Not much cop

Among the many reasons I shall miss Simon Hoggart’s presence as my Spectator co-TV critic is that I used to rely on him to take the heat off me. Since landing this gig all those years ago, I’ve always felt something of an imposter owing to my extreme reluctance to sit down and watch any more TV than I absolutely, strictly have to watch. Simon, on the other hand, was so conscientious he’d often review three or four programmes in a week. If this were the second world war, I’d be the equivalent of some Cairo desk wallah, while Simon would be a Soviet punishment battalion.

But just because Simon’s gone doesn’t mean I’m going to change tack. The reason I’m resistant to watching TV is that so much of it is such a spectacular waste of life, as I was reminded yet again this week when I squandered nearly three hours of valuable life on Jed Mercurio’s police conspiracy drama series Line of Duty (BBC2, Tuesday).

I like Mercurio’s snappy, sassy, tension-rich screenwriting (he did Cardiac Arrest) and I like police conspiracy dramas — especially when they’re called Between the Lines. But this new one is hopeless. It stars Lennie James as an unfeasibly perfect-in-every-way detective officer: unrivalled arrest record, loads of awards, worshipped by his team, boundlessly attractive to women but still loyal to his wife and his beloved, talented daughters, nice car, sexy, relaxed no-nonsense manner. So good, somehow, that despite being obviously from London and even more obviously black, he has worked his way to the top of his department in Sheffield, of all places.

You’re thinking at this early stage that there’s got to be a catch. Probably he’s on the take.