Prescott: The Class System and Me (BBC Two)

"I hope,” mused Pauline Prescott, reclining next to her husband in their enviable, croquet-kitted garden and considering their starring role in The Class System and Me, “we don’t come across as the Hamiltons.” Dig that comparison! Neil Hamilton left politics in disgrace, knocked off the first rudder of ministerial office by cupidity and stupidity. John Prescott retired after a steady career that ended in a decade as the Deputy Prime Minister. It takes a very special ex-deputy PM to evoke, let alone in his own wife’s mind, a comparison with a low-grade never-was such as Neil Hamilton.

But by saying the unsayable, Mrs Prescott revealed how astute she is. Prezza must have seen the programme as a chance to ride his hobby horse, class; Pauline knew they were in Louis Theroux territory and that the director Amanda Blue was out to make mischief. Ah, if only Pauline rather than John Prescott had entered Parliament, we would surely have ended up with a minister who was clever, articulate and wise. As opposed to . . .

But we would lose a great comic character. Prescott’s class has very little to do with his innate absurdity. Alan Johnson, Ken Livingstone and John Major are working class, too. I interviewed Prescott when he was in opposition and he was a natural comedian even then. Leaning over his desk to grab a newspaper cutting praising his oratory, he managed to dunk his tie in his tea. His clumsiness, physical and verbal, did not preclude him from being a highly effective minister, of course — yet, funnily enough, no one ever accused him of being one of those either.

Blue concluded early on that class was “complex, subjective and sometimes nonsensical” and made it her mission to convince Prescott that the whole thing was a tad beyond him. In addition, she wanted to show that there was no one quite as out of touch with real life as Two Jags. First, she bamboozled him with a meeting with Lord Onslow, a peer so at ease with himself that he greeted the Prescotts with his flies undone. Next she took him to the Hay Book Festival in the hope that he would feel even more uneasy (“I have never read a book,” Prezza said before contradicting himself).

But her coup was setting up a meeting with three unemployed bruisers from Peckham. These girls, she explained, over their objections, were chavs. They wondered if Prescott had liked Cherie Blair. He hadn’t. He wondered what they thought of Gordon Brown. “Who’s Gordon Brown?” they asked. Seriously. The programme reduced Prescott to stuttering incoherence. “We are the ones. I can see them and I can smell them and sometimes I eat them.” Reduced? Situation normal more like.

When Borat Came to Town: Storyville (BBC Four)

Storyville’s When Borat Came to Town visited the village of Glod (lit: mud) in Romania. A couple of years ago Sacha Baron Cohen had chosen it to represent his character Borat’s hometown in Kazakhstan in his highly successful, very funny movie. Participants got the rate suggested by the local film board, $4 each. It is not always easy to know what Baron Cohen means by his satire and it is a fair bet that the Gloddites had even less idea. Let’s just say an elderly mechanic, Spiridom Ciorebas, was surprised to be represented as the local abortionist. Spiri, like his son Ion, didn’t want an apology: he wanted money. Glod may not be quite as backward as Borat made out, but it lacks some of the later mod cons, such as running water.

In a nicer world, Baron Cohen and Fox, who released the film, would have built a water plant as a thank you. In this one, a smooth American lawyer called Fagan descended, drank the local grog, and promised Glod millions of dollars. In fact, the case went cold, Fagan did not return calls and the picket of the Oscars that he promised ended up with three of Borat’s victims being thrown out of Fox’s offices in London. Despairing, Ion had a heart attack. The message was clear: when Hollywood screws you, you stay screwed. Mercedes Stalenhoef’s documentary, though sweeter natured than Borat, hardly did Glod any favours either.

Dead Set (E4)

Television critics don’t come better than Charlie Brooker. His BBC Four Screenwipes are in my personal archive of documentaries about telly. But sadly his comedy-horror serial Dead Set reminds me of what happened when the New Yorker’s great Pauline Kael was lured to work for Hollywood: nothing much.

There was a good plot here — zombies invade England and only the Big Brother housemates are isolated from it — and it should have led to great satire on reality TV and a warm homage to zombie flicks. But, despite some glimmers of life, it was no Sean of the Dead. The pacing was so slow that the first 30 minutes of this five-night entertainment could have been cut entirely. But do give up the day job, Charlie. Competition like yours, we don’t need.

andrew.billen@thetimes.co.uk

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