TV Review: The Royal Bodyguard By Graeme Virtue Published on Tuesday 3 January 2012 00:00 THERE now follows a public service announcement: The Royal Bodyguard is the latest series from Mark Bussell and Justin Sbresni, the writers of defective Ben Miller vehicle The Worst Week Of My Life. Even if you weren't privy to that TV insider knowledge before tuning in, engorged and undoubtedly sleepy at the fag end of Boxing Day, you probably had your suspicions within the first minute. That was how long it took for the plucky actor/stuntman playing the newly beloved Prince Philip to be kicked in the face by a horse. Long-standing employees of both ITV and BBC, Bussell and Sbresni deal heavily in the physical origami and mimeographed pratfalls of farce, and Worst Week - the name now universally shortened as a mark of fiscal respect, since the format has sold in 120 territories - was their industry klondike. With the evergreen and ever-game David Jason as its bumbling fulcrum, The Royal Bodyguard felt like the writing partnership consciously cashing in their hard-earned commercial clout; as well as scripting duties, they shared directing and producing responsibilities too. They must also share the blame. The concept isn't terrible. The 71-year-old Jason plays gormless career soldier Guy Hubble, hand-picked by the Queen to handle royal security, despite being a Frank Spencer-grade disaster magnet: think Some Monarchs Do "Ave "Em. A gifted physical performer, the artist formerly known as Del Boy never seemed less than totally committed in his calamitous role, be it in full military uniform, bowling club blazer or Pa Broon underwear. But in this first episode, where Hubble somehow thwarted a royal assassination attempt at a Commonwealth conference in a Scottish hotel, the direction was flabby and slapdash. Even boilerplate farce relies on precise timing, and everything seemed more than a little off. It doesn't bode well for the rest of the series, and made me nostalgic for Dangermouse, a 30-year-old animated series where Jason proved he could sound dapper, dashing and absolutely charming in the service of Her Majesty. This year, if you didn't already know, is the 200th anniversary of the birth of Charles Dickens, so there's going to be a whole lot of Chuck D appreciation going on. The BBC's three-part Great Expectations was first out of the gate, unless you want to count the festive screening of Robert Webb's spoof The Bleak Old Shop Of Stuff. Perhaps to consciously differentiate itself from stiff BBC adaptations past and stagey BBC skewerings present, the latest Great Expectations went foggily and squelchingly cinematic, with generally intoxicating effect. Never mind that "adult" Pip (the certifiably handsome Douglas Booth) was nowhere near as expressive as his younger incarnation (played by Oscar Kennedy), this was genuinely ravishing to watch, although hardcore Dickens fans might petition for more meat from the original plot, and perhaps fewer helicopter shots. But the earthy production design, from farmyard forge to petrified country pile, pushed this version into a grimy plausibility that felt pleasingly lived-in. For those of Generation X-Files, Gillian Anderson as Miss Havisham was an irresistible draw, and her singsong accent and cobwebby comport were precise, insane and giddily theatrical ...in other words, perfect. Ray Winstone, playing tortured convict Magwitch like Kurtz in Apocalypse Now, bookended the story with a guttural performance that draws the highest praise: it didn't seem too much like Ray Winstone. All in all, it was a good start. Will BBC2"s forthcoming The Mystery Of Edwin Drood manage to be as satisfying? Perhaps, but in the case of Dickens" final and unfinished novel, the writers have the luxury of coming up with their own ending. After two years in the wilderness - actually, it was licensed by digital channel Bravo - the World's Strongest Man 2011 competition returned to terrestrial television on Channel 5, enlivening the traditional dead zone between Christmas and Hogmanay with a series of histrionic heats. Staged in North Carolina, the home of NASCAR racing, the spectators appeared suitably impressed as beer kegs were tossed and fire-trucks were pulled. Snooty critics may reference the traditional giant dumbbells event and suggest that it also describes the contestants. But in an age where every mainstream sport routinely features love cheats, drug fiends and insane narcissists as poster-boy superstars, this relatively lo-fi contest demonstrates that the strongest man in the world is also very likely to be one of the most affable. Though they may have ham hock thighs and basketball biceps, the pumped-up contenders of WSM are astonishingly gracious and humble, considering they could effortlessly throw Mini Coopers at you from the other side of a rugby field. The plucky Brit Laurence Shahlaei advanced through his heat by "dead-lifting" the sort of oversize dumbbells I've only ever seen in Felix The Cat cartoons, and he managed a sly grin while he did it. The final takes place tomorrow, at the time of writing. Come on, Laurence!