One for the scrap heap

I went to Colwyn Bay recently (believe me, you don't want to know why), and found it to be a place so rough that even the OAPs walk about proudly displaying love bites on their neck, and where, if they repossess your house, you don't mind. Once I'd finished window shopping outside Colour Blind R Us (well have you seen what they wear?) and watching the traffic lights change, I'd almost exhausted the town's night life, so in a death-or-glory bid for kicks, I stood in the queue for a small jazz club, next to a couple of nervous tourists.

"Do you have reservations?" the doorman asked, whereupon they replied "Reservations ... well ... we don't really like jazz very much, but we thought we'd give it a try anyway." I suppose it was either that or a visit to the town's "leisure centre," defined in North Wales as "six sheep chained to a lamp post".

Jazz isn't dead, the saying goes, it just smells a bit funny, and that's certainly true of the malodorous slabs of bebop and swing that supply the soundtrack on most TV motoring shows. Fast cars swerving round corners to the accompaniment of frenetic music are a staple of the genre, a typical case being BBC2's Wrong Car, Right Car, in which a "punter" (the charming term that TV people use to describe anyone who actually works for a living) is helped to trade in their old vehicle for a newer and sleeker model.

As any advertising man will tell you, jazz and cars were pretty-well made for each other, because both were invented at about the same time, both are obsessed with speed and performance, both are sublimated displays of sexual potency, both are powered by internal combustion engines, and both require petroleum in order to function. Well, okay, any analogy can be stretched a little too far, but I'm sure you get my gist.

What with there being a war on, we telly critics can never be sure if the VHS tapes we're reviewing in advance will actually be transmitted at the scheduled time, or suddenly replaced by "live from Umm Qasr". But as far as I'm aware, the programme broadcast last night featured Melissa Mailer, a mother of three whose Saab was proving too small for the demands of the urban school run, and who wanted something altogether bigger and more stylish for under £20,000.

She looked like the sort of parent who drives around with a "Children on board - keep your distance" sticker on her rear window, a curiously ineffective method of trying to stay safe on the road, I've always thought, because other drivers have to get very close indeed in order to read it (and anyway, is the motorist behind really able to brake more quickly just because he knows that your little diddums is in front of him?). But, of course, such stickers aren't really about safety at all, they're about couples proudly telling the world "Our reproductive organs work properly, thank you."

What followed was footage of Ms Mailer laboriously test-driving a half-dozen new and used cars, accompanied by jazz and the ribald comments of the programme's two presenters. Jason Barlow tempted her with new cars, while Dominic Littlewood advised her on secondhand deals, and laced his conversation-with mockney nonsense such as "Cor, it's a pony" (£500), and "It's four bags of sand" (four grand), while the phrase, "What a Berkshire Hunt" flashed through my mind.

Using a transmitter and a hidden earpiece, the pair talked her through the art of negotiating a ball-crushingly hard deal with two car salesmen, but I was more interested in their innumerable references to sex and orgasm, and to their relentless innuendo: "You're a fast lady eh? ... miss having a big stick to grab hold of, do you? ... your mum's a bit of a screamer, is she?" and so on.

There was even a reference (which I couldn't quite hear) to the lady's "mud flaps", and I don't think it was nice, because my cat suddenly shot out through its own flaps, which is usually a sign that Mr Filth has been knocking at the door.

Although the show boasted one of the world's rarest sights (a decent, honest, and reasonable second-hand car dealer from Network Q), it never built up much momentum, and the format seemed to be permanently stuck in second gear. Frankly, there just wasn't any reason to care whether Melissa chose a used Mercedes or a brand-new Vauxhall Zafira, although I was shocked to see the presenters also recommending a Renault Vel Satis, because that is a French car.