TV presenters today are safe, insipid and interchangeable

Mo Farrah after missing out on a gold medal
				 Picture: Adam Davy

VERITY LUSH: Leave me to browse the make-up counter in peace

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It’s strange how, in these times of high definition, full colour, three-dimensional television, so much of its output seems flat and grey.

Even those programmes which are heavily upholstered by canned laughter, dramatic chords and coruscating lights, somehow manage to be downbeat and uninspiring.

This is especially true of commercial television, and the blame for this lacklustre and banal impression must rest with the producers.

They get fixated about the alleged qualities of certain presenters, then the herd mentality kicks in and they seem fearful of launching any show without including at least one of them.

Those I have in mind include Phillip Schofield, Christine Bleakley, Holly Willoughby, Vernon Kay, Lorraine Kelly and Aled Jones.

If they were included on a colour palette, this lot would represent various shades of beige.

They are all much of a muchness – but unfortunately there is not much to their muchness.

They are an unedifying confection of glossy hair, iridescent teeth and empty smiles, pumped up with a throbbing sense of their own self-importance and carried along on a sickly cloud of empty bonhomie.

They are safe, uninspired, insipid and endlessly interchangeable. In my experience, none has ever passed the ‘did you see?’ test, which is a staple of water cooler conversation and bar room discourse.

By which I mean that I cannot think of a single programme – or excerpt thereof – featuring this lot which has been compulsive viewing or the subject of animated chatter the following day.

Neither have I ever watched a programme especially to see them in action, though I have avoided plenty to preclude any possibility of having to do so.

Dancing on Ice – that inferior, refrigerated genuflection in the general direction of Strictly Come Dancing – is a perfect example. It was never must-watch television, but in the end I could no longer tolerate another evening witnessing Schofield smirk himself into a state of almost terminal self-adoration.