With no less ambition or arrogance than you would expect, the H-bomb known as Niall Ferguson (where H stands for historian) reappeared on our screens last night. From just the title, you can read the swagger: he is trying to chuck Kenneth Clark's revered Civilisation out of the pantheon. Instead of the austere aristocrat, we have the arriviste academic.

With no less ambition or arrogance than you would expect, the H-bomb known as Niall Ferguson (where H stands for historian) reappeared on our screens last night. From just the title, you can read the swagger: he is trying to chuck Kenneth Clark's revered Civilisation out of the pantheon. Instead of the austere aristocrat, we have the arriviste academic.

Unlike Sue Perkins, I’ve never sat on the Booker Prize judging panel. So I’ve never had the dubious pleasure of wading through 130-plus contemporary “literary” novels, of supremely variable quality, in a supremely short space of time (it’s approximately a novel a day, I’ve heard, given the allocated time). But still, I was left somewhat puzzled by the Culture Show special, The Books We Really Read, because Perkins – who was a Booker Prize judge in 2009 and is yet to recover from the experience – comes to a conclusion I found slightly odd.

And so television plunges deeper and deeper into the interior of The Land Beyond Monkey Tennis. The brave new world of utter desperation imagined in Alan Partridge’s litany of last-ditch TV pitches – which also, lest we forget, included Arm Wrestling with Chas & Dave, Inner-City Sumo and Cooking in Prison – has long since come to pass, but I’m not sure even Partridge would have conceived of Love Thy Neighbour.

And so television plunges deeper and deeper into the interior of The Land Beyond Monkey Tennis. The brave new world of utter desperation imagined in Alan Partridge’s litany of last-ditch TV pitches – which also, lest we forget, included Arm Wrestling with Chas & Dave, Inner-City Sumo and Cooking in Prison – has long since come to pass, but I’m not sure even Partridge would have conceived of Love Thy Neighbour.

You might justifiably argue that Jamie Oliver’s lack of academic prowess (he left school with just two GCSEs – we’re not told what in) did him no harm whatsoever. Yet he’s keen that youngsters today should be switched on to education in a way that he clearly wasn’t. So he’s recruited 20 kids to take part in Dream School – kids who, like him, all failed to attain the requisite five GCSEs at grade C and above. And he’s recruited some pretty impressive names to teach them.

For those whose only knowledge of the form is the Royal Variety Performance, this programme (part of BBC Four’s variety season) gave a nice, if all too brief, overview. The first of a two-parter was presented by Michael Grade, whose family is variety royalty - generations of Grades were performers and agents, and latterly television executives.

Meet Tom. He’s an Essex geezer with all the charm of a used toothpick, whose idea of romance is a cheeseburger on a bench in the Sainsbury’s car park. He can’t hold down a job, spends all girlfriend Cherelle’s money down the bookies, and expects her to cook, clean and run his bath – once she’s finished working two jobs of course. Enter the gum-chewing, ratings-chasing BBC Three guardian angel, ready to solve the problem in the most dramatic, exploitative and tabloid way possible. With the help of three “inspirational” female mentors, Tom must repent, change his wicked ways, and learn the secret of How To Live With Women.

Now nearing the end of its sixth series, Wild at Heart has quietly parked itself in the middle of the Sunday-evening schedules, where it goes about its task of hoovering up ratings with single-minded efficiency. Last week's debut of South Riding on BBC One was considered a triumph with 6.6 million viewers, but Wild at Heart pipped it with 6.8 million. The week before it scored over seven million.

For those not of Jewish heritage and who may not know the significance of the title, Friday-night dinner is the hub of a Jewish family’s week, when they gather together for a special dinner and prayers. It’s a (very) rough cultural equivalent of a Sunday roast or the Thanksgiving meal, and even for many non-religious Jews who dispense with the traditional menu and prayers, there’s a three-line whip on attendance.

Why on earth did I volunteer to review this? I suppose it was because it would show me a world I had little knowledge of and therefore would be able to offer a fresh, objective perspective on. But 15 minutes in and I’m feeling like Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange being subjected to images of sex and violence, his eyes clamped open and his head held fast so there’s no escape. Except of course that would be loads more fun than this new reality TV show set in a London modelling agency, which unfortunately is more like watching nail varnish dry.

There was a moment in last night’s Silk when a young solicitor turned up late for a trial. He was also an actor, he explained to his client’s counsel, and had to attend an audition. For a Head & Shoulders ad. The USP of Peter Moffat’s courtroom dramas is that, more than any writer since John Mortimer, he knows whereof he speaks. Having once been a barrister himself, the serpentine ins and outs of chambers, the politicking and skulduggery etc etc are his area of expertise. So you take it on trust that the events dramatised here are the truth and nothing but.