I’m in a confessional mood today, so I think I will reveal my (until now) secret television vices. I’m not talking about Doctor Who or Top Gear. The former is rippingly good and the latter de rigueur from a male bonding point of view, if one has a son of a certain age.
No, it’s CSI: New York and The Apprentice. Having holidayed in the “city that never sleeps” in 2007, I started watching CSI in order to spot locations. I soon became hooked on the theme tune, the bizarre deaths and Gary Sinise’s lugubriousness.
One recent episode featured somebody who had been thrown onto the valve of a cylinder of liquid nitrogen, which pierced and froze their heart. Gary flinched almost imperceptibly when the frozen stiff was discovered. Perhaps that was his equivalent of laughing uncontrollably, something I was barely able to prevent myself from doing.
I am less easy about sitting down to The Apprentice. Any enterprise education I was ever involved with emphasised teamwork. And so does this programme, until one team loses. At that point, it’s just about time to call in Gary as the character assassination begins. Like a Sunday paper reader pretending not to be interested in a story about a gay vicar, I claim to find this of no entertainment value.
Then comes the best bit, where viewers like me can express outrage at who’s fired. “They should have fired her, but they won’t, because she’ll make better television. He knows he’s not going to employ her, but she’ll be in it until the penultimate episode.”
Gregor Steele’s other TV vice is ancient episodes of ‘Mission Impossible’.