It's sublime, sublime television. The radical loucheness and informality of the games podium, the drinking of mugs of tea, the reality TV aspect of a group of people getting to know each other in close confines, the friendships, the fake tactics, the game itself is a miracle of under-engineering. There's nothing to it! A bunch of random boxes with stickers on...
And then, and then there's Noel... the ringmaster. He's tiny in real life, but you wouldn't think it the way he stalks that studio. With his bouffant blondness and his beardy buffness, he orchestrates like the true professional he is... One minute, he's laying out the possibility of a red, tempting fate, counting his eggs... the next, he's shouting for a blue, the audience in his hand, (he knows everyone by name, of course) and he turns this pedestrian game into something that absolutely enthralls me. I have cried, I have laughed, I have shouted in both joy and fury at the screen, and I'm not even a fan of game shows. Except The Price is Right.
And perhaps Blockbusters, although not technically a gameshow, as much as a freshers fair.
So I was quite gutted when little Noel (pronounced No-well, as I'm sure you knew) failed to get that little gong the other night at the British version of the radio Baftas, whatever (!) because I feel he deserved it. He OWNS that game left, right, aaaaaand centre, and for a man of his history to show his face on national television on its own deserves a fucking medal, imvho.