Watching last night's 'best bits' compilation was an uncomfortable experience. Crikey it's saying something when you wish Russell Howard was back on the panel notwithstanding the irritating voices. That's how low this show has sunk.
And if these were indeed the 'best bits,' then what about the 'bad bits...?'
Once upon a time this programme felt fresh and original in the same way that another panel show - They Think it's All Over - had once felt original. But the format of that show became tired and as if to compensate, presenter Nick Hancock and guests started shouting, swearing and even twitching. They were desperate times. Thankfully the BBC cottoned on to the fact that this show was dying on its arse (four series later than everyone else) and thankfully, eventually pulled the plug.
Judging by the 'best bits' of Mock the Week then it's time to put this particualry show out of its misery. One of the 'best bits' included a painfully unfunny exchange over the subject of harps. They tried, oh how they tried. They huffed and they puffed, but the six 'talents' assembled on the panel failed to cause even minor surface damage to the house, let alone blow it down.
And so it went on, And on. And on. Despite throwing as much canned laughter into the mix as was humanely possible, it wasn't nearly enough to convince anybody that this was in any way funny. Dara O' Brian threw in some harp impressions. The panel started to shout. More canned laughter. Desperate stuff.
In the absence of any decent comedians, the show has resorted to booking a series of nondescript pipsqueaks all of whom seem intent on proving one thing: I can squeak louder than you. Eek!
Sometimes they'll invite the 'comidienne' of Iranian descent, setting up plenty of her favourite topics in advance. Aww, nice. Sometimes it's someone straight from the student union bar. Hugh Dennis is not actually suffering from senile dementia, it's just that every week he finds himself the filling in a sandwich of squaking wannabes. The poor man doesn't know whether he's coming or going. No wonder he looks confused.
Next up came goldfish. More huffing, more puffing. The canned laughter intensified. O' Brian's eyeballs looked like they might pop out of his head. Andy Parsons strained and strained. For a moment it looked like he might actually do a dump on the telly. Now that would have been funny.
They interjected, cut in, laughed uproariously at one another. More canned laughter. And the harder they tried to come up with goldfish gags, the more desperate they became. Car crash TV.
Ask him nicely. Offer him shit loads of cash if you have to. Eat humble pie or rhubarb pie, go down on bended knees, make him promises you possibly can't hope to keep, only do it before it's too late.
Yep, there's only one way to save this show. Come back Frankie Boyle, your country might need you, but this television programme needs you far, far more. Oh how it needs you.