Just a cuddly old punk

TV Review:If John Lydon really is the anti-Christ then Hell will be a delightful spot. The former Sex Pistol is one of 10 personalities spending two weeks in the Australian bush for the disturbingly enjoyable I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!

He is an icon slumming it, for reasons known only to him and his agent, with some decidedly non-iconic people. George Best's most recent ex-wife. The chap who used to present Saturday Superstore. Kerry McFadden is here too and, bless her, but you wouldn't bring her on a picnic for fear she'd crack up in the car-park.

Also present is Jordan. She could be considered an icon of sorts, although to dwell on the precise reasons would only sadden the soul. For those with the improbable good fortune to never have encountered her, Jordan is a glamour model who looks as if a couple of air bags have gone off in her chest. Sometimes she is good enough to breathe in, so that those around her may exhale.

When Lydon first greeted the others, it was with a contractually-dictated tardiness and rudeness. But the edifice slipped away quickly, soon replaced by John Lydon, your loveable, slightly batty uncle. He seems to have got all the anger out in his youthful days as Johnny Rotten. The only thing spiky about him now is a hairstyle that suggests he's been grazed by a low-flying steam iron.

John Lydon: Anarchist was made group leader, and accepted with embarrassed gratitude. He is insistent about following the rules. The rebel of the group is Jennie Bond, the BBC's Royal Correspondent. On Wednesday she was found to have smuggled contraband mascara in her knickers. Bond fanned her rebellion by pressing her chewing gum on a camera lens.

Lydon watched with a simmering disapproval.

The Earth paused for a nanosecond in its orbit, sensing an imbalance in the universe.

Later, the hungry group wanted to take the opportunity to steal some scones and cream. Lydon would have no part in such anti-establishment rabble-rousing. "If that's what you want to do, then fine. But I'm not being part of it. I'm not here to be dodgy." That soft bristling you heard in the distance was the sound of a million mohicans sagging in unison. Folding like the quills on a dying hedgehog.

In The Des Bishop Work Experience, the comedian is spending some time working in "entry-level service-industry positions". This is a euphemism for the menial, unpleasant, low-paid jobs we used to beg for but now import foreigners to do for us, before abusing them for taking all our jobs.

In this first episode Bishop, an American living in Dublin, spent four weeks behind the counter of an Abrakebabra in Waterford. He worked nights for minimum wage, dealing with the putrefying personalities of our drunken population, who crowded into the narrow shop at 3 a.m., half-crazed and wholly obnoxious. Yet we always feel so charming and witty and loveable.

As the weeks went on, the tiredness brought about by the nights began to claw at Bishop's face, as the customers gnawed at his patience. He began to round on them and on us, his independence an advantage as he held the mirror while we looked uncomfortably at the unpleasant image we present in Abrakebabra at 3 a.m.

Bishop had not previously been a particularly attractive TV personality, but in this he reveals himself to be endearing, witty and keenly observant. He intersperses the action with slices of his stand-up show based on his experiences that allow the social commentary to come through. Gradually, this episode developed into a tribute to the astonishing patience, humour and diligence of the thousands of Chinese people propping up the service industry.

They change their names to Seán to make it easier for us to pronounce. They don't get paid bank holidays because they get their food and uniforms for free. They clean up our filth for us. They put up with the casual racism and general abuse. They do the jobs we're unavailable to do because we're out being drunk and charming and great craic and, hey chinky, I ordered a large taco fries!

On ITV arrived Director's Commentary, a neat bit of spoof from Rob Brydon, best known for the bitter humour of Marion and Geoff. Here he successfully satirises that extra feature of the DVD by adopting the voice of Peter de Lane, an unseen director talking us through magnificent work on inconsequential programmes. His voice is heavy with unwarranted self-regard and pomposity. "Another vintage de Lane," he said of a shot featuring a tree and a pot plant in the background.

This week began with him talking his way through an episode of Bonanza. His commentary is a mix of inanity, technical blather and on-set "secrets". He sees depth where others see superficiality. A good cowboy entered the scene while wearing a black hat. "We made the cover of Newsweek. Raised a lot of issues. Can a good guy wear a black hat? Can a black guy wear a good hat?" He veers off into rants against one of his six ex-wives ("I hesitate to use the word slut . . .") and references to his adopted son, Roman. ("I say adopted. We just don't get on.") He chuckles at his own pallid jokes and his anecdotes drift into irrelevant musings. One actor's "nice work" he revealed to be the result of a minor stroke he was having during the scene. He dwells on this. "Stroke. Such a lovely word. It's like saying, 'Haven't you heard? Peter's had a cuddle'."

Proof ended this week. To recap: politician Myles Carrick (Bryan Murray) was about to win an election campaign funded by money from human trafficking. In a container somewhere in the forest several eastern European women were trapped. Their captors had equipped them only with some candles for a little mood-lighting. Perhaps some Richard Clayderman too?

Journalist Terry Corcoran (Finbar Lynch), a bubbling mudpool of cliché, had all the proof on a computer disk. Maybe, for some good reason, Terry was unable to copy the disk. If so, the odd reminder would have been appreciated. Otherwise, every time a bad guy demanded that he hand over the disk, you thought, "copy it first, Terry". When they kidnapped his daughter because they wanted the disk, you thought, "it'll only take you a moment". When he handed it to them and they destroyed it, you thought, "idiot".

Meanwhile, as Maureen Boland (Orla Brady) - Carrick's press secretary and mother of Terry's child - finally realised the awful truth, she quietly jumped ship, and in so doing became the first PR woman in history to leave the office without her mobile phone.

Things had begun to take a toll on the acting, which had previously held up under extreme pressure. Cameo roles strolled in, over-acted terribly, and strolled out again. When the bad guys grabbed their little girl only for her to escape, her kidnapper sloped after her rather than ran, as if growing weary of this nonsense.

Proof wielded an overbearing style in the hope of distracting from the paucity of the script. Shots of Dublin from the air. Gleaming tower blocks at dawn. The camera trying to reflect something the script could not. This was also a Dublin in which no one sat down. In the political party HQ, staff busied back and forth. In the newspaper scenes, herds of journalists swept across the plains of the open-plan office. They moved in slow-motion for fear of shattering the aesthetic.

Sometimes it is easy to make allowances for RTÉ drama. The natural instinct is to accept sub-standard, because sub-standard is better than nothing. Or to be wowed by expensive gloss. Proof, though, was bankrupt before the big money could be spent, because it was the script that was frayed, predictable, clumsy. Its conspiracy was constructed on unsteady assumptions. Of a fictional Dublin blind to cops-turned-assassins going around shooting at people in broad daylight. Of newspaper editors gathering for lunches with political hacks. Of incredible coincidences. Of viewers willing to ask no further questions.

Each character, each situation, each plot strand crumbled under even passing scrutiny. Of course, television cannot mirror the dull plod of reality, but it takes skill and self-awareness to get away with the utterly preposterous rather than simply being utterly preposterous.

Anyway, Proof ended with the cargo ship that first brought trouble returning to Dublin Port. It may carry something most distressing. A second series.