April fools rush in

I find there is something absolutely chilling about April Fools' Day. It has always seemed to me to be the last refuge of the scoundrel with no sense of humour whatsoever. Even the greetings card industry, those avid scavengers after the last couple of quid in the gullible person's pocket, does not seem to have dignified April Fools' Day with its imprimatur.

I am surprised by this: what could be more of a hollow hoot than sending an empty envelope to a friend on 1 April? And think of the savings for those hard-pressed card makers, both in the cost of printed card and the necessity of wheeling out yet another knackered old joke.

Despite my misgivings, April Fools' Day continues to hold its place in the frivolous version of the calendar. TV Nightmares: You've Been Fooled (ITV) ensured that we did not forget that a significant proportion of the media-oriented population of these islands appear to spend most of their time thinking of a wizard jape to pull upon an unsuspecting audience on one morning in the year. Ironically, the blame for this state of affairs lies with the otherwise unimpeachable Richard Dimbleby.

In 1957, Dimbleby was the voice of Panorama, in the days when Panorama had a deep voice rather than an arpeggio of squeaking complaints. Because his gravitas was beyond doubt, this was a man who could broach the subject of the burgeoning spaghetti harvest.

Trees were festooned with fronds of pasta. People were seen tucking into the bountiful new crop. It was a wonderful tease, all the better for having not the slightest taint of idiocy or malice about it.

Welcome to 2003, and a chap called Steve Penk. I do not know anything at all about Mr Penk other than the fact that his facial features seem to have been precisely organised so as to preclude any hint of idiosyncrasy. Mr Penk was introducing this show, and his initial rush to embrace the camera was halted by a producerstyle figure who demanded that he start again.

Except that he hadn't done anything wrong - I speak here in the context of this entertainment, rather than any larger offence against civilised taste - which meant that Mr Penk was the deserving recipient of an "April Fool!" rebuke, the modern equivalent of putting the dim-witted in the stocks.

Dimbleby and his delicate tendrils of spaghetti were left far behind, as Penk revved up his monstrous machine of clankingly contrived humour. There was a quite ludicrously extended sequence featuring a man who had allegedly fallen pregnant in Texas.

All parties to this hilarious stunt were congratulated for keeping a straight face, when it was glaringly obvious that the bloke had a pillow stuffed up his jumper, and everyone knows that pillows don't turn into babies even if the tooth fairy is feeling particularly benevolent.

From Texas, we were swiftly escorted to Holland, undisputed low-humour capital of the world since a German was found telling good jokes in a cellar two decades ago. In Holland, and I can scarcely squeeze out these words such is the tightness of the strapping around my ribs, a spoof proposition had it that a swimming pool could be turned into an ice rink by adding a secret potion, which was brightly coloured and came in bottles. The paucity of imagination involved was spellbinding.