THAT'S LIFE!

In life, there are some certainties. Tributes always flood in (they never trickle), lucre is always filthy, virtues are always extolled, rises are always meteoric, gauntlets are always run. And on That's Life!, no matter how pitifully tragic a story they might be relating, you won't have to wait long for a gratuitous mention of either willies or titties. This week we had both.

It's significant that the first word in the opening titles is "Help" because Esther and her catatonic catamites desperately need some. For twenty-one years they've been getting away with murder - shamelessly repeating the same shallow format of vulgar misprints mixed with tales of stupid people who've given money to clever people - but now their show is on Death Row, with the execution date already fixed. On Saturday night, the Patron Saint of Patronisers appeared, wearing a startled expression usually only seen on the faces of blow-up sex dolls, and dressed in a yellow number that made her look like a tube of mustard surmounted by Shergar's teeth. She'd even chosen to make her entrance through the studio audience; presumably, she thought ordinary people might like a last chance to touch the hem of her garment, before she departs at Easter.

Esther promised "new ideas" for this series. "Each week we'll be joined by a special guest star" she announced (TV-speak for "Our ratings have reached rock-bottom") but, instead, on came June Whitfield to read a selection of unamusing cuttings in all three of her voices: Eth, The Queen, and Margaret Thatcher. The other "new idea" was Killjoy, seven feet of rubber rhino who cynically jumped onto the Mr. Blobby bandwagon, and even more cynically jumped onto a cake replica of the Foreign Office, thereby embarrassing a group of dignified World War II veterans honourably protesting about a ban on wearing foreign medals. What a pity such an expensive cake couldn't have gone to one of those children's homes Esther cares so much about, instead of being destroyed in such a crass, pointless and unfunny way.

June returned with a joke about fat women which, no doubt, will have been forgotten when the programme runs a "school bullying special", and another obese teenager is found hanging from a rope. Next, Kevin Devine turned on a video recorder and there - quite unexpectedly - was an old clip of Adrian Mills pretending to be Elvis. "I had absolutely no idea," said Adrian, playing the I'm-deeply-embarrassed card while secretly delighting in the extra attention he was getting. There's nothing like incisive investigative journalism, and Kevin's report into con men was, indeed, nothing like it. Our Kevin had discovered that rarest of beasts, a salesman who told lies, and turned up unannounced at the man's premises. He was clearly hoping for a bit of ratings-boosting Roger Cook violence, but was roundly ignored, and I found myself raising three cheers for con men everywhere. After all, their victims are usually the thick, gullible and the greedy and, frankly, deserve everything they get.

Gavin produced a photo of a plumber's van belonging to "Budjit, Grabbet & Leggete", neither knowing nor caring that there's nothing remotely funny about elaborately contrived names. Then the expressions suddenly went from grin to grim as the team embarked on an astounding piece of xenophobia, castigating poor countries like Greece and Portugal for their low medical standards, and condemning a local doctor in Corfu because "he spoke very poor English". In a script that managed simultaneously to bully and sentimentalise, they relayed a sorry tale of procrastination that ended with a holidaymaker being told "your mother is clinically dead, go home", with tears aplenty to compensate for the irrelevance. Finally, we met a sad bunch of Barrett House dwellers, who held snail racing contests and, even sadder, pretended to be Hoorays. For some reason, Adrian had to kiss a snail's backside (but a man who's worked with Esther for years has doubtless had to kiss far worse things than that), after which he placed the gastropods on the edge of a glass of beer. I had no alternative but to phone the RSPCA and report Esther for cruelty since, even in small quantities, ethyl alcohol is poisonous to snails.

Poison has fuelled That's Life! for two decades. The programme treats all who enter its orbit with contempt, humiliating anyone who takes part (except for Esther who, like all TV tyrants, writes everybody's script), and thankfully Alan Yentob is putting the show out of our misery in a few months, a decision for which he deserves a knighthood. In fact, if he pulled the plug on it in mid-series, I'd get a petition going for canonization.

January 17th 1994

Dear Mr. Lewis Smith -

On behalf of the team I must tell you what pleasure your piece gave us - it was so funny, brilliantly well written. It makes all our work worth while.

Alas, we forgot to mention your favourite "willies" and "titties" - maybe we'll do better in the months to come. But we were delighted to have inspired you to such heights of humour.

Yours sincerely,

9.ii.94

Dear Ms. Rantzen,

Thank you for your letter. May I say how sorry I am that your excellent programme has been axed, scrapped, discontinued and cancelled, and will not be coming back to our screens in any shape or form in the future. Ever.

You do yourself an injustice. The willies and tittes were there, as usual. Watch the tape again.

I look forward to reviewing Hearts of Gold very soon.

Best wishes,

Victor Lewis-Smith

18th February 1994

Dear Victor (if I may),

What a very kind letter! I will certainly keep it to comfort and inspire me in those moments when I am sure we all feel our work is not fully appreciated. While understanding your powerful feelings of loss and deprivation, I must say that twenty-one years is a very decent run for any programme. Some programmes, as you know, are only commissioned for a single series, so we have been very fortunate.

Thank you for also saying how much you look forward to the next series of "Hearts of Gold". We will try and live up to your anticipations. I remain personally grateful to you for your description of me as a tube of mustard, topped by Shergar's teeth, which never fails to get a laugh from "That's Life!" audiences during our warm-up.

With every good wish,

Yours sincerely,