TV Shows Don't Get Tougher Than This

I love cookery programmes. I'm not sure what it is about them that appeals to me, considering I'm not a particularly keen cook, although I do know my way around a kitchen. Perhaps it's the sort of voyeuristic quality about them, the idea that even though I have no intention of 'realising the dream' and eating the food shown on the small screen, there's still a fascination, a 'look but don't touch' peculiarity that appeals to me. Or maybe it's the personalities on the shows. Gordon Bleeping Ramsay, Jamie Oliver, Nigella, and of course Dave Lamb from the hilarious Come Dine With Me. Yet, after witnessing the shocking programme Michael Winner's Dining Stars on Friday night, I'm willing to 'hang up my eyes' when it comes to watching cookery programmes.

The show dressed itself up as Come Dine With Me with Michael Winner, or at least that's how it appeared to me. My first issue is with the title. Wouldn't Michael Winner Comes To Dinner have been a much better option? Michael Winner Throws Your Dinner In The Binner? What the hell is a dining star anyway? Anyway, Winner, 74, visits two houses in an hour-long show, has dinner with the families, and then reveals whether they've won one of his much sought-after 'dining stars'. Winner endeared himself to the viewing public when he declared that there were no good cooks 'Oop North', a sweeping statement if ever I heard one. Winner, the colour of a ripe satsuma, first insisted on showing us round his huge mansion, and introducing us to his assistant, a middle-aged woman called Dinah. Winner first visited Longridge, where he planned on dining at Justine's, a very pleasant woman with two disabled children. He could have quite easily had a nice meal, not been any trouble, given the woman her star, and buggered off down South, where the air is so much cleaner. But no, Winner had to have his fun. He acted like a spoiled 6 year old all evening, and then towards the end of the dinner, bizarrely went into the toilet to record his thoughts on a dictaphone, while Justine and her family looked bemused.

Next, Winner went to Cheshire to visit Dean and his family, who cooked up, what looked to me, like an extremely competent Jamaican meal. Again, have the meal, and give the man a star Winner. But no. Winner went home, without a word, and called the two families all the way down to London. Ah, how nice, he's going to give them both a star, and let them have their day out in London, all expenses paid. Again, wrong. Dean was dragged down South, into a theatre with just himself and Winner, to receive no stars, and Justine received one, due to how Winner was so emotionally moved by her two disabled children, which rendered the whole eating experience utterly pointless.

Oh how this contrasts with Masterchef! Rock 'N' Roll of the cookery shows! John Torode, housewives' favourite, with his hair so flexible it changes length with each shot, and Greg Wallace, fat glutton with not one hair. How Wallace must pine for just one of Torode's locks! Anyway, onto the cooking. We all know the format. 'The Invention Task'; followed by a humilation by some chauvinistic pig in the pro-kitchen; and then the contestants are required to serve something up for Torode and Wallace while they stare on greedily, rubbing their hands with glee and making eye movements at each other. And most importantly of all, no Michael Winner. There is, of course, the danger of overkill. With two and a half hours of Masterchef a week, I am starting to talk like Torode, calling 'pasta' 'paaaarrrrssssstttaaaaaaa' and not using complex sentence structures, simply shouting 'sweet, sticky, sour, yum'. I've also taken to hovering over my Mum's food like a gannet in the style of Wallace, raising my eyebrows every so often and wondering whether there's 'too much going on on that plate'.

So don't stop the cookery shows! For me, they're at least on a par with Bolton v Wigan on Sky Sports, possibly even surpassing it! Just please, TV Licensing, promise me one thing. Keep Michael Winner and his Dining Stars away from my television, at all costs.