Television these days seems to be the next stage in the war against the terrors. Police, Parliament, the press and now TV have united in the campaign to install RESPECT! into the feckless bastards. If the underclass thought having a kosher TV license meant they could watch the box in peace then think again.

Years of watching Rikki, Jeremy, Jerry, Montel et al have led to my becoming desensitised with the plight of the underclass, although occasionally I wipe away the odd biscuit crumb tear when watching from the comfort of my bed. Continually railed against for representing all that’s fucked in society, it’s worth remembering that the underclass are not responsible for Enron, the Poll Tax, the Iraq war, al-Queda, the congestion charge, arms to Israel, arms to Hezbollah, or the Beatles splitting up.

Eerily in step with the present Government’s surveillance culture, Trisha excels in the mish-mash of the scientific and the psychobabble these shows love: polygraphs (lie ‘detectors’) DNA tests and a body language ‘expert’ are now as prominently featured on the show as the bad teeth and trackie bottoms.

Apart from the DNA test, (always worth checking to see if the DNA in question is of human origin), why such dubious methods as the polygraph are employed is beyond me. When you have an episode called "Loverat partner shagged my sister and she fuckin’ loved it!", then you don’t need a polygraph to tell you that the bloke on stage might well be a two-timing wanker.

Most of the real life dilemmas on Trisha are depressingly similar, although one I recently saw had me reaching for the antidepressants.

Sister B wanted a drop a sprog, but didn’t appear to have a regular partner(s) to help her out. Sister A generously suggested a sperm donation from her partner to help Sister B get pregnant, which seemed like the sisterly thing to do. There was just one problem with the arrangement:

The delivery method employed to transfer the sperm from Sister A’s partner to Sister B.

Rather than a five knuckle shuffle, a petri dish and a turkey baster, Sister A’s partner had decided on the conventional route to impregnating Sister B. And who could blame him: ejaculating onto a petri dish is just so degrading for a man.

Now Sister A must have been either incredibly confident of her partner’s virility, or a bit thick, because she didn’t have a problem with this as she assumed Sister B would be up the duff after just one session in their caravan.

Surprisingly enough, 20+ times later Sister B still didn’t seem to be any closer to getting pregnant. But practice does make perfect.

Now the men on Trisha always merit a description, if only for further evidence of the sheer injustice in the world today. Here I am going through a sexual drought which I can only attribute to global warming, and some bastard is leaving his lawn sprinkler on overnight on not just one but two sisters. They really should impose a hose-pipe ban on these people.

To totally rub it in, the Romeo in question looked like Hulk Hogan, minus the steroids and the suntan. Now if there was a part of the Hulkster I was going to emulate, it probably wouldn’t be the haircut. Yes to the cocaine habit, the tan and the yellow wrestling pants, but a definite no to the haircut.

Just as I thought I had enough diazepam to get me through the show, on came the Hulkster’s daughter (did I mention he was twice as old as the sisters he was screwing?). If Sister A wanted another good reason why her partner was not the best person as the sperm donor, besides the fact it might complicate her relationships with her partner and sister, Daughter of Hulk was it.

Amazingly, Daughter of Hulk (or DOH for short) defended her feckless dad. I know he gave her life, but that was twenty years ago.

As ever, Trish thought a healthy dose of psychobabble would save the day and started talking about the Hulkster needing to respect ‘boundaries’ between the two sisters. Frankly, it wasn’t boundaries they needed between them all but borders.

As I cracked open another Tenants Super, in a moment of clarity, I remembered that this was someone’s real life and that after the credits rolled, for these people, if not for me, the five inch roots, poor dentition, hurt, secrets and lies would continue.

But as the producers of these shows say, they will be counselled after the show. Well, they’ll get their taxi fare home.

You don’t need to be a psychology graduate to see these people need more than that. They need Prozac, Valium, FSH, CBT, ECT, DLA, an NHS dentist and their roots done. Possibly a more equal society would help a bit as well.

And not to mention a little bit more ‘respect’ from the rest of us.