Ever since Boy got back from school my work schedule has fallen to pieces. Every few minutes, just when I’ve got my concentration back after the last interruption, Boy will burst into the office and say, ‘Dad, Dad. How good are you on obscure New Zealanders?’ Or, ‘Quick, Dad, it’s your subject: reptiles!’ Or, ‘Dad, this is ridiculous. Only four people recognised Johnny Marr.’ And so on and on it goes.
If I were a stricter parent or a more self-disciplined worker, I wouldn’t let this happen. Problem is, the programme we’re talking about here is Pointless (BBC1, Mondays) and I’m afraid I’m just as addicted as Boy is. Helpless, I find myself being drawn by an irresistible force towards the TV room where I stand transfixed (kidding myself that if I stand rather than sit it makes it OK) before the screen, congratulating myself on all the obscure answers I know, enjoying the banter between the two presenters, then, obviously, staying to the end to find out whether the finalists have managed to get a pointless answer.
Everything about Pointless is so perfect — the chemistry between Alexander Armstrong and Richard Osman, the throwaway wit, the genius USP whereby only the most obscure answers win — that it seems almost inconceivable it was ever not going to be a hit.
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