David Lynch's 1986 movie Blue Velvet probed picketfence suburbia's dark underbelly. If Lynch were to turn his attention to the bizarre alternate universe of daytime television, he would find in Countdown host Richard Whiteley, a subject of boundless fascination.
Something about Whiteley's celebrity chills the marrow. For 16 years, the jovial Yorkshireman's wince-inducing puns and atrocious dress sense - "you would find better jackets on a potato," sniped one critic - have set pulses racing. How to explain the eerie frisson that crackles between Whiteley and his audience, a cross-cultural smorgasbord encompassing kitsch-loving students and bored homemakers? Is it because his endearingly wayward style-and-colour clashing ensembles add sparkle to wet weekday afternoons? Or do we - as Lynch surely would - divine more pernicious forces burrowing beneath the topsoil?
Whiteley (55) claims to be baffled by his popularity: "I still haven't got a catchphrase," he says. "Pathetic, isn't it? `That's all for Part One, see you in Part Two.' It hasn't really caught on, has it? It lacks zing, somehow."
Longevity has contributed to his cult status. Countdown was the first programme to air on Channel Four, Whiteley's the first face seen by viewers. Eight million tuned in that opening night in 1984, but only 600,000 bothered to watch the second instalment - the biggest ratings slump in broadcasting history.
Persuaded to enter television by mentor and former grammar teacher Russell Harty, Whiteley joined ITN as a trainee in 1965. Homesick and ill at ease with swinging London, he transferred to Yorkshire television and landed his first major assignment, a live match report from a Leeds United European Cup tie - the only football game he had ever attended. Over the next 20 years, Whiteley carved out a respectable, if inauspicious, career as a jobbing presenter. Then along came Countdown, changing everything.
The widening contrast between Whiteley's homely allure and the empty self-aggrandising of Countdown co-anchor Carol Vorderman offers a clue to his appeal. Where Whiteley exudes home-spun decency, Vorderman, glossy number-cruncher lately turned ubiquitous media tartlet, is all flash and hollow affectations. Whiteley's charm is more enigmatic. Many of us just cannot explain why he enthralls us so. Like that creepy neighbour who keeps odd hours or the stranger in a passing car who catches our gaze, he is utterly banal yet steeped in mystery.
More about Richard Whiteley on: www.waveguide.co.uk/ 780.htm