How Auntie could turn a winning comedy minnow into a whopper

REVIEWS are generally best done at the start of a series. Not much point in waiting to the end before delivering a verdict — by then the show’s over.

Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing (BBC2) deserves to be an exception, and not just because it began well and grew better every week.

We watched two middle-aged comics, both recovering from serious heart conditions, lark about (and try each other’s patience) on the riverbank. They refused to take anything too seriously, yet left us with a lump in our throats each time.

But the series went largely unnoticed, tucked away late on the BBC’s second channel and picking up an audience of well under a million. It couldn’t have done much worse on BBC4.

Perhaps the slow ratings were the result of lamentable timing: the first few episodes went out during the World Cup, when most of the country was glued to the footie. If the Beeb bosses have any sense, they’ll schedule an immediate repeat, this time on BBC1 at 9pm, and turn a minnow into a whopper.

Gone Fishing works for the same reason that Mackenzie Crook’s sitcom Detectorists was such a joy. Two blokes, hoping to get away from real life for a bit, potter his silk pyjamas at the end of the day, then leering over the banister to watch him put them on.

The naturalness of Gone Fishing is in sharp contrast to The Bletchley Circle: San Francisco (ITV), a crime-and-costume drama that’s as stilted as a prewar stage play. The characters are almost always in static tableaux — seated at a table, posed around a murder scene, never moving about.

Added to that, their world consists of rooms that are obviously studio sets. One new character, jazz pianist Iris (Crystal Balint), lives in a ‘ghetto apartment’ that actually looks like a backdrop from the Ideal Home Exhibition circa 1956, all golden yellows and pastel greens.

Like all jazz musicians, Iris is a devoted parent who only drinks water and always says grace before meals. And that’s not the most unlikely part of the story.

Still, it’s easy to overlook the faults of the Bletchley Circle, because it’s a pleasure to have a band of clever women as detectives. They’re not depressive, neurotic or tormented, let alone morose alcoholics.

This couldn’t be further from the bleak, Scandi-style murder mystery. One more reason why it feels old-fashioned, of course, but none the worse for it.