May 28. Has anyone ever put so many hours into one poxy GCSE as Denise Fox on EastEnders? Half-starved Denise has been poring over those English Literature books for so long she ought to be able to recite them backwards. Even people studying for a Masters degree in rocket science are saying woah, take a break love. It can't help that their titles are full of things she can't afford to eat: Taste Of Honey, Pigeon English, Animal Farm...

Denise's plight suits the soap's propaganda that "half the country is at food banks". But it's all self-inflicted. She walked out of her job like she walked out on Kush and out of that food bank. The woman chooses to go without. She could do bar work, she could set up a market stall (there's never a wait in Walford). She could start shagging Ian again... Pride be damned, he's got a restaurant! Snacks are his speciality! Besides, he's not getting any at home, and face it, she's had a lot worse. Yet she'd rather scoff food out of bins. It's just a shame she just can't tuck into that massive chip on her shoulder.

Mick Carter's storyline is loopy too. He bought the Vic outright with a bag full readies. Why couldn't he take out an interest-only mortgage to fix the roof? Why couldn't he borrow? (Mick asked about a no-interest loan and the bank told him "we're not interested"). Why wasn't Lady Di's operation covered by her pet insurance? It wasn't a "previously existing condition", it was freshly diagnosed. Yet hard-hearted Shirley, the woman who gave up her kids, forged Mick's signature to sell the pub's freehold to save the pooch... It makes no sense, but then it rarely does. Soap writers are more interested in pushing iffy agendas than in crafting credible plots. When they do come up with a headline-grabbing yarn, it's inevitably recycled. Who shot JR begat Who shot Phil begat Who pushed Ken and Who Killed Lucy... I'll let you in on a secret, Bobby didn't do it. Lucy committed suicide! She topped herself after reading her story arc for the coming year. They've forgotten soap's golden rule: Thou shalt not omit adultery. Mickney – if it goes all the way – can't come soon enough.

*STUPID question of the week. Shirley Carter: "Do I look like an idiot?" Look one, sound one, are one, love.

*DENISE's favourite Eng Lit books: To Grill A Mocking Bird, Lord Of The Pies, Three Men In A Broth...

WHITE Gold is The Wolf Of Wall Street for Essex double-glazing spivs – the Rats of Romford if you like. Or more accurately the Prats of Pitsea. Set in 1983, it portrays salesmen as lying wide-boys who couldn't give a flying footbolt about the poor sods they have over. Double-glazing isn't like that now of course, because now creeps like them are running energy companies. The show charts the rise of Vincent Swan and his bickering oppos Fitzpatrick and Lavender (Jay and Simon from the Inbetweeners). Nothing about it works. It's cruder than a Benidorm stag comic but utterly witless, and as sharp as a Cabbage Patch doll. Even the mood-setting 80s soundtrack strays into the 70s. Smarmy Swan – more Bell-end than Belfort – is lucky to only get punched once. "Salesmen are like vampires," he says. "Never invite one into your home... he won't leave until he tastes blood." True then, true today.

WHEN FBI agent Dale Cooper investigated the murder of prom queen Laura Palmer in the original Twin Peaks he ended up trapped in limbo by her killer, a demon spirit called Bob who assumed his identity. In Twin Peaks: The Return, Evil Dale frames headmaster Bill for the gruesome murder of a librarian, while Real Dale is stuck talking to ghosts – and a creepy talking tree with a human brain. Meanwhile in Manhattan, student Sam keeps watch on a large glass box. Nothing happens until Tracey, who brings him coffee, comes on to him. As they grapple, a strange entity apparently made of static erupts from the box and kills them. Only it's not an entity, it's Real Dale breaking free. I think. Confused? You should be. The show is as mystifying as Lost crossed with Legion and multiplied by The Prisoner, with additional material from the writers of 3-2-1. It's also slow, weird and brutal. And yet if you buy into David Lynch's twisted, trippy magic, it's gripping.

HOT on TV: Brian Conley (Palladium) – give him a show, ITV... Twin Peaks (SkyAt) – madder than a wet hen.

ROT on TV: Your Face Or Mine – the "Brexit bug" in the sausage of love... The President Show – sh*te house... Keith & Paddy Picture Show – Star Bores.

NEW Dublin-based drama Paula was so bleak I had to watch EastEnders straight afterwards to cheer myself up. Paula, a sour-faced chemistry teacher, shags handsome handyman James, a murderer with a haunted van. We knew he was a wrong'un because he charged her 600Euros to block up some rat holes in her cellar. Now that's proper scary.

*THE technical term for sex with Paula: grumpy-pumpy.

RANDOM questions: how long into The Island would it be before you stopped feeling sorry for the fat weeping woman and started wondering what she'd taste like in a pot? Why isn't the first question Jeremy Vine asks on "Celebrity" Eggheads "Anyone got a clue who this lot are? Why does the new Alien film poster look like an optician's eye chart?

*AT times like these of great political incompetence we really miss the coruscating wit of Spitting Image. I did wonder briefly if those puppet heads on Bigheads could be commandeered by a crack team of ITV satirists to fill the gap. A daft idea. ITV don't have a crack team of satirists. And nor does any other channel, as The Last Leg and Have I Got News For You continue to prove.

*WHAT will happen to the Babushka dolls when the crappy quiz gets cancelled? How about a late night ITV2 spin-off starring their ruder cousins Excitya, Astridya, Oilyaup and Rideya? (And I cleaned that up).

SO we now know that Ken Barlow nearly copped it on Corrie after son Daniel tried to brain him with a poetry collection. I understand that Dan will ask police to take a second book into consideration as it was Byron get one free. Sorry.

A FEMALE BBC star is accused of stripping naked in front of an 11-year-old boy. I don't wish to play down the trauma but it could have been worse. It could've been Dot Cotton.

*IF Nookie Bear fronted Impossible would they have to change the name to Incossiggle?

SMALL Joys of TV: Brian Conley's rib-tickling Bradley Walsh impression. The Civil War (Sky Box Sets). John Ryder QC, The Trial. Emma Rigby. Rock 'n' Roll's Dodgiest Deals. Arena: American Epic. Mick Carter's dinner plate hurling – it wouldn't half liven up MasterChef.

RANDOM irritations: The tsunami of platitudes after the Manchester atrocity and TV's collective failure to address the real issues. Shallow, selfish Aida on Your Face Or Mine. The 'Who pushed Ken?' storyline on Corrie. All things must pass of course, but they're dragging this out like a giant kidney stone.

SEPARATED at birth: Marc Bolan and Natalie, The Trial? One banged a gong, the other failed to bang up a fictional wrong'un.

TV Maths: Max Branning + Auberon Waugh = Max Hill QC, The Trial

May 21. The Baftas were so dull, safe and backward-looking they made the election campaign seem almost exciting. Old faces hoovered up the gongs – Attenborough, Coogan, Michael McIntyre, Ant & Dec, Panorama... Magnificent as some of them are, it did seem a bit yesterday, especially when there were so many terrific new shows in 2016. It was absurd that The Crown won nothing. Claire Foy in particular was robbed. Even Sarah Lancashire who beat her seemed shocked. It was as if pro-Beeb Bafta were burying their heads ostrich-style in the sands of (Radio) Times to blot out the threat from Netflix and co. Gems like Stranger Things, Line Of Duty and The Night Manager missed out too, as did Peaky Blinders, Cold Feet and Deutschland 83. Yet the lightweight escapism of The Durrells was in the running for best drama. Yeah! Take that Game Of Thrones! Keep your high-end steak, we've got marshmallows!

Some decisions were perverse; others reflected the desperate state of TV entertainment. How did Claudia Winkleman, specialist skill squinting at the autocue, end up on the shortlist for "entertainment performance"? Adam Hills is better at toeing C4's right-on party line than generating belly-laughs. And if Charlie Brooker's snarky middle class sneering is really the pinnacle of TV humour, isn't it time every comedy commissioner in the country fell on their swords?

There were richly deserved wins for Planet Earth II, filthy Phoebe Waller-Bridge, People Just Do Nothing, Adeel Akthar and Danny Dyer's right royal revelations. But even the Must See Moment shortlist was questionable – Ed Balls dancing Gangnam Style, as opposed to Ed nearly dropping Katya? Why? That was the funniest lift incident since Solange and Jay Z. As for Sue Perkins, if she were in a double act with Syd Little she'd be the straight man. The ability to shout "Bake!" in a variety of silly voices doesn't make you a comedian... as Sue proved with an opening Baftas monologue that managed to be as smug as it was laugh-free. These awards are supposed to celebrate the very best of modern TV. So why book sour-faced Sue, associated with abysmal axed flops like Don't Scare The Hare and Heading Out, to host them?

SMALL scandals dog Britain's Got Talent like big ones follow Trump. DNA's mind-reading routine was remarkably similar to The Clairvoyants who came second on last year's America's Got Talent. Adam Keeler used giant letters to act out pop lyrics – just like club comedy duo Raymond & Mr Timpkins have done for decades. While magician Carl Leek was astounded to see his unique act performed on the show by an eight-year-old. Coincidence? Possibly. Except R&T and Carl were both scouted by ITV... and Carl auditioned a week before Issy Simpson and won four Yeses but was never shown... You don't have to be Sherlock to suspect foul play. This is more than the usual showbiz flimflam, like telling us Angara Contortion are "Russian circus performers" but not mentioning their successful career with Cirque du Soleil. At worst it smacks of corruption, at best, laziness. BGT is now over-reliant on musical acts or imported ones and marred by the useless judges green-lighting rubbish. Step forward robo-flop Jay Wynn, world's worst mimic IrShad Sheikh and John the hoop guy – all put through by the easily amused panel. Comedy magician Matt Edwards stormed it last weekend. This lot barely managed a light drizzle.

THREE Girls was harrowing. The BBC drama told the sickening true story of the Rochdale child-grooming scandal. Holly, 15, was lured into the web of adult abusers who gave her free kebabs, vodka and fags and took their payment in gang rape, sodomy and abuse. When sexual-health worker Sara Rowbotham blew the whistle, the cops arrested Holly's pal Amber for inciting girls into prostitution. It took Greater Manchester Plod two years to target the perpetrators. We know why. The girls were working class and white. Their abusers were "British Asians" – actually almost entirely Pakistani Muslims but no-one dared mention this in case it encouraged "thought-crime". Just as fear of appearing "racist" neutered the authorities, so fear of "Islamophobia" prevented BBC1 from telling the full story. There were 1400 victims in total. Shamefully, police, social workers and councillors betrayed them all. Sara was later sacked. She should've been knighted. All but two of the abusers are already free.

HOT on TV: Molly Windsor, Three Girls... Little Boy Blue... Ian McElhinney – Redwater's saving grace.

ROT on TV: Sue Perkins? Somebody should... Francesco Gabbini & his Eurovision gorilla – monkey nuts... Kat & Alfie: Redwater – Ballykisscobblers.

WHEN Bob Hope sees the desert for the first time in Road To Morocco, he quips "This must be the place where they empty all the egg-timers... " There's been nothing so funny on Dara & Ed's Road To Mandalay. In fact, there's barely anything funny in it at all. So what's the point? Celeb-driven road-trips rarely shed real light on foreign cultures. Alice Morris' in-depth Morocco To Timbuktu shows how to do it properly. No whinging, no sniggering, no ego.

*WHO does Dara most remind you of? Mr Blobby, Uncle Fester or Gru from Despicable Me? A genie, I reckon. If you rub his head do you get three wishes?

*THERE'S more meat in Arca's thong than there was in ITV's Leaders' Debate. Without May and Corbyn, it was definitely more plum time than prime time. Although in fairness it could've made a really bitchy edition of Your Face Or Mine.

*SO Kat's secret son is a deranged killer priest. What a disgrace to the Slater family name. A priest.

*COUNT Arthur Strong? Gags awful weak.

*BRIAN Conley's live show The Greatest Entertainer (In His Price Range) mixes gags, sauce, and even fire-eating with numbers from his stage musical triumphs. It's a bravura tour de force from the multi-talented all-rounder, currently playing to packed houses nationwide. Just don't mention the puppet.

SMALL Joys of Eurovision: Romania reviving yodelling. Demy's legs. Poland's Kasia apparently producing a flock of doves from her backside. Graham Norton on Kasia's violinist: "In fact her brother will be fiddling with her on stage tonight".

RANDOM irritations: the infuriating decline of Prison Break – the writers want locking up. Jeremy Vine. Corrie's "naming ceremony". Marks & Spencer using Bowie's Rebel Rebel in their latest ad – what's remotely rebellious about M&S?

SEPARATED at birth: Michael Jackson and Sam Womack as Morticia Addams? One wedded to unspeakable weirdness, the other is in a musical.

TV Maths: Alex Salmond + barrister's wig = Justice Cunliffe, Harlots.

RED Bull Racing Team Principal Chris Horner was talking about their chances at the Russian Gran Prix when he told Channel 4: "We're hoping for a good suck off Bottas". Goof of the month!

May 14. King Charles III was utterly unbelievable. For starters it had a Labour Prime Minister... The bonkers BBC drama was set in the near-future just after the Queen's death. Written cleverly – okay, irritatingly – in cod Shakespearean verse, the 90minute snooze-athon felt about as close to reality as American Gods. Prince Harry was a gloomy, self-loathing sap easily swayed by his lover Jess and her puerile student politics. Kate was a scheming Lady Macbeth figure, Princess Di was floating about as a ghost and priggish William stabbed his dad in the back.

The crunch came when Charles refused royal assent to a government bid to suppress press freedom. The ambitious PM immediately tried to push through another bill to curtail the monarch's power. So Chas turned up at the Commons in full regalia and used the royal prerogative to dissolve Parliament. This bold move triggered a constitutional crisis, a fresh election and anti-royal riots across the country. Except... if far-Left mobs were actually running amok in Pall Mall, wouldn't pro-Royal yobbos turn out in force too? And wouldn't the cops have brought out water cannons long before the army felt the need to park battle tanks outside Buck House? (The Household Cavalry were written off in an insulting aside as just being for ceremonial purposes when they're actually highly trained and take part in modern combat operations.)

Besides much as liberal playwrights and the Beeb would love to muzzle newspapers, it's far more likely that if Charles were to make such a drastic stand he'd do it over GM crops or fracking. The crisis was averted when turncoat Wills teamed up with the posho PM and told his dad to abdicate or he'd never see his sons or his grandkids again. That threat was enough, apparently, to persuade Charles to lay aside his life-long duty in seconds. Talk about anticlimax. One minute he was making a principled stand "like an Albion oak, sewn in British soil", the next he was a rotting cottonwood bowing to emotional blackmail. Wills was crowned and Harry elbowed Jess (and the joys of Wetherspoons, kebabs and Pot Noodles) to stand by his bruv. We never saw dead Di again but on past form she's probably still up on the Palace roof entertaining the ghost of Henry VIII.

THERE were three grown-up Barbara Windsors in Babs, so at one stage we were seeing six of them... Cue Sid James chortle. Whatever "something" the young Barbara Ann Deeks had, she's clearly still got it. Every time Barbara, 79, appeared she lit up the screen like a FlashTorch. But why did writer Tony Jordan skip over huge chunks of her life? The Carry On films made Bar a star. She was in them, and the TV specials, for 13 years. The movies are repeated to this day. Yet Jordan gave them far less prominence than her early stage roles. There was no mention of her three year affair with Sid, and as the biopic stopped at EastEnders, no Mike Reid either... Jordan's script managed to be both full of itself and superficial. Instead of depth we got cod psychology with Barbara's Dad, John Deeks, painted as the villain. Yet her official biographer says likeable Arsenal fan Deeks didn't cut his daughter out of his life when he split with her mum Rose (who cheated on him during the war). Bar's marriage to roguish Ronnie Knight seemed awfully short-lived on screen too. It actually lasted 21 years. Samantha Spiro sparkled, but this strangely disjointed, air-brushed drama didn't have the space to do Babs justice. It should've been a three-parter.

A SHOCK revelation on Inside The Freemasons as we finally met the brains behind the operation – Nookie Bear sporting full Masonic regalia! It makes you wonder if any other vintage TV puppets were "on the square". Probably not. Spit the Dog would never have mastered the ritual. He'd have just gobbed all over the stewards. Daft duck Orville couldn't even do the handshake. Zig and Zag had no trousers to roll up. Lord Charles would've been blackballed for calling the inner guard "a silly arse". And they'd have never found a blindfold big enough to fit HR Pufnstuf. I can't imagine Emu being initiated either. He wouldn't just have bared his own breast – he'd have bared everyone else's... and wrestled the worshipful master to the temple floor.

*MASONS who stop attending lodge meetings are known as country members. A showbiz agent once introduced himself to Jim Davidson saying "I'm a country member." "I remember," Jim deadpanned.

HOT on TV: Samantha Spiro, Babs... Gillian Anderson, American Gods... Billions finale... Trevor Noah, The Daily Show.

ROT on TV: The Keith & Paddy Picture Show – a crock-of-piss-now... Mind The Age Gap... Britain Today Tonight – roll on tomorrow... C5's Elizabeth I – such a dog even the Supervet couldn't save it.

BANANARAMA appeared at the Palladium. Even Robert De Niro wasn't waiting for that. ITV finally let Joe Pasquale do some comedy magic. Good. Variety shows need variety comics as opposed to the likes of Mark Watson who died on his arse the week before. Scruffy Watson had the weakest material this side of Bridge Street market. It looked like his dressing room was a skip.

*A MUSEUM of Failure is opening in Sweden. Presumably they'll have a whole room devoted to the Nightly Show... ITV claim they "did everything in their power" to make that a hit. Yeah, everything except booking the right hosts, the right guests and the right producer...

*DID you notice that Linda Carter's dressing gown was a perfect fit on broad-shouldered Woody who's at least 8inches taller than her? It must be made of the same magical material as the soap's miraculously expanding bedroom walls.

*THERE have been no red boxes in Theresa May's bedroom, husband Philip told The One Show. Just as well Julian Clary isn't on telly at the moment, isn't it.

*EXTREME Cake Makers? Dull! Suggest Extremist Cake Makers. To include: The Osama Bun laden with Isis icing, Nick Griffin's tiffin (all-vanilla), and the Marine Meringue – eat carefully, it's only soft on the surface.

SMALL Joys of TV: Buddy Holly: Rave On. Barbara Windsor's own cameos in Babs. Minder re-runs (ITV4). Kaggy on The Island – useless but cute. The BBC4 A-bomb documentary being narrated by a John Shrapnel. Joe Pasquale as "The Assassin of Doom" (Palladium).

RANDOM irritations: Lazy and pointless vox pop on the news. The continued decline of Newsnight. The dull, 'potless Denise' plot on DeadEnders. Those over-paid, under-performing team captions on Have I Got News For You – are Paul Merton's traditional two gags really worth £50K a show?

SEPARATED at birth: Alison Moss and Eddie Izzard? One a notorious force for evil, the other killed someone.

TV Maths: Sir Ian McKellen + barrister's wig = shorn alpaca.

May 7. There are so many sizzling sex scenes on screen these days, watching TV can feel like living in Charlie Sheen's head. It's almost as if execs are playing the carnal equivalent of poker. I'll see your fang-banging and raise you bed-breaking, incest and orgies. For lust, thrust and WTF, though, American Gods tops the lot. Bilquis, an African love goddess, hooks up with a flabby bloke who can't believe his luck. "You're the sexiest goddamn thing I ever got to touch for free," he drools. All she seems to want is adoration. "Worship me!" she demands. "Say my name!" He's having the ride of his life and willingly obliges. As he nears ecstasy, Bilquis swallows him, whole.

But not with her mouth... Instead, the poor sod shrinks and vanishes between her legs. It is, as Donald Trump might say, the mother of all bonks.

There are worst ways to die on this extraordinary fantasy saga which packs in Vikings, barroom brawls and buckets of blood. American Gods starts with armed robber Shadow Moon getting released from clink early for his wife's funeral. She's died in a car crash while giving his best mate a Divine Brown special. On the flight home, he meets Ian McShane's Mr Wednesday (Norse god Wotan), an oily conman who hires him as his minder/sidekick. Within hours he's battling Mad Sweeney, a surprisingly lofty leprechaun, who tries to beat the bejeezus out of him. Another not so divine being leaves him dangling in a noose. Shadow also gets propositioned after his wife's funeral by his best friend's widow who is keen to, ahem, spit his seed on her hubby's grave. Well I suppose it makes a change from wreaths and flowers.

The AmPrime series is hypnotically inventive, revoltingly blood-thirsty and occasionally silly... but never dull. Adapted from Neil Gaiman's fantasy novel, it's essentially a story about faith. Without worship, the old gods are losing power. Humans have found modern deities to adore, the gods of technology, credit cards, the internet and shopping malls. And these nasty newbies want the old guard gone. A storm is coming and Shadow is in the eye of it. The opener was bold, beautiful and bonkers. Let's hope the gods of plot and pace are stronger than the gods of shock and gore.

IT'S the most powerful story in sport – getting knocked down only to haul yourself off the deck and win. It happened twice last weekend. First when Anthony Joshua showed the world his guts, power and class so gloriously in the O2 arena. And then on Line Of Duty, the best British crime drama of the decade. AC-12 were on the canvas as the series finale began. Out-smarted by ruthless Roz Huntley, the anti-corruption cops were locked out of their own investigation with slimy ACC Hilton set to land a knock-out blow by framing Ted Hastings. Could writer Jed Mercurio turn the tables and nail the bad guys convincingly in a single hour? Of course he could. There was as much chance of Jed's script letting us down as there is of Diane Abbott replacing Rachel Riley on Countdown. Nerves were wracked and the plot twisted like a mutant pretzel as the team slowly but steadily forced "wee witch" Roz to confess. Then she nicked her own brief, Jimmy Lakewell, and Hilton shot himself (unless his sinister criminal bosses faked his suicide... ). Either way Hilton was corrupt kingpin H, fella, not Hastings. The only thing Ted cares about is catching bent coppers. Long may he do so.

IT was "take your daughter on the run with a murderer week" on Corrie. But The Last Kingdom delivered a far more gripping "save a king's daughter from Viking slaughter" climax. Uhtred and his loyal men staged the 9th century equivalent of an SAS raid to free Aethelflaed from her Norse captors – Erik, who loved her, and his demented brother Sigefrid. Stubborn wino Odda raised a small militia, the Devonshire fyrd, to march on the Danes' Benfleet stronghold against King Alfred's orders. He wasn't too sloshed to realise that the ransom Alfred had agreed to pay would fund an army large enough to crush him. Alfred rallied his forces to head Odda off, arriving just as Uhtred rode in with Sigefrid's maniacs on his tail. Odda took his own life rather than stand trial for "treason". Yet if he hadn't defied his King, there would have been no Wessex and consequently no England. Sad to see valiant Clapa go down fighting. This potent tale of courage and patriotism is an under-rated classic.

HOT on TV: Line Of Duty finale... Ian McShane, American Gods... The Last Kingdom... Little Boy Blue... Car Share... Lucy Fallon (Corrie).

ROT on TV: Babushka – sucks like Bilquis's beaver... Rylan Clark – dolly wally... Extreme Cake Makers – daft bundts.

IRONIC. Those dolls on Babushka will never be as full of themselves as Rylan. Yet the toothy nuisance simply brings competence to a deeply flawed format. The quiz is Deal Or No Deal with the boxes replaced with Russian matryoshka dolls, the pace reduced to the speed of the Soviet post office and no banker... unless you're talking rhyming slang. Fifteen To One it ain't. You get roughly eight questions an hour, all of them true or false. Like Red Or Black and Heads Or Tails, who gives a toss?

*THOSE teeth! If ever they had a power cut during filming he'd only have to open his gob and his choppers would light up the entire studio.

*NUISANCE nudist Phil got voted off The Island. He was lucky. The way those women were kicking off you half expected to find 'sausage surprise' on the menu, cooked over the fire he'd hogged in the remains of the olive oil he'd wasted.

*WHILE pay-TV delights in outlandish sex, John and Kayleigh haven't even kissed on Peter Kay's Car Share. Yet the show's blissful slow-burn blend of chemistry, comedy and pop nostalgia made it unmissable. Come on Peter, would a Christmas special kill you?

*TREKKIE Martin failed to pull on First Dates. He'd set his phaser to yawn.

*DO you buy the great Tracey rebellion on EastEnders? If the soap really gave a stuff about her they'd have given her more than five lines of dialogue a decade.

*VARIETY update: no sword swallowers on ITV's Palladium show yet, but we've seen quite a few on Harlots.

*ADELE, Becks and Mo Farah all feature on Bigheads. Wait till you see their Eamonn Holmes. His mask is life-size.

SMALL Joys of TV: Madness on Benidorm. Joshua's 11th round uppercut. Real Time with Bill Maher. The Widows Sons motorcycle lodge, Inside The Freemasons. Nick Ferrari. William Shatner and Henry Winkler bickering like an old married couple on Better Late Than Never.

RANDOM irritations: Bank holiday TV – the epitome of "this'll do" scheduling. Televised marathons. ITV slapping the news on in the middle of films. TV re-writing the past, from Doctor Who to Guerrilla – it's not drama, it's lame, lazy propaganda.

TV Maths: Donald Trump + glasses = Dr Jackie Bulger, GPs Behind Closed Doors.


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