Show Me The Funny

Here's a tricky question: Was it humanly possible to make shambolic Show Me The Funny any worse? Answer: Yes... by adding bagpipes.

For some inexplic­able reason the useless wannabe comedians joined the Scots Guards to see if they were any good at military circuit training. They weren't. Who cares?

With hapless host Jason Manford looking more forlorn by the second, venerable veteran Jo Brand suddenly cropped up from nowhere to inform us: "Either you make people laugh or you don't." Memo to the crap contestants... You don't.

TV matters: the comedians' gagging order

Heard about the comedy TV host who was banned from telling jokes? It'll have you rolling in the aisles.

Show disappointed as the contestants joined the army

Show Me The Funny saw Jason Manford, Alan Davies and Bob Mortimer judge the hopefuls at a military base, but the comic value of comedians participating in an army bootcamp is surprisingly low.

Host Jason Manford keeps out of the firing line as the nine remaining comics perform for the 1st Battalion Scots Guards at Catterick in North Yorkshire. But first they have to go through army training so they can write five minutes of new material.

"I shouldn't be doing this. I've got a verruca," complains Rudy, 47. It's the best one-liner of the night, although that's not actually part of his set.

It's weird, the way this formula is intent on squeezing comedy into an observational straight-jacket. And with critic Kate Copstick on the panel, I'd love to know what she really thinks of the end product, where viewers only judge most of the stand-ups on the basis of just one or two gags.

The big questions are: will Prince Abdi attempt another woeful accent and will Cole make a prat of himself again? Happily, the answer's "Yes" to both.

Gigglebox weekly #13 - Show Me The Funny

This week I have decided to devote the entire column to just the one show: the new comedy reality programme Show Me the Funny, hosted by Jason Manford. My review can be summed up in a few short words, but I'm not allowed to use those sorts of words so I have to elaborate.

Week two results: Prince Abdi voted off

Prince Abdi became the second contestant to leave Show Me The Funny on tonight's show.

The link between The Apprentice and Show Me the Funny was suddenly obvious. First, we have a competition for entrepreneurs who can't... entrepren. Then, on Show Me the Funny, we were introduced to a succession of comedian-contestants who weren't funny.

This "Show/Funny" thing, an attempt to find Britain's best new stand-up in six weeks, was a bizarrely cack-handed production, which didn't let us see any of the contestants be funny or even perform. During all their on-stage performances, someone called ]Jason Manford was being filmed in the wings, trying to be funny about the people out there failing to be funny, but who we couldn't see failing to be funny, which would have been more fun. Finally, funnily, we got one brief clip of a Spanish/Welsh chap managing to alienate a roomful of drunk Liverpudlian women. Ignacio Lopez got it wrong. He strode, swayed, rubbed his crotch, told them he was half-Welsh, half-Spanish, all sexy. "Some of you might recognise me as the barman you slept with two years ago in Magaluf! If you don't have my number, ask the lady on your left!" This was an audience which would have potentially weed itself at mention of the word "sausage", as ever-punchable guest judge Jimmy Tarbuck knows. Yet Liverpool is still strong on nuance, gentility and intent, and Liverpool hasn't been as quiet since the day after it was bombed. I'm surprised Lopez left alive. There were no contenders with wit other than the brave and lucky Ellie Taylor, who is also a former model. For some, life works.

Show Me The Funny was a shambles that looked like it was being hastily cobbled ­together as they went along. Anyone work out what the hell was going on? Damned if I could.

Twitter fan and former One Show sensation Jason Manford was the host. I think.

Dying a death in Liver­pool, 10 criminally hopeless ­alleged stand-up ­comedians seemed determined to establish they couldn't make us laugh if their lives ­depended on it. Mission accomplished.

Meanwhile, Jimmy ­Tarbuck and Alan Davies spouted seasoned-pro claptrap with some old girl doing an impression of Cruella De Vil on a bad-hair day. They were the ­judges. I think.

But back to the action... and contestant Cole Parker's first "joke" of the empty night: "The amount of oestrogen in this room is as palpable as it is ­intimidating." Boom-boom!

After that it was downhill all the way. Hard to crack a smile.

There are supposed to be six more episodes of this ocean-going turkey. But is it really worth ­carrying on? I think not.

The most excruciating experience of the week, if you weren't named Murdoch or Brooks, was Show Me the Funny (Monday, ITV1), a new reality series that is essentially The X Factor but with wannabe comedians. That's its problem. The X Factor can get away with showing bad amateur singers because bad amateur singing can be entertaining. Bad amateur comedy can't. It hurts to watch. The only people who enjoy bad amateur comedy are the sadists at open mic nights, heckling. One of the contestants' punchlines was, "Not on the lips, Dad - remember what the policeman told you." I can't seem to recall the set-up, but then the mind often blocks our most anguished memories.

With round one coming from Liverpool, it was only fitting that the empty chair be filled by Scouse royalty Jimmy Tarbuck.

Death by silence is a fate every stand-up must endure alone. And yet, paradoxically, the discomfort is shared by the audience, creating mutual embarrassment on a vast scale that makes for both an appalling spectacle and great TV.

Which leaves Show Me The Funny having its comedy cake and eating it. If a turn is funny - all well and good. If not - even better. My main complaint with the format is that they don't show us the funny soon enough.

It was a good 20 minutes before any of the comics took to the stage, having previously been sent onto the streets of Liverpool to meet the locals, collect material and perform designated pointless tasks. All of which was pure, unadulterated padding.

Come showtime, however, and the programme found its cold, clammy, nerve-wracked feet. The audience comprised 300 women who, we were led to believe, were capable of unspoken atrocities if offended. In truth, they emanated pure goodwill, which the first two acts did everything in their power to test attempting cod scouse accents.

However, third on the bill, Ellie Taylor, established an immediate rapport with her sisters out front and worked the room with a confidence that belied her novice status. Stuart Goldsmith's professionalism also set him apart and earned the praise of Tarby, no less. The rest were hard to judge, with most of their routines ending up on the cutting room floor. All except poor Ignacio Lopez, hung out to dry as an example of how not to do it.

Ignacio promised character comedy, but inexplicably dropped the character two sentences into his set without putting anything in its place. He was ignominiously booted out despite delivering by far the best opening line of the night: "Hello, I am Ignacio. Some of you may remember me as the barman you slept with in Magaluf two years ago".