Mickey Rourke before his Celebrity Big Brother stint (Image: Getty)

As ever Celebrity Big Brother raises many questions. Principally, “Who’s that?”, “What’s that thing on Michael Fabricant’s head?…Has it got a pulse?”, and “Why are ITV persisting with this played-out farce?” The last question is easiest to answer. ITV hate their audience. They don’t want the likes of you and me watching their channel. They want youth! They want trendies! They want to be Channel 4.

Except C4 ditched Big Brother in 2010, Channel 5 axed it in 2018, and Monday night’s opening show averaged a feeble 1.8million viewers – a long way short of old-school ITV blockbusters like An Audience With and I’m A Celebrity which still hit an 8million peak last year. The opener did however attract the highest 16-34 audience of the night – the only viewers advertisers seem to want.

I’m not sure why. Viewers with no mortgage, and with grandchildren to indulge, have more disposable income (the grey pound) than folk struggling with young kids on the bottom rungs of the housing ladder.

Big Brother was a cultural phenomenon. The first series was living sociology, a genuine social experiment. But as it morphed into a route to undeserved fame, the show degenerated into synthetic entertainment. The ‘celeb’ version is the modern equivalent of bear baiting where older people, usually men, with forbidden attitudes are tried in the kangaroo court of social media.

Ex-boxer turned Hollywood star Mickey Rourke upset the thought police on launch night by going all ‘Jack from On The Buses’ over AJ Odudu, stunning in her brown catsuit bedecked with gemstones and feathers.

“You’re very flirtatious,” she gasped as he pulled her in close. Yes, nearly as flirtatious as ITV’s Loose Women get around ‘hot’ male guests, although that’s apparently permissible.

On Wednesday, Rourke got an official warning for telling JoJo Siwas from Dance Moms (a US reality show, m’lud) “If I stay here more than four days you won’t be gay anymore”, and for using an old-fashioned slur.

Despite accepting his apology, JoJo fast-tracked him to the Friday night eviction vote, only for Michael Fabricant and his sleeping head-top hamster to get the boot instead. (Trisha should go next for that tiresome and groundless “Islamophobic” jibe at Fabricant).

Double Olympic champion Daley Thompson also sparked a moment by telling this year’s drag queen booking, Danny Beard, “It’s all about you”. The show needs these inflated “controversies” to keep it alive on social media. In fairness, CBB occasionally produces memorable moments – Jack Dee escaping, George Galloway’s cat, “David’s dead!”, Jim Davidson’s friendship with Dappy. But you have to wade through a lot of old toffee to enjoy them.

The Apprentice’s young cast makes it feel like Big Brother with suits and an A level. Most lack a business brain, as the interview stage proved once again. Unrealistic plans were pulled apart like candyfloss by Lord Sugar’s advisers. Words like “hopeless”, “woeful” and “absurd” flew about with justification and without malice.

So here’s my question: why not recruit contestants for their entrepreneurial skills rather than their age and looks next year? Crafty costermongers, scrap metal dealers, seasoned sales reps and pushy hawkers would add an edge of real-world earthiness to Sugar’s process.

Cancellation culture started when ITV axed Benny Hill. Channel 5’s The Cancellation Of Benny Hill airs tonight, allowing the sort of twerps who think Live At The Apollo is funny to trot out tired ‘sexism’ claims (rarely aimed at the Monty Python team for Carol Cleveland in her negligee). At least the clips guarantee a few belly laughs.

Someone needs to save ITV from itself. They’ve ruined Coronation Street, they’ve run out of ideas, and they bombard us with laughable politicised dramas like Unforgotten.

The latest, Grace, managed to give us an Albanian crime gang with a white English boss. Does that ever happen in real life? I’m still laughing at the corpse in a barrel that washed up in Brighton but was meant to reach Bruges. Who knew the Belgians had a corpse shortage? It would have gone to Boston but Trump’s tariffs were too high.

Five people died in the 90-minute finale of The White Lotus (Sky Atlantic), starting with Jim, the spa hotel’s owner. It was a bloodbath, and yet nobody thought to call the Thai police. Afterwards, there wasn’t an inch of crime scene tape or a news camera to be seen and neither the guests or the staff seemed that bothered about it.

Similarly, when Lochlan almost died from pong pong poisoning nobody thought to ring for medical help. His dad, crooked embezzler Tim, had tried to murder his entire family (except Lochlan) with toxic pina coladas the night before, but changed his mind, dashing the glasses from their hands. Woozy with booze and copious amounts of wife Victoria’s chill-pills (a loss that she quickly forgot about), he didn’t think to clean up the leftovers, leaving Lochlan to make his own deadly cocktail hours later.

The boy survived, mercifully, but neither he, not anyone else, thought to ask how or why he nearly died. These small omissions matter. They made the whole finale feel undercooked.

Elsewhere, the Russian hoods got away with it, Belinda took $5million blood money from Greg/Gary, Gaitok killed Rick for dispatching Jim, who turned out to be Rick’s father.

Even sweet-natured Chelsea copped it. White Lotus writer Mike White needs an editor. Unlike Charlie Brooker whose Black Mirror is back on Netflix with seven smart new stories, starting with the ingenious Common People. There’s a USS Callister sequel too. Enjoy!