Facing up to the reality of TV

From the sequins and glitter of Strictly on BBC 1 to the over-egged, high-voltage production values of The X Factor on ITV 1, you’d be forgiven for thinking that God was in his heaven, money was secure in an Icelandic off-shore high-interest bank account and everything was right with the world.

Actually, we probably all need a bit of marabou-trimmed escapism at a time like this, so you are quite within your rights to swap your apocalyptic worries on a Saturday night for a spot of kitsch n’ synch drama.

Who cares what’s happening to the pound when John Sargent is dancing his socks off to impress Arlene Phillips.

What’s a few hundred points off the Footsie when Louis Walsh is down to his last act?

To be strictly honest with you, Saturday night TV is a bit of a bone of contention in Maison Cain.

As my husband hates both Strictly Come Dancing and The X Factor with a passion he usually reserves for Tony Robinson, I’ve had to tiptoe around the topic of what to watch with the grace displayed by Cherie Lunghi.

Obviously, I’m quite keen to watch both programmes, but last weekend I received a cruel ultimatum.

Facing the prospect of spending practically every weekend in the run-up to Christmas flicking between the banalities of Brucie and the blandness of nearly every act to make it through to The X Factor live rounds this year, my nearest and dearest put his foot down.

One of them had to go.

I was discussing the harshness of this situation with a friend (and fellow trash telly connoisseur) and discovered that I am not alone.

Across the nation households are ripped asunder by the great divide between male and female viewing tastes.

“I’m not allowed to watch anything involving plastic surgery, unusual diets or Trinny and Susannah,” she wailed, adding “And if I do, he sits in his special chair in the corner, pretending to read and makes ostentatiously distracting huffing and grunting noises”.

According to my chum, last week’s edition of Twiggy’s Frock Exchange (something that prompted my own husband to retire to the study to tackle his tax return) had ignited a stand off domestic situation in Parkside Drive reminiscent of the 1961 Bay of Pigs crisis.

“I wouldn’t mind,” she continued, slurring slightly down the phone as that third glass of Australian Chardonnay kicked in, “but considering the enormous amount of sport he watches, you’d think he’d understand the competitive thrill of getting your hands on a Vivienne Westwood corset in exchange for a skirt from Primark.”

Thinking about my own man in front of the telly, I had to break it to her gently that this wasn’t at all likely.

In my case though, it isn’t sport that’s the problem as fortunately I managed to bag a specimen of that rare breed of male who is left completely unmoved by football, rugby, motor-racing, golf, snooker, darts, track events, field sports or indeed anything involving the gene governing competitive instincts.

This is man who once wandered into the living room during a World Cup semi-final unusually involving our brave boys, only to ask what colour England was playing in.

But before any ladies reading this start to get too jealous of my seemingly blissful sport-free existence, I should add that I have my own cross to bear in the form of endless cartoons (notably The Simpsons), comedy re-runs so ancient that even my dad can’t remember the originals and, most bizarrely of all in my opinion, Sherlock Holmes repeats that consistently appear to be playing on a channel somewhere at any time of the day or night. He always manages to find them.

Throw in a generous helping of QI, Never Mind the Buzzcocks, The Sweeney and Gardeners’ World and you’ll get an idea of the extent of the problem.

Although he’s not that interested in cars, recently he’s been expressing an unhealthy interest in Top Gear and I fear it’s just a matter of time before he discovers his spiritual bond with Jeremy Clarkson.

Still, as far as I’m concerned Top Gear is merely the male equivalent of Twiggy’s Frock Exchange. There’s a similar dynamic at work here. Both males and females can’t resist the urge to wriggle into something sleek and expensive to make themselves feel desirable.

It’s just that women don’t really want to be seen with a big end after parting with thousands of pounds.

After canvassing several friends on the subject, I can now reveal that it is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing divides a couple more than the television.

While most women would rather watch paint dry – preferably on Grand Designs - than sit through yet another embarrassing outing by the England team, most men would rather attempt to trim their nostril hair with a Black & Decker power strimmer than watch Nicky Hambleton Jones preside over another session of self-mutilation on 10 Years Younger.

(Strangely enough the only cross-over I’ve detected from my extensive research is anything thing fronted – and I am using that term advisedly – by Sarah Beeny).

I’m not surprised that my husband presented me with that Saturday night ultimatum. After all, there’s only so much junk viewing the poor man can stomach.

After much internal debate, I eventually plumped for The X Factor (secure in the knowledge that I could still watch the Strictly dance off on Sunday without missing much - but don’t tell him that).

Mind you, when it comes to entertainment there’s definitely one thing both sexes will agree about. Next week I’m confident that males and females in households across the land will be united in their desire to visit the nearest multiplex to watch James Bond’s latest outing in Quantum of Solace.

While the boys will be watching the action, the girls and the gadgets, the women will be watching the décor, the frocks, the glamour… oh, and possibly Daniel Craig.