Now look. Let’s make a few things clear before we begin.
We love Claudia Winkleman, absolutely, yes.
We loved her on the radio, we loved her on Strictly Come Dancing, we revere her on The Traitors, we wish to be her when we grow up or at least sport a modicum of her Traitors wardrobe. We love her hair, we love her warmth and wit and, we’re pretty sure, the wisdom that would pour forth were the universe ever to do right by us and make her our best friend.
This is obvious. This is a given. And all of this remains true despite the unholy mess of the opening instalment of the long-and-loudly-heralded Claudia Winkleman Show.
For a start there are four unrelated guests, which is too many. And to have them all come out at once is just stupidity. Marshalling that into a semblance of order would make even Graham Norton quail, and he is the world’s most experienced celebrity cat herder. The problems are multiplied because one of the guests is Jeff Goldblum, whose idiosyncratic approach to life and performance requires special handling both to get the best out of him and to let others have their turn in the spotlight without hampering the off-the-cuff contributions he, unlike some actors, is good for.
Tom Allen works hard, especially at the beginning to get some energy flowing in the room. Vanessa Williams, in London appearing in the stage version of The Devil Wears Prada, is all grace and charm while clearly baffled, verging on horrified, by the nonsense unfolding around her – and more or less wordless until it is her official turn to speak. And Jennifer Saunders delivers a few decent lines while equally clearly wishing to have been in bed four hours ago.
Discussions open bizarrely – and poorly – with each of the guests being required to comment on the set. “It’s giving ‘hotel lounge you wouldn’t go into for the free nuts’” is what no one had the courage to say. What colour do they think the sofa is? Hunter green, Goldblum puts forth valiantly. Maybe emerald. “Dark teal,” says Saunders in tones that suggest that she wishes either she or everyone else were elsewhere. She needs to pace herself. Goldblum has several non-anecdotes about teenage Jeff and many hours of shilling for his new jazz album to get through yet. Though before that, we endure being introduced to Trudy, the woman who designed the set and chose the sofa colour. “From 70 options,” apparently. She takes exception to Allen describing her place of work as a furniture shop. “This is what I live for as a gay man,” replies Allen. “Being insulted by an upholsterer.” Is it funny? Is it cruel? Is it both or neither? It doesn’t matter because the audience and Claudia respond throughout to anything that looks or sounds like a joke with ecstasies of laughter. When an actual joke really does occur, the hysteria nearly takes the roof off.
We trundle grimly on through more non-anecdotes from Jeff and the other guests. He thinks his contortionist wife, Emily, is amazing. He also likes pencils, but not mechanical pencils. Saunders and Williams use the same hairdresser: his name is Sven. Vanessa’s riders always includes provision for her great dane, Roscoe, to accompany her, and she was once served smoked salmon and scrambled eggs by Sir Ian McKellen. No, that’s it. Jennifer can’t stand WhatsApp groups that diverge from their original purpose. Tom Allen calls furniture left out for people to take for free “street tapas”.
“This is great!” says Claudia at one point. It is not.
I have left the worst until last. There is – and I can hardly believe I am having to type this in the year of our lord 2026 – audience participation. This should have been outlawed generations ago. We are not a camera-ready nation and we never will be. But it happens and it happens repeatedly. Claudia strenuously elicits a prepared bit from a guest – about ghosts in a theatre for example – or crowbars in a basic fact (“You have a place in the country, don’t you, Jennifer?” she says, with Saunders looking as if Claudia has just announced her passport details and medical records to the world) and then someone from the audience turns out to be a clairvoyant or live near Jennifer and be one of the local volunteers who helps frogs over the road at night to the breeding pond so they don’t get killed. There used to be local newspapers for this kind of stuff. We should bring them back.
Eventually it is over. Claudia has been faster and wittier than at least three fifths of her guests and Allen has earned every penny of his fee. I suspect Williams is still in therapy, Saunders is berating her agent and Goldblum has forgotten he was ever there.
Apparently there are only three guests next week. Fingers crossed, everybody. Fingers crossed.