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So, have you noticed I almost always have an animal in my books?

Animal Planet listed the top 5 reasons for owning a pet.

So much has changed since the 1980s, both on TV and in society itself, that what returns to our screens may not be a straight-forward, fully-intact teleport of the format, but rather a mutant mish-mash: a half-fly Jeff Goldblum of a show just begging to be put out of its misery.

The truth of this inevitable transformation can be seen in the steps already taken up the light-entertainment evolutionary ladder, most notably in the DNA of ITV's long-running post-Blind Date offering, Take Me Out. When I think back to the Saturday nights I spent as a boy on the cusp of my teenage years, I can almost smell the heady scent of my mother's perfume as she readies herself for a night out with my step-dad and a gaggle of other couples.

At this point the chooser usually tried - and failed - to disguise a powerful wave of disgust and regret, spending the next few minutes smiling like a chimp being held at gunpoint.

The couple would return the following week to recount a holiday filled with such existential angst and dread that it was almost a Jean-Paul Satre novel.

All thirty women will buzz him out long before the horrifying disco moves have ceased.

He’ll then be banished from the studio, stopping only to turn and wave pathetically at the women who have spurned him, as the mournful words of Celine Dion haunt the air around him.

The female contestants would always deliver their quips with a saucy giggle and a Timotei-style flick of the head, while the men would deliver theirs in a spirit of such oily slickness that Greenpeace would eventually have to be called in. In 'weather' or not you’re going to choose me, of course. I'll take you to Cloud 9.” At this point the audience would woop and ahhhh so loudly that time would cave in on itself, and Cilla would link hands and dance on stage with a chorus-line of dinosaurs and Mongol warriors.

Just before my mother left our house to enjoy a lorra lorra laughs with her friends she always came into the sitting room to give me a quick reminder of her maternal affection: a peck on the cheek.

That's rather apposite, because Blind Date was undoubtedly the light entertainment equivalent of a peck on the cheek: nice, wholesome, earnest, comforting, and always leaving a faint but pleasant impression.

During Cilla's reign as Queen of Saturday night light entertainment she managed to capture the essence of that bygone, buttoned-down Britain of saucy postcards and bus-trips to Blackpool.

Take Me Out, with its shrieking cavalcade of bouncing boobs and barely decipherable neck tattoos, offers instead the promise of a lorra, lorra chlamydia, and a quick reminder from our God of why we don’t deserve to endure as a species. Thirty immaculately-coiffed nightclub banshees stand behind specially designed ‘sex lecterns’, passing judgement on a single male who descends into the studio on a small platform known as ‘The Love Lift’ (which I’m certain must be street slang for ‘Viagra’).

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