It would take the cunning of the insane to invent the British railway network. Privatised 18 years ago, it offers the worst of all worlds - persistent overcrowding and cancellations, outdated rolling stock and fares rising vertiginously as services grow steadily more uncomfortable, while the taxpayer still has to stump up billions to keep this wheezing Heath Robinson nightmare functioning at all.
While public outrage has been hosed over the bankers and their grotesque bonuses, it tends to go unnoticed that rail bosses are also dab hands at lining their own pockets at public expense. For instance, last year, Chiltern Railways availed itself of £8 million in state aid, while its top director trousered 820 grand.
If you're a rail user, none of this will come as a surprise. However, it's a topic which demands persistent and unsparing examination, so the Dispatches ploy of sending out Richard "Meldrew" Wilson to mix with long-suffering commuters was a crafty one. As a classic Labour-supporting luvvie, Wilson admits he has a "penchant for five-star hotels, taking taxis and going First Class", so was unprepared for the rush-hour purgatory endured by the bedraggled footsoldiers of UK PLC.
Looking dapper in his overcoat and mustard-coloured scarf, Wilson duly bowled up at Reading station one grey morning, but his beginner's enthusiasm was dampened when the first train to London was more packed than a wardrobe crammed with a team of sumo wrestlers. But overcrowding wasn't the half of it. Wilson explored the booby-trapped complexities of a pre-booking system where, if you alight from the train at a stop prior to your chosen destination, you'll be made to pay the full fare again (Inter City 125 locomotive, pictured below).
Other fares insist you must have a seat reservation to go with your ticket, despite the fact that the seats on the relevant train aren't numbered. If you don't, once again they'll make you buy a new ticket. For the crime of forgetting to bring his Senior Railcard on a trip to Sheffield, Wilson incurred penalties totalling £278. Throughout all this, he maintained a most un-Meldrew-like air of quiet bemusement, like somebody reading Alice in Wonderland for the first time. Quite apt when dealing with a rail system in which trains are officially deemed to be on time when they're 10 minutes late.
It was left to others to add a sprinkling of fulminating rage. Hordes of travellers had sent in their own videos to Dispatches, in which they railed against squalid stations, randomly cancelled trains, and the way a return ticket to Paris is cheaper than one to London. Journalist Simon Hoggart added his own anecdote about two American tourists on a train to Norwich who'd bought the wrong tickets. They were fined £103 by a ticket collector who barked that "we operate a zero-tolerance policy on this line".
In ancient Rome, all this might have provoked an ejaculation of "Jupiter's cock!", at least if Spartacus: Gods of the Arena is any guide. This is a prequel to Spartacus: Blood and Sand (shown in the UK last year on Bravo), which had to be put on hold because of bemuscled star Andy Whitfield's ongoing treatment for cancer.
Gods of the Arena traces the way the detestable Batiatus (John Hannah) climbed the blood-soaked ladder to become Capua's leading gladiatorial pimp, out-manoeuvring his tiresome disciplinarian father and omitting no sleazy stunt or murderous trick to extract top dollar for his fighters. Despite the absence of the eponymous Spartacus (let's face it, that never stopped Taggart), the new show is still crammed with slashed throats spurting curtains of blood soundtracked by heavy-metal riffs, people being savagely beaten almost to death (though mysteriously surviving with all their faculties intact), a non-stop cascade of obscenities and lashings of soft-core porn.
The latter owes much to the lubricious Gaia (Jaime Murray, pictured left with Lucy Lawless), who's on permanent red alert for a quick shag with anybody within touching distance. When not leering at the semi-naked gladiators, she may be found enjoying an opium-enhanced lesbian romp with Batiatus's wife Lucretia (Lucy Lawless), or fingering herself voyeuristically while she spies on Mr and Mrs Batiatus engaging in carnal action. It's on Sky 1, but Richard Desmond must be kicking himself that it's not on Five.
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