THE other day I got home from a long day at work, cooked dinner, washed the dishes, fed the cat, put the bins out, put the boy to bed, did some ironing, then finally sat down on the sofa.

I was very tired.

That’s my only excuse for the rest of the evening.

In search of entertainment that wouldn’t require the engagement of even part of my brain, I put on Channel 4 – which seemed a fairly safe bet. Secret Eaters was on.

Two large ladies announced they ate practically nothing. “I should be a size zero, never mind a 10 or a 12,” one of them proclaimed, absolutely flummoxed as to how she could weigh 15 stone.

“I eat granola,” said the other. It was a claim she was to repeat like a mantra throughout the episode.

She did indeed pack up the cereal and take it to work with her. She then ate a massive fried breakfast and several gallons of energy drinks before gamely carrying the granola back home again after its day out.

“We buy healthy food,” her partner insisted.

They did buy lots of healthy food. They just didn’t eat any of it. And for some reason they decided to allow ‘secret’ cameras to film them tucking into giant bags of fried chicken and scoffing cream cakes at 3am.

Next up was Dead Famous DNA.

Presenter Mark Evans attempted to buy body parts of famous dead people so he could try to get a genetic profile put together.

What a lovely premise. George III’s hair turned out to be a wig. The woman in the fetching pink tracksuit who claimed to own Elvis’ wart wouldn’t part with her prized possession for any price. And the geneticist supposed to be helping refused point blank to analyse a sample of ‘Hitler’s hair’ obtained from holocaust denying ‘historian’ David Irving because “you have to deserve to be sequenced”. How very scientific.

Poor Evans was left clutching just the hairs that were alleged to have been salvaged by Elvis’ barber.

The analysis came up with genetic markers for migraine, glaucoma and a heart condition.

Although he acknowledged the hamburgers wouldn’t have helped, Evans tried to convince us that these markers were a sure sign it was the King’s hair he’d got hold of.

“Perhaps a premature death was his genetic destiny,” he solemnly intoned. “It’s completely mind-blowing.”

Well, if you say so. I looked Evans up to check out his credentials. He’s a vet.

The credits rolled. “And next,” said the overly excitable announcer. “Twins look for love in the First Dates restaurant!”

I decided to have an early night.

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