The One Show: Adrian Chiles always seems incredibly comfortable in his skin. Photograph: BBC
After a successful month long trial last year, The One Show (7pm, weeknights, BBC1) finally landed in the schedules this week wearing a perma-tan and a big toothy grin, and looking terribly pleased with itself. But what are the chances of the Beeb's biggest-ever factual commission - effectively a Nationwide for the Noughties - ever becoming essential early evening viewing? Well, there's a year for us - and them - to find out.
Loved Nationwide back in the day, btw. Probably watched most of its 14-year output, from 1969-83 and was terribly overexcited to be filmed for it once, circa 1977 (cutting-room floor, tragically). So I can certainly see BBC One controller Peter Fincham's logic in deciding that the future of pre-watershed telly might look a lot like the past, so why not round up random bits of "and finally ..." style regional nonsense into a warm, fluffy, family viewing package, which could even turn out to be a bit cool, in a retro sort of way. Then again, this is the same man who gave us the car crash that was Davina, therefore sofas may not constitute his comfort zone.
One of the very good things - the very good thing, indeed - about The One Show is Adrian Chiles, who always seems incredibly comfortable in his skin, wholly unfazed by even the most ham-fisted link or (probably) panicked producer gabbling into his ear from the gallery. On top of it all, he never looks like it's all about him, which is rare in a presenter. Meanwhile, Myleene Klass is certainly mastering the essential skill of gazing at her co-presenter just like Nancy did at Ronnie, though she is arguably just too gorgeous both for 7pm and for Adrian, in much the same way that Melanie Sykes and Des O'Connor always felt a tiny bit wrong (to me, if not to Des).
But that set! Featuring a compulsory sofa and colour scheme straight out of the Ikea kids department, it screamed "Breakfast telly!" when a palette of neutral greige might have sent out a more sophisticated message. And though there's no obvious reason why 7pm need be a sophisticated time of the evening, it's got to be more sophisticated than 7am, surely?
Anyway, having picked up little bits and pieces of the show on Monday and Tuesday while ministering to the needs of small children, I figured it could have my almost-undivided attention on Wednesday, by which time it would probably have bedded in a bit. In the interests of balanced journalism I even recruited a slightly less cynical co-viewer, too.
"But Mummy, if I have to watch this with you and tell you what to write, does that mean I don't get a bedtime story?" Bless! He'll be having some playdates at the UN over the holidays, just after we've got the fifth birthday party out of the way.
But of course, magazine formats are perfect for nearly five-year-olds - just when one's interest in the population crisis on the Shetland Isle of Fetlar was starting to wane (about 90 seconds in for both of us; isn't there always a Scottish island conducting a PR assault?) then we were on to a piece about restoring the waning crane population of East Anglia.
"Mummy, why are those birds called cranes? Do they build skyscrapers?" It was a fair question, and one the show completely failed to address.
Then there was a frankly baffling segment featuring Richard E Grant talking about a Proms celebrating film themes, but because, as Chiles intimated, the budget of the BBC's biggest ever factual commission didn't run to paying the Performing Rights Society, we couldn't actually hear any of the music that was going to be played (you could almost hear the heads rolling in the production office. And a mysterious giant clunk in the studio - jaws hitting floors, or the ratings-o-meter registering the drain on the national grid during a viewers tea-break? Who knew - was stoically ignored by all), so instead we had Myleene doodling something vaguely filmic on the piano instead. Verily, she is the new Richard Stilgoe.
My son may have been sucking his thumb by now, but he was still watching. "Look, mummy!" And there it was, a little feature on Barbary pirates in Salcombe, with ...
"Look! MUUUUUMMMMYYYY! Real TREASURE!"
My son hasn't actually seen Pirates of the Caribbean, has instead absorbed it by evil marketing osmosis: he has the poster on his wall and the ice lollies in the freezer. Now The One Show was bringing it to life. It was a complete result, for a five-year-old. By 7.30pm I was losing the will to live but Jackson was fired up, fit to burst: "Let's go to bed and have a story about PIRATES!"
But, y'know, all play and no work ... "Remember - you were meant to tell me what to write about this programme. What did you think of it?"
"It was great. It was BRILLIANT! It was like Children's ITV!"
