In August, 17-year-old Michael Perham became the youngest person to have sailed around the world solo. He is well-spoken, handsome, has a lovely (or so it seems) mum and dad, a nice girlfriend, his achievement is immense. So why was the Cutting Edge documentary charting his world record so slow and boring? Possibly because it follows the success of someone from a drama-free, kind family. When everyone’s jolly nice, there’s nothing much to say but “Good show”.

Beckie, his girlfriend, seemed nervous, reporting that “One day he came round the house and said, ‘I’m sailing around the world in November’.” Periodically the documentary would flick back to her looking upset — not about Michael on the open water but the state of the relationship — but that ultimately, and mystifyingly, seemed fine. On board his boat, there were inevitable dramas — but they were all resolvable. Various bits of kit didn’t work, a wave tipped him over, something got caught under the boat that had to be mended. But, hey ho, each blip was quickly de-blipped and on and on we churned. Oh good, you thought, New Year’s Eve. This will necessitate a moving call home. But no: parents were in Trafalgar Square, communicated with son on boat in middle of ocean, all very British and stilted, happy new year, cheerio.

Michael’s voice did quake occasionally, and these moments were moving, because when he seemed teary, alone and sad, it reminded you of how young he was. At points, he did live a bit of a teenage fantasy, dressed up in Hawaiian drag for no better reason than wanting to. He went to the top of the mast, he got through the Panama Canal, he survived squalls. You knew it would turn out all right in the end (especially if you’d heard it on the news). He got a hug from his devoted dad and, of course, the world record, which had been held by an American lad for a gallingly short time. But half an hour of this would have been fine: it felt almost as long as the journey itself, without the boon of seeing live snorting whales emerging leeward of your sofa.

Wonderland is self-consciously “quirky”: quirky focus, quirky music, and so arch that you’re pretty sure it’s slyly grinning at its subjects. Last night’s was old University Challenge winners, who were all a little odd and eggheady.

There was a classicist who ate mounds of sandwiches and lived in his head, and a former contestant from Keele who, like the classicist, lived in her head and drove her dog potty with confined-space morris dancing.

The documentary didn’t celebrate their superior knowledge, but laughed at them — with a straight face, of course, which made this gawp-at-the-swots exercise a little unpleasant. The one trenchant point made was how intelligence or a desire to learn and succeed academically sets you apart — the admirable thing that the participants shared was not to be cowed by the philistinism, hostility and bullying they had faced. They were proud of who they were. The geeks shall not just inherit the Earth, they’ll also stun Jeremy Paxman with their speedy wisdom.

Are the duos who signed up to The Restaurant on the right show? Raymond Blanc’s search for a couple to run their own restaurant set the pretty intelligent challenge of seeing how the remaining hopefuls would do running, variously, branches of Pizza Express, YO! Sushi and the “pan-Asian” Tampopo. They did ... terribly. In YO!, the conveyor belts were soon denuded of sushi or anything sushi-related, despite the valiant attempts of Barney and Badger to keep things rolling in the manner of a two-men- against-an-invading-army operation. The art of YO! Sushi hand-roll construction was trampled upon heathenishly.

In Tampopo JJ and James followed a bleak downward trajectory, starting out, oiled up with Sloaney swagger. Keeping it chilled and real, yah? Then JJ’s orders backed up, his food was badly executed. James had a brilliant exchange with some diners. “Are you enjoying it?” “No.” James looked stunned, no one had ever told him he’s rubbish at anything. He croaked an “Are you sure?” Ouch, feel your pain, yah?

The greatest culinary catastrophe unfolded in Pizza Express. By the end of the evening the manageress, who probably figured, “Hey, great, free publicity from Raymond Blanc”, was begging Sean, the over-excited flower vendor who likes cuddling his wife Janet, to leave. Go. Now. The customers hadn’t eaten, the place was beginning to look like a beer-sodden speakeasy and — she didn’t need to say it, but it was writ large over her screaming features — NOT ALL THE MENUS WERE FACING THE DOOR. Accordingly, over a pool of tears and stringy Mozzarella, with drizzled pesto on a barely risen dough base, Blanc expelled Sean and Janet.

Anarchy also reigned in Curb Your Enthusiasm, a show that you recommend to a friend first with a shrug, “It’s great, so good”, then if they ignore your counsel you find yourself grabbing them by the lapels and saying it more urgently. Until they understand.

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