Comedians need to stop trying to be TV presenters

Few people would argue that we’re currently living through a golden age of British terrestrial television. Copper, maybe. Nickel, at a push.

Whether you’re judging by quality or innovation, good luck finding much of either lurking on old-school ‘normal’ telly.

Outgunned by streaming services and paralysed by risk-averse decision making, the BBC, ITV and Channel 4 are stuck crouching in the trenches, terrified to raise their heads above the horizon in case Netflix blows them clean off.

Instead, they lob the occasional dud grenade in the form of another tepid police drama, a mid-afternoon quiz show, or a totally unnecessary 12-week ‘process’ to find the nation’s best pancake flipper called The Great British Toss-Off.

Take the deployment of funny types, for instance. Britain still produces brilliant comedians. Stand-up comedy is as popular as ever and social media is full of great young sketch comics. So where are all the TV vehicles built around funny people simply being, y’know, funny?

The variety specials, for instance. Your Dave Allens and your Victoria Woods. Blimey, even your Russ Abbotts. Alright, maybe not your Brian Conleys. Let’s not get carried away.

And the sketch shows… C’mon. Okay, so they’re expensive to produce. But then so is paying Romesh Ranganathan to go on holiday with his mum for 26 weeks of the year.

SNL UK and its viral clips has proven there’s the room, appetite and the talent. Albeit, it’s done so rather quietly over on Sky One, so without most of us seeing any of it on an actual television set.

Somewhere along the line, the telly industry seems to have forgotten what comedians are actually for. They’re not there to point at cathedrals, tell us how nice Harry Ramsden’s chips are or explain the fascinating history of Victorian pumping stations.

You wouldn’t sign Jude Bellingham and then stick him behind reception because he’s got a lovely smile. Just like you wouldn’t book Dua Lipa for a festival and ask her to help put up the rigging for the main stage.

Yet TV commissioners seem to look at a successful stand-up and think: ‘Excellent. Let’s get them comparing caravan parks in Shropshire.’

We’ve somehow reached the point where Britain’s funniest people spend less time making us laugh than they do crowning Britain’s best scaffolder or wandering around Whitby looking pleasantly surprised by the quality and price of a large battered sausage. It’s a spectacular waste of talent.

It wasn’t long ago that if you saw a comedian on television, they were at least doing some comedy. Some more successfully than others, admittedly.

Now, instead of being given a show and the freedom to be amusing, the suits scour comedy clubs, nurture the talent they spot, then shove them into tedious travelogues or presenting gigs that would even embarrass a Butlins redcoat.

It’s become television’s default setting. Find someone funny, remove the funny bit and hope nobody notices.

By the time they’ve fronted three travel series, a celebrity knitting show and something involving canals, you’ve almost forgotten why they were famous in the first place.

The only place television seems happy for comedians to be funny these days is somewhere that isn’t television. Comedy has been ghettoised to the spoken word, flourishing on podcasts and Radio 4 (if not always being hilarious), all while primetime TV continues to bloat with increasingly tedious comedian-fronted travelogues and celebrity competitions.

Do I think Joel Dommett deserves an hour-long primetime Saturday night BBC slot with free rein to perform skits and wacky dance numbers with big name guests? No. Obviously not.

This isn’t 1974 and he isn’t Morecambe or even Wise. But why, as a stand-up, are his TV options limited to introducing Davina McCall and Mo Gilligan to Dominic Littlewood dressed as a giant foam spatul?

And does Susan Calman even remember what a microphone looks like, do you think? She’s spent so many years wandering around drab seaside towns mumbling about 2p machines for Channel 5 she may well have forgotten her original occupation.

Nine series of Susan Calman’s Grand Days Out there have been. Nine. She’s gone on more than 60 holidays alone. To places like Lowestoft. It’s not fair on her. And it’s not fair on us. Give her a Sunday night ITV variety show. Or at least The Great British Toss-Off gig.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk. 

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