Television: George Hook’s dreary rants more half-baked than anything on tasty BBC hit

With Vincent Browne taking time off during the summer, TV3 has packed yet another programme on to its well-worn studio floor. Despite the station's prolific output of variations on the same panel show, The Late Review (Monday-Tuesday, 11pm) suffers something of an identity crisis. With a jazzy sound bed in the title sequence and the presenter's name blinking in lights suggesting hesitant entertainment values, the initial episodes last week saw Tom McGuirk talking about bankers to a panel resting their elbows high on chairs that look eerily familiar to the ones in TV3's lobby.

McGuirk returned the next night to talk about Permanent TSB and Irish Water. Perhaps realising the sedentary values of this format, rather than the chest-clutching insomnia Tonight With Vincent Browne provokes, The Late Review magically became "a news, arts and review show", with McGuirk interviewing that notable entertainer, Pat Rabbitte.

This week, the “guest presenter” was Colette Fitzpatrick, a woman whose 10,000 hours at the helm of news bulletins and panel shows gives her an aura of dependability, a pro whose audience is always safe in her hands.

Fitzpatrick needed all of her decorum to deal with Tuesday night’s guest, George Hook, in an astonishing interview. “He’s made a career of speaking his mind,” Fitzpatrick began, before Hook delivered a prerecorded speech of him reading out a hate mail letter he received.

Fitzpatrick got to work on wondering whether anyone deserved such vitriol. Hook refused to play ball, “When these people write to me, I don’t give a shit,” he said, three minutes into the programme. (One wonders: if Hook cares so little, then why he had gone to the trouble of prerecording that item for the show?) “I have 150,000 Twitter followers,” he added, rather grandly.

What followed was a bizarre and unpleasant series of tirades from the radio presenter that begged the question whether TV3 had accidentally transmitted a recording titled “DO NOT BROADCAST”. His first tirade was about women, dripping in pointless and tired sexism and backed up with nothing but scowling petulance.

“I think women get a fair shot,” he said, with Fitzpatrick calmly replying, “They actually don’t, George,” before referring to the gender pay gap. “You wanted me to say this, so I said it to you.” Hook prickled, as if someone had put a gun to his head and ferried him out to Ballymount. “What more do you want? Do you want us [men] all out, do ya?”

Irked by eejitry

At this stage Hook was roaring and Fitzpatrick searching for a point to it all, with even her unflappable professionalism irked by Hook’s eejitry. Hook then resorted to a Limbaugh-eque checklist: “people coming across the Mediterranean in leaky boats, and Isis chopping off people’s heads”. This apropos of explaining why “the world is a fair place”.

When Fitzpatrick questioned his views on a recent rape case, asking, “Do you understand why some women would find that grossly offensive?” Hook loftily replied, “It’s my job to tackle the difficult issues,” as if he is some kind of current affairs heavyweight. Annoyed at having his views questioned, Hook lost the plot: “You’re calling me a liar! You’re calling me a fake! That’s outrageous!” he roared in the studio, when Fitzpatrick had said nothing of the sort. “George . . . ” she began wearily, with all of the jadedness of a diva’s PA. Hook alluded to ripping off his mic and walking out of the studio a la Siptu boss Jack O’Connor. It’s a wonder Fitzpatrick didn’t do the same. “My views on women are the views of a 74-year-old man,” he ranted, doing a disservice to 74-year-old men everywhere.

The faux-angry and arrogant performance (one he most certainly would not have pulled were Tom McGuirk or Vincent Browne in the chair) was nothing more than another exercise in Hook’s attention-seeking. He seems oblivious to how transparent and unlikeable such antics are. Fitzpatrick faced the camera and uttered, “Phew”.

Phew is right. Fitzpatrick deserves a bloody Emmy for patience. Perhaps it was all a plot to prepare her for the towel-snapping boys club of Newstalk, given her new presenting role on the station.

The next night The Late Review tackled the latest humanitarian crisis in the Mediterranean, and Donald Trump.

The Late Review is not, in fact, a "news, arts and review show", which is a pity, because a bit of cultural content might help us sleep at night. Nevertheless, Fitzpatrick's grace under pressure exhibits why she's one of the best presenters out there.

After that, the calmness of The Great British Bake Off (Wednesday, BBC1, 8pm) felt like a panacea for all known stress. The enemy of Bake Off's remarkable success is the internet's enthusiasm for ruining the sense of discovery. All week, pre-Bake Off information was scattered everywhere to trip over. In the olden days (around two years ago), a new series came with a few press shots and a time of broadcast. Now we have the Daily Mail looking into the skills of a 19-year-old wonder baker hopeful, and an article in the Observer about things hipsters have ruined because one of the contestants has a hat and tattoos. Well, had.

So long Stu, you’ll never give Mary Berry a black forest gateau with a beetroot sponge again. These days, when you’re anticipating a television show, the internet pulls at your sleeve like an incessant child, persisting in its ambition to ruin any surprises. The lust for coverage of this show pressures us to not simply watch the programme. Websites live blog it, newspapers practically do background checks on contestants, Sky News reports on betting being suspended due to an alleged leak. Bake Off might exist in its own calm universe, but outside the tent, the scramble for Bake Off-related material is deafening.

If you can avoid all of that noise, the magic of the programme reemerges. Bake Off succeeds because it is nice, and because the tone and atmosphere of the show slowly builds tension out of micro-moments. Contestants don’t need to roll around the floor pulling out each others hair extensions, they just need to screw up caramelising a walnut. In the noisy and phoney land of reality TV, that’s enough for me.

The niceness of the show peaked with Dorret’s black forest gateau disaster. After collapsing upon itself thanks to a tragically unset layer of mousse, the Preston accountant choked back tears and feared the worst. In any other reality television show, such a screw up and exhibited weakness would be pummelled with punishment. Not here. We all make mistakes, pet. Dorret was saved to bake another day, and all was well in the white tent, amongst the winking Mel and Sue jokes, the neon pink of Mary Berry’s jacket, and the sparkly eyes of Paul Hollywood.

One to Watch: Realty TV-set ‘UnREAL’ is the real deal

UnREAL (Lifetime) has pulled the same trick that Empire did earlier this year, becoming, almost out of nowhere, the most-talked-about show on TV. You can pin some of its success on word of mouth, but UnREAL succeeds because of a brilliantly meta take on reality TV: the drama is set amongst the strained production team filming a dating show. Provocative and dark, UnREAL also benefits from two complex and morally ambiguous female leads. This is smart, searing stuff that reaches beyond its own storylines and into the reality of contemporary TV-making.

Bernice Harrison is on leave