. That was dead.

He turned up to his eventual date wearing what can only be described as his dad’s underwear from the 1950s to try to moronically out-stare some poor girl who now realises that even free holidays can be deeply unsettling.

The final man-child was a triathlete who looked like a disturbing mix of Shakin’ Stevens, John Robb and Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, who seemed to be under the impression that the best way to hide a receding hairline was to grow an almighty quiff.

All 30 lights were left on as single anxiety reached fever pitch, until he eventually chose a white witch called Marytia, who he later quizzed about the existence of intelligent life. Oh, the irony.

On top of all this, we caught up with dates from the previous show, which featured a man called Anthony, who decided to knee his date Ellie in the head then spend an entire lunch telling her exactly how much he didn’t fancy her; an utterly joyless horse-riding session with Dan who confessed he normally went for girls “a bit more tarty looking” than the tarty-looking Laura; and Peggy and Andrew who barely made it on their sailing date through almost humping each other into submission before they’d left the jetty. “He could be Mr Right,” she sighed, as she fluttered swathes of fake eyelashes at a mono-syllabic scouser who’s mother helped choose his date.

The show is like a drunken Saturday night out that ends up in a dodgy club having a quick fumble with that girl from the hairdressers you’ve been eyeing up all week. A guilty pleasure for many I’m sure, all strung together through the wise-cracks of professional Boltonian McGuinness, who’s contrived wise-cracks arrive like an unwelcome barrage of kicks to the knackers.

Take Me Out? Yes please. I’ll even buy the bullets.

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