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Each week on the show, three grinning imbeciles were asked fluffy and meaningless questions by a contestant who was perched behind a partition, in reply to which said imbeciles recited a series of quips so cheesy they could be garnished and served as starters in a French gastro pub.
The truth of this inevitable transformation can be seen in the steps already taken up the light-entertainment evolutionary ladder, most notably in the DNA of ITV's long-running post-Blind Date offering, Take Me Out. When I think back to the Saturday nights I spent as a boy on the cusp of my teenage years, I can almost smell the heady scent of my mother's perfume as she readies herself for a night out with my step-dad and a gaggle of other couples.
Imagine that the stock exchange traded exclusively in the concepts of self-esteem and dignity, and that its traders were all angry monkeys on heat. The man begins the game by ‘dancing’ for the ladies' delectation.
There’s a certain noble grace when peacocks engage in this sort of ritualistic mating behaviour, but when we men do it we tend to resemble a drunk uncle at a wedding.
The disembodied voice of God – who in those days operated under the pseudonym of Graham – would occasionally boom out its approval, doubtless becoming increasingly nostalgic for the Old Testament days of wine, locusts and genocide (Incidentally, ‘Wine, Locusts and Genocide’ is also the title of Mel Gibson’s upcoming autobiography).
Once the three had been whittled down to one, the partition went back and the two contestants - chooser and chosen - locked eyes for the first time.