It may seem to the casual observer that
Dragons' Den has never been away, given that you can turn on Dave and watch reruns of crushed dreams and appalling investments at any time of day or night.
A brand new series kicked off last week on
BBC2, pepping up proceedings with faintly ludicrous new opening credits in which the five dragons stand in an apocalyptic wasteland in front of an abandoned warehouse, each apparently about to spontaneously combust if the steam rising from their beautifully tailored suits is anything to go by. Weird.
Happily, the show's cosy familiarity is retained elsewhere. Gollum look-alike Evan Davis, for example, is still subjected to those bizarre, jerky camera zooms and angles. One minute he's in focus, the next he's not. Now you see him, now you don't. Ah, there he is, partially concealed behind an oversized metal sculpture of a combine harvester. Oops, he's gone again.
Momentarily confused, the camera focuses on a brick wall. Where could he be? The answer is soon revealed as the cameraman pans jerkily upwards to reveal Davis squatting on a balcony, atop a giant urn. Completely naked.
Outside, invest-in-anything business guru
James Caan is shovelling £50 notes into a skip, before gleefully dowsing the whole lot in petrol and setting it alight. Which pretty much sums up his approach to investment. He's almost always the last to declare himself out, waiting for his fellow dragons to finish their assassination of obviously uninvestable business ideas, before offering all of the money for 0.001% of the business.
Seriously, he must have lost a small fortune since he joined
Dragons' Den. I reckon that, by the next series, he'll start to look a little down-at-heel: frayed cuffs, unruly beard, scuffed shoes. Picture the scene. The other dragons are all out and James is ready to make his move. Placing the brown paper bag containing his Special Brew carefully on the floor, he proceeds to fumble in his trouser pocket. "I'd like to make you an offer," he mumbles, pulling out a handful of loose coppers. "I'll give you…" (looks at coins). "I'll give you 78 pence and I'll come and work for you in exchange for a cup of tea and a bed for the night."
The Mad Professor
The other dragons haven't changed much either. Duncan Bannatyne appears to be wearing a wig designed by Mr Whippy, and an increasingly chubby Peter Jones has clearly been at the pies. Comfort eating, probably, after throwing £75k at joke band Hamfatter last series.
Hamfatter have since reached the dizzying heights of number 71 in the UK singles chart, a feat probably achievable by anyone with access to recording equipment and the internet.
And yet, forgetful of such past follies and apparently entirely oblivious to any sort of global recession that may be going on, the nation's favourite capitalists are once again ready to throw good money after bad at any Tom, Dick or Harry with a cr*p product to flog. Step forward mad professor Rupert Sweet-Escott, inventor of such useless tat as 'the Airbike' and 'a wind turbine disguised as a chimney pot'.
Rupert, who looks like a fat David Lynch, enters the den dressed as a giant whisk, before unveiling his engineering masterpiece: a man in a canvas bag with a propeller on the end, dangling underneath a ladder. The camera pans to
James Caan, whose eyes are ablaze with excitement, and who is already counting out wads of cash to hand over. And hand it over he does: £80k for 49% of Rupert's looney tunes pipe dream.
Bodice Rippers and Patio Heaters
Still, even
James Caan isn't fool enough to invest in the middle-class bint who comes into the den flogging saucy personalised novels for unimaginative couples. "Deborah sat on the bed in the hotel room," begins 'Fever in France', her not very racy book which has been personalised to include the dragons as characters.
Far from driving her potential investors wild with desire for her product, she succeeded only in conjuring up some truly horrific images: Bannatyne whipping Deborah with a riding crop; Theo and Peter trying out the latest La Senza range in a seedy motel on the M4. Grim.
Far more entertaining were Eddie Middleton's 'futuristic' patio heaters, which looked like rubbish set props from Doctor Who, circa 1972. Eddie is a man who has obviously spent far too long in his garden shed whispering sweet nothings to these monolithic eyesores, and has lost all sense of reality.