THE MOST hilarious thing about men going through a mid-life crisis is that they think that no one has noticed. Even as they sit astride their new Harley-Davidson, tight-fit denims straining at the waist, friendship bracelet tied around their wrist and what is left of their teeth bleached into Richard Madeleydom, they still believe that people will fall for the line that they “just fancied a change”.

Self delusion is an integral part of man’s refusal to accept the onset of age. But I wonder how much self delusion was required by the actors in last night’s Manchild (BBC Two) to believe that this script was remotely funny.

When Nigel Havers had to sit down in that plastic surgeon’s office and rub those wobbly, false breasts into his face to a backing track of Rod Stewart’s You Wear It Well, did he think it was genuinely amusing or did he know deep down that it was a scene that even Benny Hill would probably have rejected as too immature?

The writer Nick Fisher deserves some credit for coming up with the idea to write a comedy about four men railing against middle age, since it hasn’t been done before. This is the second series, but I must admit that I didn’t see the first, but to me there seems to be zero chemistry between the characters. It is hard to believe that this lot would say hello if they fell over each other in the street, never mind be old friends. This makes for a bit too much over acting.

Gary (Ray Burdis), the only one among them who is still married, wanted advice on what to get his wife for their silver wedding anniversary. Patrick (Don Warrington), the lifelong bachelor, suggested that he dispense with any ideas of jewellery and hire instead a firmbuttocked young stud for a night to remind her (for she is 44) what it was like to have a twentysomething lover. Fine. Good. Bit of comic potential there, especially if she ends up enjoying it.

Except that Gary didn’t, did he? He bottled out and tracked down the first car they ever had a shag in instead, which is all very nice for them but not exactly side-splitting for us.

The only point of the stud suggestion seemed to be to tee up Terry (Nigel Havers) to say: “Yeah. Eight inches of throbbing dick.” But you see, I don’t think that’s very funny. Yes, it’s naughty, in a “ooooh Nigel Havers just said ‘throbbing dick’” kind of way, but just throwing in dirty sentences for the sake of it smacks of desperation.

That said, there were a couple of things that made it worth watching. First, it is beautifully shot and easy on the eye. Secondly, the sauna scene revealed that Don Warrington has manbreasts. Childish, I grant you, but there it is.

Any man who is going through a dyed hair-style mid-life crisis would do well to pull themselves together and take a tip from Bobby Robson, a man who really knows what hitting a crisis in middle age feels like. Robson, who is currently celebrating not only his 70th birthday but the fact that he is the oldest manager in the Premiership’s history, was in his fifties when the press decided to subject him to the sort of character assassination that would have had most men rushing for therapy and the male menopausal ginseng capsules.

Sir Bobby at 70 . . . Just Call Me Bobby (BBC One) showed how, back in the Nineties, Robson was managing England when the tabloids turned on him, demanding his sacking and displaying a viciousness never before unleashed on the national manager. But did Robson break down or leave the game, or whinge or even buy a nasty leather jacket?

No, he bounced back and had the football writers eating their words when he went on to lead Barcelona to glory, signing the best player in the world, Ronaldo, along the way. Robson reacted to his mid-life crisis with Geordie grit, not a trip to the aromatherapist. Even when he was found to have a cancerous tumour in his face — something he had written off for years as sinusitis — and had the roof of his mouth and his top teeth removed, he refused to retire. He recalled standing in his bathroom after surgery trying to put into his mouth the plastic obdurator that holds his face together and weeping with despair.

And where is he now? Still wearing the same shiny suits, still with hair whiter than Santa’s beard but doing a great job at Newcastle and looking years younger than most 70-year-olds.

Perhaps it is just that they don’t make footballers like they used to. These days ninety- grand-a-week players throw a sulk and take to wearing Alice bands when they get a graze on their head. As Hitting the Bar (ITV1) reminded us, in the old days they used to go out and play their hearts out having downed 15 pints the night before.

We all know drinking is neither big nor clever, but you can’t help but feel a sneaking respect for the likes of the former England star Alan Hudson who, suffering a blinding hangover one Saturday morning, nipped into a pub near the Chelsea ground for a hair of the dog an hour before kick-off.

Nobody wants players to end up with jumbo-sized livers like George Best. But it would be nice if today’s players weren’t quite such big girl’s blouses. Or in David Beckham’s case, so fond of wearing them.

Joe Joseph is away

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