Did we like it?
Not so much scraping the bottom of the barrel, but more a case of punching through the bottom of the barrel and mining away deep into the Earth’s crust until you reach the fossilised remains of dinosaurs, below which lies only the conniving, quivering integrity of Andi Peters.
What was good about it?
• While he wasn’t necessarily “good”, we were a little shocked to see the talented Phil Cornwell in such a digital sewage – we can only hope he was conducting research for a Stella Street revival, only this time inhabited by worthless vermin competing with the plague of rats for the dustbin scraps.
What was bad about it?
• It is almost impossible to convey how awful this show is. The first problem is the concept of “celebrities” running an airline – how much responsibility do they really have, because if the engines suddenly cut out, do you really want Lisa Maffia running through the crash procedure?
• And the celebrities are culled one by one each week after a panel of three judges deliberate on their performance. To guide us, we are simply given a partial perspective on how each of the celebrities fare in their job; so even on this level it’s utterly dissatisfying.
• The celebrities: Johnny Shentall lumbers about like a slowly melting block of ice, while Lisa Scott-Lee’s smiles tear her face like a hunter trying to rescue his infant son from the belly of a ravenous wolf.
• No cheap reality show would be complete without a member of the So Solid Crew, and here it’s Lisa Maffia evoking memories that they used to make reasonably exciting music before forsaking a music career for the human equivalent of a maggot feasting on the eyeball of a cadaver.
• Tamara Beckwith consists entirely of fake fingernails and talks with an accent of expensive perfume with hair made from obsequious compliments, and Dan O?Connor is such an anonymous spectre even God is rifling through his compendium of births, marriages and deaths in a vain effort to discover at what point this inconsequential abscess was spawned into the universe.
• And then there’s spray-tanned Kenzie, Mica Paris, who always seems out of breath even though she’s got nothing to say and Amy Lame, who, like Cornwell, is someone who is letting themselves down.
• Finally, Chico, the emblem of primordial fatuousness whose sense-shredding presence alone is enough to make you pray for the end of the world in a cataclysmic black hole from Switzerland (which in itself is an irony if the one nation with no army are responsible for the single most destructive act in the history of the solar system ).
• But even worse than the actual celebrities are those semi-famous scum who scuttle on board the plane as passengers to add a further element of vacuous endorsement. Lee Latchford-Evans, a man who makes Andrew Ridgeley resemble Leo Tolstoy; Maggot and Eggsy from Goldie Lookin’ Chain, who snuggle up so willingly in visual excrement that they even nauseate dung beetles; Bianca Gasoigne brings along Charlotte Mears to ensure she isn’t the least famous person on show; MC Plat’num, a rapper so inept he makes the aforementioned Maggot sound like Ghostface Killah; Richard Arnold, a snail who is so smug his shell has even upped sticks and left; Kyran Bracken, a former rugby semi-great with nothing to do other than wait for death; and, worst of all, Andi Peters, a former angel of CBBC who has fallen farther than Lucifer and is now Chris Moyles’ stooge for the odious scab’s jokes.