No. 58 Gangrape of the Eyeballs

Richard Hammond, in what can only have been a desperate attempt to try and prove his ‘working class’, blokeish manhood, once drove a car so fast it very nearly killed him. Well, I say car. It was more of a Boeing 747 engine strapped to a roller-skate.

Nowadays he has the look of a haunted corpse about him. That’s quite a sacrifice to make in return for the privilege of wearing one’s man-badge with pride.

Now I’ve never really had anything against Richard Hammond, despite his suspect claims of proletariat Brummy roots, but in all fairness anybody can look good when stood alongside a crypto-fascist with a merkin on his head, namely Jeremy Clarkson. However, he managed to plummet right out of Jeffman’s estimation the other Saturday night when his new TV show was unveiled to an unsuspecting audience.

I only managed to catch this monstrosity through sheer bad luck. I was still incapacitated by Christmas illness and thus not sampling the delights of a barmaid’s apron. Having just been considerably underwhelmed by the naming of the next Doctor Who, I happened to leave the telly on. And lo, it did appear. Total Wipeout.

To be fair ‘The Hamster’, as he’s known to a legion of fans and fruity housewives alike, has been seeking that elusive solo vehicle ever since he began his tenure on the BBC’s Top Gear – and I don’t mean the sort of vehicle that leaves you in a hospital bed wondering who the strange woman claiming to be your wife is.

Many will be in the unfortunate position of remembering the short-lived and slipshod teatime chat show he tried on ITV. Then there’s Brainiac, which was quite good but never as good as when Vic Reeves took over the mantle. Then there are those embarrassing adverts for Morrisons with that vomit-inducing, ‘feelgood’ Take That song playing in the background. One has to wonder how much ‘the bloke next door’ sold his soul for, whilst the recession sinks its teeth into the job prospects of everybody else.

(EDIT. Morrisons this week announced the creation of 5000 more UK jobs over the course of 2009. Great news! The once leading exporter of industry takes another step closer to becoming a nation of subservient shelf-stackers.)

But now the wee fella has his very own primetime Saturday spectacle (if 6.20pm on a Saturday night counts as primetime) with which to display his talents, and though I’m not a paid TV critic, I recognise raw shit when I see it. The sort that brings its mates along to jump me in a dark alleyway and gang-rape my eyeballs.

Total Wipeout is just that. The sort of programme that requires a caustic soda bath with a steel wool flannel immediately after watching.

The premise of this abortion – not that it really matters – is a timed challenge in which thick people shout at the camera before attempting to negotiate an obstacle course comprised of water, mud and… erm, obstacles, along with assorted other ‘endurance’ events. Everything takes place over water so as to break the falls of the contestants at the inevitable moment they come a royal cropper and plummet to a wet awakening beneath. Oh, and everything’s padded too. Presumably to make the brain donors taking part feel a little more at home.

At best it can be described as a rip-off of Takeshi’s Castle, or the legendary It’s A Knockout even, but lacking the former’s anarchic charm and the latter’s Stuart Hall.

Hammond’s role in this fiasco is to provide to-camera links between ‘events’ and also provide a ‘humorous’ commentary whilst the ’shenanigans’ unfold and the thick people get wet. It has all the endearing qualities of a purulent ball of warm contempt, spat directly into the eyes of each and every license payer on a cold winter’s morning.

This may or may not show Mr. Hammond to be little more than a one-trick pony, left floundering when prized from the callous teat of the objectionable Jeremy Clarkson. His career choices have certainly left a lot to be desired – likewise my own, so if anybody wishes to grossly overpay me for the next one you can contact me here – and if there’s any justice left in the world, after taking his cut from the public purse and signing up for this crap, it’ll be the final nail in the coffin of a lamentable solo career.

In case there are any Hammond fans reading, don’t worry, it won’t be.

But never fear. There is a way the BBC could salvage this programme and also my faith in humanity. All it needs is a few simple changes.

Firstly drain the tanks of water and replace with cold, hard concrete, maybe sprinkling a dusting of broken glass over the top while it sets. Then remove all padding and ensure any jagged edges are made particularly prominent. Finally drag Richard Hammond out from the safety of his TV studio and slap him back into the coma from whence he came.

There. Instantly watchable.

In all honesty, if Total Wipeout is a sign of how the rest of 2009 is going to pan out, then I shall be returning to hibernation. If somebody would be kind enough to wake me in 2010, I’d be less than grateful.

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