A pleasant leafy road in Peterborough at night. A woman is approaching strangers and soliciting them. She wants their views not their bodies. But then this is Ann Widdecombe, MP and self-confessed virgin.

I did once penetrate her bedroom but, like actors in Hollywood movies during the Hays Code, kept both feet firmly on the floor while I interviewed her about her latest book. That, as far as I know, doesn't count as a sexual experience (well, the earth didn't move for me).

Anyway, back at ITV1's truly dreadful documentary series in which Widdecombe addresses pressing issues, but is she really the best person to tackle prostitution in the light of her ignorance on the subject?

She's got it into her head that every prostitute is selling her body to pay for her drug addiction, but fails to supply any statistics to back up that view.

She charges around like the proverbial bull in a china shop confronting prostitutes ("I'm Ann Widdecombe from ITV") and observing as police officers pull up kerbcrawlers in areas where street girls ply their trade.

The nanny state has reached the point where men in cars are stopped by police and asked, "Have you come here looking for the services of a prostitute?". The driver replies, unsurprisingly, "No" and is then sent home like a naughty boy and told not to come round there again as he hasn't given a satisfactory answer as to why he's there.

One prostitute throws beer on her. Another actually talks to her only to be told that being held in police cells would be a good thing because "at least you won't be in danger on the streets".

In danger from being accosted by MPs turned TV commentators, that is.

In case that doesn't work, she enlists the mother of a murdered prostitute to recall how her daughter's dismembered body was found in bin bags and her head in the freezer.

Widdecombe's unrealistic approach is illustrated as she tries to persuade one street girl to come off the game, assuring her that "someone will give you a job several weeks after you give it up".

She ventures into a brothel to talk to the madam. A notice on the brothel door clearly states, somewhat inappropriately you may think, NO KNOCKING.

Robbie Coltrane is the latest celebrity to pack his bags and go travelling with a TV camera in his rucksack. He squeezes himself into a 1950s sports car to drive from London to his home in Glasgow avoiding motorways. En route, he's set to encounter eccentrics and weird happenings, but hopefully no prostitutes or Ann Widdecombe.

In High Wycombe, he witnesses the tradition of mayor-weighing, where the town's first citizen is weighed at the start and end of his term of office. If he's gained weight, a cry of "And some more" rings out. If he's not gained weight, a cry of "And no more".

Coltrane tries to work up the excitement by surveying the crowd and suggesting there's the "wee smell of the guillotine". He suggests extending the tradition to MPs, only plugging the chair into the electrics.

An asparagus fan, he finds it grown in the Vale of Evesham but is warned of the after-effect and how it earned the nickname of the chambermaid's curse. Because it makes your pee smell. Coltrane, a man who looks as though he enjoys his food, puts this to the test by eating a mound of asparagus and then visiting the loo. His shocked cry suggests the nickname is well earned.

He doesn't try out wing-walking on a bi-plane but does have a go driving a 20-tonne truck, the only one of its kind in the world which can be driven on its two rear wheels, like a rearing horse. To his credit, Coltrane manages to get the truck off the ground.

Then it's off for a game of disc golf and a visit to the hanger, as tall as a 16-storey building, that houses the R101 airship. You could get 6,000 double decker buses, Titanic or even Nelson's Column inside this very large space. And big Robbie Coltrane, of course.