During Cilla's reign as Queen of Saturday night light entertainment she managed to capture the essence of that bygone, buttoned-down Britain of saucy postcards and bus-trips to Blackpool.
Take Me Out, with its shrieking cavalcade of bouncing boobs and barely decipherable neck tattoos, offers instead the promise of a lorra, lorra chlamydia, and a quick reminder from our God of why we don’t deserve to endure as a species. Thirty immaculately-coiffed nightclub banshees stand behind specially designed ‘sex lecterns’, passing judgement on a single male who descends into the studio on a small platform known as ‘The Love Lift’ (which I’m certain must be street slang for ‘Viagra’).
These men - like those who appear on The Jeremy Kyle Show to flunk their lie detector tests in a flurry of toothlessness and swearing, or those who appear on Embarrassing Bodies brandishing an alarmingly green penis – actually volunteer to flagellate themselves in this way, for the wicked amusement of unseen millions.
There's a certain schadenfreude in watching men being made to feel, for even a short fraction of time, how most women have been made to feel for the past 60,000 years at the hands of men, but it's probably wrong to extrapolate the idea that Take Me Out is somehow Germaine Greer's favourite TV show.
The disembodied voice of God – who in those days operated under the pseudonym of Graham – would occasionally boom out its approval, doubtless becoming increasingly nostalgic for the Old Testament days of wine, locusts and genocide (Incidentally, ‘Wine, Locusts and Genocide’ is also the title of Mel Gibson’s upcoming autobiography).