UK chat (tat ?) shows named after the host appear every ten years, and 'That' Anthony Cotton takes the first podium of this century. The benchmark was initially set in the 70's with David Frost, followed by Michael Parkinson, but since the early 90's there has been a quality vacuum, despite the requirement for a prime time slot on TV for it.
In order to secure contracts, the production companies behind the few pretenders to the crown have dressed up their feeble efforts under the guise of a level-entry package, on a par with the expectations of the audience. Jonathon Ross can be considered as the first of the new wave, with the mission statement of 'start at the bottom, and nobody can claim disappointment'.
I was unfortunate to have seen two outings of the show (there was a claim that a second series had been commissioned by some media outlets - the sick bar-stewards), the slope of the ten year cycle is one that of near vertical and downward. With 'That Anthony Cotton Show' the name alone is proof that any expectation conflict has been thoroughly researched during the commissioning process, should anyone have the crazed notion that something decent is on the telly.
In order not to be completely damning of the show, difficult I know, I will confirm the history of guest research was directly proportional to the delivery of the shows host - though picking out top billing material has to date eluded me. I have a feeling the ex-soap characters that went on may have been cornered when exiting the studio canteen and bunged a couple of quid, those with a faintly recognisable name in the world of entertainment hoodwinked using a ransom on family members, and those actually famous on the circuit duped by some other blackmail ploy is the likely scenario for going on with Mr Cotton.
On the set, the stage audience look as though they have been carefully placed in their seats following a Russian theatre style gas attack. Once the credits roll, a collective electric shock is passed through the benches under the audience, who then are forced to endure an opening four bars of some song, a couple of rejected Christmas cracker jokes and a bit of banter with Mr Cottons best mate, who had set up a market stall (hiding the Transit van doors from the rest of the studio, by deft use of a large CD exchanger, loud shirt and headphones). Any opposition to the words on the highly visible prompt cards are met with a Bond villain style exit through the floor and inflatable replacement added during the commercials.
I believe the guest quota was three per show PER DAY, having to fill almost 40 minutes of nothing between them, in order to be set free without a bit of leg breaking. Never in the world of TV has one longed so much for an advertisement break.
One wonders if scraping the barrel is as far as the creators can go in this direction, or if they have started digging under it to find some new no-talent person of their time, for a launch around 2015. Before then this site will have to introduce a 0/10 award, as having to give this show a 1 is misleading, never mind libellous.
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