Even better than the real thing

For those of you unfortunate enough to have let the televisual gem that is Channel 4’s Faking It bypass you completely, believe me when I tell you that it is a mushy seeping mass of uplifting goo that does exactly what it says on the tin. Somebody – usually in their mid-twenties – is plucked from their natural habitat, given 28 days schooling in a discipline that is completely alien to them and then asked to fool a panel of specialists by either working undercover in their new field or entering a contest in which they compete against people with infinitely more experience in doing whatever it is that’s being done: hairdressing, cheffing, show-jumping… whatever.

Their exploits are documented from start to finish and the resulting series of one-hour documentaries is as compelling, nerve-shredding, tear-jerking and warmly grinning as anything you’re ever likely to see on the small screen.

If the profane Newcastle burger-flipper who was schooled by terminally exasperated kitchen ogre Gordon Ramsey to win a prestigious British cheffing competition didn’t charm your socks off, then the gay farm boy who spent a month in the company of some of the hardest-but-fairest thugs you’ll ever see, before successfully passing himself off as a bouncer in London’s West End, probably did. And as for the abrasive northern rugby league bird who conned a ballroom full of preening English popinjays into thinking she was a London debutante…

Without exception, each installment has been gripping, but my personal favourite was the one in which a timid, shy and utterly square classical musician was transformed into a hip, gum-chewing, deck-spinning dervish who proceeded to astound a panel of judges at a deejaying competition with her (recently acquired) encyclopedic knowledge of the genre and tenacity behind the steel wheels.

Upon discovering that she had never even been to a dance club until four weeks previously they were stupefied. Upon discovering that she planned to forego a potentially lucrative future as a superstar DJ in favour of a career sawing second cello in the Ulster Orchestra, the rest of us were even more stupefied.

Perhaps what is most heartwarming about Faking It is that even the failures are exhilarating. Almost without exception, everyone who has a crack at it embraces their challenge wholeheartedly, does very well at it and visibly morphs into an infinitely more confident and well-rounded version of their former selves in the process.

For example, even though she jumped a clear round despite never having sat on a horse a month prior to her moment of truth, an unfortunate slip of the tongue meant the West End nightclub dancer didn’t fool the show jumping panel into thinking she was an experienced equestrian and was consequently disappointed.

Bizarrely, the fact that she had fooled her horse seemed to go largely unnoticed.

In a society where reality TV is all the rage, it is hugely ironic that one of the few shows that offers a glimpse of ordinary Joes showing their true colours is based on the premise that they are pretending to be something they’re not.

Screenwriter and author William Goldman famously wrote that nobody anywhere knows anything. How right he was. From the moment we get up in the morning until last thing at night we are all unmitigated frauds, spoofing and bluffing our way through the day as best we can.

For a kick-off, I have no business writing this column. I know my place and that place is sitting behind a desk in an office or driving around in a company Audi trying to convince people I don’t know very well that they really need whatever it is I’m selling. However, as long as I can continue to get away with turning a buck by writing bits here and doing comedy gigs there, I shall continue to do so because when push comes to shove, life’s too short to waste doing things that don’t stimulate you.

And it ain’t just me. Everyone is faking it. Even Sting. A dedicated environmentalist and animal rights activist who used to be the singer in a fine pop band, Sting is currently a purveyor of poor quality rock ballads who flies by noisy, fuel-guzzling Concorde and endorses a brand of Jaguar car that does under 20 miles to the gallon and boasts an interior that is finished in leather and teak.

Someone more astute than me once wrote of the late, great Peter Cook: “A comedian and pessimist, he thinks the human race cannot be improved and that there’s no point in trying. He believes that everyone, without exception in the whole history of the world, has been exclusively motivated by greed, lust or power mania. He doesn’t think anyone has ever had any reason for doing anything else and he thinks they’re all right.”

The first time I read his biography, I agreed wholeheartedly with Cook’s sentiments. Having read it again recently, I can only wonder if this curmudgeonly old fucker – who fooled everyone by conquering the world of showbiz and celebrity just so he could reject it in favour of sitting at home for months on end watching any old tripe on television – would have reconsidered his depressing world view upon seeing Faking It.

Throughout his life, Cook’s abiding philosophy could be summed up in two words: nothing matters. Success, mediocrity, failure…

it doesn’t matter. Nothing ever matters. Faking It goes a long way towards proving he was right.