Showbusiness Is Certainly... Showy

Pineapple Dance Studios needs a follow-up like Louie Spence needs a confidence boost, lizard skin tap shoes and a teach yourself to lisp app. Regardless, last night Sky1 shoved a sequel into its schedule. Like its precursor, Louie Spence’s Showbusiness is basically a shrieky, flat Little Britain sketch that never ends. Its stars regale us with their flair, low v-necks and devotion to insane sentence structure. Showbusiness should ring alarm bells for anyone thinking they might abandon their supermarket checkout gig for a career as a delusional fame-seeker. Only, it won’t.

Louie welcomed us to his new show by spewing bons nots with a woolly, auburn merkin (“a disguise!”) perched on the side of his head. I watched on, albeit significantly less gripped than Spense’s wig, as the artistic director and Laura his PA relocated to a posh new head office where tap water in tall foggy bottles is free.

Later, somewhere else, we learned that a ropey David Beckham double is moving in with a woman who looks a bit like Marilyn Monroe. Having avoided all but a taster DVD of the original Pineapple programme, I’m not sure whether these two are series regulars or fresh screen meat. I suspect they’ve been drafted in to more comprehensively illustrate that, for the wannabe majority, low level showbiz is only marginally more glamorous than stubbing your toe on Mick Hunknall. Anyhow, Dave and Mazza are part of a celebrity lookalike troupe who occasionally get to feed off the foot scrapings of real famous people. But they’re gloriously dim and so delighted with their mouldy sliver of pseudo stardom. Good for them.

Next, we meet out of work thespian Michael Heywood, who’s about to be evicted from his grubby flat. A killjoy behind the camera asks him why he persists with the acting. Michael says something unconvincing but before he can follow it up the bailiffs arrive. It’s a dark moment and the episode’s only transfixing few seconds.

Meanwhile, Andrew Stone, Pineapple’s excitable dance teacher and lead singer of Starman, is enamoured with his own success, even though the band is yet to sign a recording contract. “We’re playing after Scouting For Girls, Lee Ryan and Craig David!” he yips to no one in particular as they’re minibussed to Party in the Park.

As more and more super-sized egos sashayed on screen, I withered, winced and wondered whether I should call an ambulance for narrator Michael Burke. He must have slit his wrists by now, surely.

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