..And so it begins. Nelonen's big Autumn kick-off has begun, and half way through watching the first episode of Dance (Nelonen at 19:00, days vary) I am struck by an emotion. Firstly, I admit to feeling a stab of jealousy as dozens of attractive, lithe young people contort their bodies in unfathomable positions with the gracefulness of gazelles prancing through the African savannah. Immediately after this envy hits me I thrust it to one side with the knowledge that none of them can hold a candle to my personal dancefloor trademark: the patented drum-and-bass "windmill on acid" style, popularised in shady London nightclubs in the early 1990s.

It’s approaching September, which means that our lovely TV broadcasters are starting to roll out their autumn schedules. This is an important time of year for them. Now that the apocalyptic televisual wasteland of the summer is in the process of wheezing its last dying gasps in a manner reminiscent of a terminal lung cancer patient, commercial channels need to convince their viewers and, much more importantly, their advertisers, that they’ve got some great shizness to give the world over the next few months, so please buy some ad space from them. YLE doesn’t have the same issues of course, seeing as the aura of public-funding invincibility surrounding it could give Superman a run for ...

Being a stand-up comedian must be one of the most daunting careers anyone could choose to pursue. Until you are well-known and loved you’re constantly walking a fine line between rapturous reception and sheer opprobrium. Audiences are legendarily fickle things, and while having a hundred people in tears of laughter at your witticisms is surely a great feeling, dying on stage (metaphorically) must be one of the worst – a feeling I once encountered myself when embarking on an ill-advised two minute improvisation while acting as a policeman in our school performance of My Fair Lady in 1989.

Chat shows on the telly are a bit like haemorrhoids – uncomfortable and unsightly, yet an unavoidable reminder of the shallowness of human existence. No matter how smart you are, you can be guaranteed that a good dose of chat shows (or piles) will lower you to the basest level of mankind’s essence pretty sharpish. They’re a kind of lowest common denominator, or The Great Equaliser. Watching them is a lesson in humility. At first you’ll scoff and titter as morons bare their innermost secrets in front of an audience of millions. Then you’ll shudder as you realise that these people aren’t too different from you. You may think you’re better than them, but in fact you’re exactly the same. Scary, right?

As I sit by my computer in the darkened grave I call my office, outside I can hear the birds twittering as they frolic in the sunshine, enjoying the golden rays from the heavens warming their very souls. Which is very nice for them and everything, but for me it’s just a painful reminder of the futility of a TV ‘reviewer’ attempting and failing to eke out a living in the summer. Why? Because there is nothing on. Nish. Nada. Not a jot. Bugger all, to use the vernacular.

Yep, it’s that time again, the four-yearly celebration of human sporting prowess and the sponsorship of sporting events by massive multi-national corporations selling unhealthy products: the World Cup (of football). If you’re a Finn you might have missed the build-up to this event as much of the country has recently been engaged in watching the ice hockey team fall in their world cup at the almost-final hurdle after a couple of solid displays and some truly godawful ones – pretty much the same thing English football fans have to look forward to over the next few weeks. As of last week, you can watch 2-3 games on YLE 2 every day for a month. Yay!

Ever since my missus started maternity leave, battle lines have been drawn. I’m not talking about mundane things like who does the ironing, cooking or vacuum-cleaning (me, me and me since you ask), but the rather serious matter of who gets control of the TV remote. My argument is that I sometimes need to watch TV to work which means at certain junctures I should dictate what we watch every now and again. Her argument is that I can blooming well shut up she’s looking after a baby all day and unless I want to sleep in the shed the remote stays with her and junior. This explains why I often write about food preparation and interior design shows.

First of all I’d like to say how pissed I am at Steven Seagal. After giving him, last week, probably the most approving review I’m going to write all year for his Steven Seagal: Lawman series, it turns out the series has been indefinitely suspended because of accusations made against Seagal by a woman who claims he demanded sexual favours from her and some other, er, “personal assistants”. I mean, what? Come on Stevie, not very Zen now is it? On the other hand, as lawman reminds us weekly, everyone is innocent until proven guilty. On the other hand, mud sticks, etc. I just don’t know what to think any more.

One of the more bizarre and reality/fantasy blurring shows started last weekend on MTV3. Steven Seagal: Lawman is broadcast late at night – about one o’clock Saturday morning to be specific – indicating that the audience for this show is expected to be drunks returning from the pub, student stoners, and chronic insomniacs. For everyone else, be happy if you have a digibox capable of recording.

We all know Seagal (occupations on Wikipedia: actor, film producer, martial artist, musician, deputy sheriff, writer) of Under Siege, Out for Justice and Above the Law fame, right? Or maybe it’s only those of us who were growing up in the late-80s and early-90s who fondly remember his...

So, at last it’s over. With all the finality of a particularly big turd thudding into the toilet bowl, the winner of MTV3’s X Factor 2010 was announced last Saturday. The grand finale was held in a big hall seemingly filled with all the dry ice, lasers, tacky neon lights and flamethrowers left over from Lordi’s Eurovision performance in 2006. The stage looked like the bastard offspring of a particularly bad acid trip and a mid-80s warehouse rave, complete with the resplendent bombast all these shows flatter themselves with.

For the first time in ages the other day I actually sat down specifically to watch a new show. Normally I come across telly programmes as a hungry piranha comes across a bleeding cow – desperate for sustenance in the audio-visual wilderness I’ll take anything I can get my hands on. However, the show in question this week, Daisy of Love (Bändärille morsian, Sub TV, Sundays 20:00), I suspected would be one of the most hilarious “reality” shows ever to have made it onto the box, and boy was I right. It’s been a long time since I last cried with laughter while watching the TV but here I went through half a toilet roll mopping up my tears of mirth.

For someone who professes to be a semi-professional TV critic, there are a bunch of shows that I’ve never watched but which I apparently should have. Twin Peaks is one – I didn’t get past the third episode since the whole thing was patently ridiculous nonsense – and Buffy the Vampire Slayer is another. I’ve never seen even a single episode of the latter show, leading the few people I know who are retarded enough to be fans of it to scream at me, “What? You must see it! It takes thirty episodes to get going but then...it’s brilliant.” What, two seasons, followed by another five? No blooming thanks matey. Maybe there’s something decent there but I just don’t have time for it any more, like I don’t have time to do lots of stuff I would’ve done in my youth – although I’d rather have had my eyes poked out with rusty nails than watch Buffy.