It's schedulers who deserve a grisly end

Taggart (ITV1)

AS usual, Taggart began with a "mudder", and a particularly nasty one at that. The victim, having been struck unconscious by a large metal hook, was thrown into the shipyard crusher by his assailant. "We found what was left of him down there," the Glasgow cops were informed when they arrived on the scene.

This story looked like it might rival that stomach-turning Taggart episode set in a haggis-making factory, where bodies disappeared and no one was sure exactly what was in the haggis being produced.

Hard Man was the first of the new-look Taggarts. Having survived the death of the actor whose character lent his name to the series, the current team of detectives now have to cope with the peculiarities of the ITV schedulers. After stories lasting several episodes and others made as 90-minute or two-hour films, Taggart's format is now self-contained one-hour episodes.

Disappointingly, this has resulted in a severe reduction in the body count. It also means, as star Blythe Duff pointed out on GMTV, that viewers don't have time to nip out and make a cup of tea for fear of missing vital information.

You certainly needed your wits about you during Hard Man, which boasted a plot as complex and incomprehensible as a political party manifesto. Like those documents, the episode also failed to keep its promise to be classic Taggart.

What did emerge was that new boss, DCI Matt Burke, is a real misery guts. He tells a colleague, "Don't squirm, Robbie, you'll make the arse of your pants shiny" and doesn't take kindly to those who annoy him, telling them, "I'm in no mood to be pissed around".

Detectives Jackie Reid, Robbie Ross and Stuart Fraser were left with little to do but follow him around, dodging his verbal abuse while attempting to identify the bloody pulp that passed for the victim.

Perhaps I shouldn't complain too much about Taggart's new look. At least, the series is still on air. John Thomson's Stan The Man was unceremoniously yanked from the schedules on Monday because of poor ratings and put into some godforsaken 11pm slot over Christmas.

Even that's better treatment than handed out to the TV adaptation of Kingsley Amis's Lucky Jim starring Stephen Tompkinson. After sitting on the shelf for two years, the series was dusted off and given a screening date, only to be shelved again sometime between the press launch and the publication of the schedules.

This time, it doesn't need the Taggart team to find out whodunit - the guilty parties work in the ITV scheduling department.

Larkin about

Pretending To Be Me, West Yorkshire Playhouse

SIR Tom Courtenay has resisted making himself look like Philip Larkin, the subject of his one-man show and former librarian at Hull University. He wears glasses, as Larkin did, but hasn't shaved off his hair to represent his baldness. This is no surface-only physical impersonation but a bid to get under his skin.

As the actor never met the poet, he's created the character from his poetry, letters and interviews. The result is as fascinating and informative for the spectator as, I assume, it was for Courtenay compiling the play (suggested by an idea by Michael Godley).

The action - if you can call Larkin recalling his life and reciting his poetry such a thing - takes place in a room in his new house, stacked high with packing cases.

How much the person we see resembles the real Larkin, I don't know. But Courtenay take clues offered in his writings to create a warts-and-all character who's not only witty and funny, but cantankerous and occasionally plain bitchy about fellow poets.

The piece has no time for Larkin's alleged affairs - detailed in the previous Playhouse production Larkin With Women - without shirking away from the poet's penchant for pornography.

Ian Brown is credited as the director of the production, but even he would accept that the bulk of the praise for the success of this unique theatrical venture belongs to Courtenay for a consistently brilliant star turn. Even Larkin would have to acknowledge that.

Steve Pratt

l Until December 21. Tickets 0113-213 7700