Who would even care, if it weren’t for our being mildly intrigued to know what Cherie and Tony might have got up to when they were Carole Caplin’s clients? But now that Channel 4 has handed her a mid-afternoon slot in which to spill the beans, what exactly is The Carole Caplin Treatment?
From this evidence it is taking men and women who feel fat, stressed, unfashionable, or flawed, and hosing them down with honey-toned encouragement, nourishing support, positive thoughts, diet tips, organic face creams, pampering massages, and, finally, with stern commands to shoehorn regular pockets of “me-time” into their diaries. It’s the L’Oréal advertising slogan repackaged as a confidence-plumping lifestyle mantra: “Because you’re worth it!”
In this opening programme of her new series, Caplin takes in hand Sharon, a single mother from Manchester who considers herself fat and unappealing, and she coos to Sharon about what a wonderful woman and mother she is. Later Caplin invites Sharon to stay in her startlingly all-white London flat, where she personally bathes Sharon, massages her with creams, and purrs compliments. Caplin could probably have even Ken Livingstone sitting on her white sofa and make him feel as if he was actually a useful, well-loved member of society.
There is nothing shady in this, and it’s hardly illegal. But then nor is it rocket science. It doesn’t sound much different from the prescriptions of any number of other lifestyle gurus. What sells it is Caplin’s plausible manner. She’s like a Western version of a geisha. A geisha, contrary to common belief, is not a courtesan; more usually an ego-massager who giggles coyly at the jokes of Japanese businessmen, pours their whisky, praises their masculinity, persuades them that all is well with the world, and tucks them cosily into a taxi when it’s time to go home.
Here’s a surprise! One of Caplin’s recommendations is that Sharon cut out wheat from her diet. Everyone who visits a New Age nutritionist seems to be told to give up wheat. Within the last five years the West seems to have become wheat-intolerant (apart from Italy, presumably). Can this be possible? Or is telling a client to cut out wheat just a risk-free, but radical- sounding diagnosis for medically unqualified lifestyle gurus to make a handy one-size-fits-all prescription dispensed much the same way that medieval doctors prescribed blood-letting as the most pertinent treatment for any ill, from fevers to gangrene?
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Frankly, it’s become so embarrassing not to have an allergy that when a hostess asks what you are allergic to so that she can tailor her menu accordingly, you hear yourself inventing something, just to sound normal. “I’m allergic to radishes,” you say, not wishing to rule yourself out of any lobster or linguine that might be on offer (let alone be included with the wheat- free, lactose-intolerant diners who’ll be served quinoa couscous with steamed carrot). To possess no allergy at all is socially isolating. Best to invent one that at least doesn’t cramp your eating habits.
It’s the sort of world you expected to be sent up in Help Your Self with Angus Deayton (ITV1). The series appears to mock rather antique (judging by the haircuts of the presenters) advice videos: How to Host a Princess Party; Housework Workout; Feminine Movement for Serious Cross Dressers; How to Build an Antler Chandelier; that sort of thing. But the show mostly comes across as the latest stage in Deayton’s search for a TV format that affords him the opportunity to fire those crisply scripted wisecracks that made his name on Have I Got News for You.
Two teeny hitches: the first is that mocking these loopy videos feels almost superfluous. You’d snigger derisively at them even without Deayton’s commentary. The second is that Deayton has one key presenting mode, the same way that Hugh Grant has one key acting mode. When the job calls for that kind of presenter, or that kind of actor, Deayton and Grant are perfect. But making sarcastic remarks about pompous politicians on HIGNFY is a far slicker use of Deayton ‘s presenting talents than making clever-Dick comments about already ludicrous advice videos.
It’s not that this show’s script isn’t snappy, or that Deayton falters in delivering it. Just that the target barely seems worth the effort of Deayton or his high-pedigree production team. As for the wildly over-excited studio audience, you wonder if maybe someone was pumping marijuana through the ventilation ducts during the recording. Either that or the audience members have a violent reaction to an allergy that hasn’t yet been diagnosed. Corn, maybe.