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Every few minutes a swirling vortex would appear in the air next to Cilla, and she’d shove her hand into it, grabbing out handfuls of Scouse banter and showering it over the audience like confetti.The disembodied voice of God – who in those days operated under the pseudonym of Graham – would occasionally boom out its approval, doubtless becoming increasingly nostalgic for the Old Testament days of wine, locusts and genocide (Incidentally, ‘Wine, Locusts and Genocide’ is also the title of Mel Gibson’s upcoming autobiography).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.“I think we’ll stay friends,” one of them would say, “but, you know, the sort of friends who don’t see or talk to each other ever again.” The whole concept and execution of the show felt harmless and innocent despite the odd stutter-step, like the show's American cousin The Dating Game unwittingly fielding one of the most prolific serial killers in US history, Rodney Alcala, as a contestant.
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.
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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’).