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So much has changed since the 1980s, both on TV and in society itself, that what returns to our screens may not be a straight-forward, fully-intact teleport of the format, but rather a mutant mish-mash: a half-fly Jeff Goldblum of a show just begging to be put out of its misery.

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During Cilla's reign as Queen of Saturday night light entertainment she managed to capture the essence of that bygone, buttoned-down Britain of saucy postcards and bus-trips to Blackpool.

Take Me Out, with its shrieking cavalcade of bouncing boobs and barely decipherable neck tattoos, offers instead the promise of a lorra, lorra chlamydia, and a quick reminder from our God of why we don’t deserve to endure as a species. Thirty immaculately-coiffed nightclub banshees stand behind specially designed ‘sex lecterns’, passing judgement on a single male who descends into the studio on a small platform known as ‘The Love Lift’ (which I’m certain must be street slang for ‘Viagra’).

Here’s a little reminder of a typical Blind Date exchange: FEMALE HOT SEAT CONTESTANT: “Contestant 3: If you were a cloud... ” MALE CONTESTANT NO 3: “Well, my friends would definitely tell you that I'm a very... Once in a while, a handful of audience members would smile so enthusiastically that they actually exploded.

Every few minutes a swirling vortex would appear in the air next to Cilla, and she’d shove her hand into it, grabbing out handfuls of Scouse banter and showering it over the audience like confetti.

The disembodied voice of God – who in those days operated under the pseudonym of Graham – would occasionally boom out its approval, doubtless becoming increasingly nostalgic for the Old Testament days of wine, locusts and genocide (Incidentally, ‘Wine, Locusts and Genocide’ is also the title of Mel Gibson’s upcoming autobiography).

Once the three had been whittled down to one, the partition went back and the two contestants - chooser and chosen - locked eyes for the first time.

That memory, that association, is never complete without Cilla Black – the nation's favourite surrogate aunty, always resplendent in a series of shoulder-padded blazers, smiling down on my childhood like a ghostly Yoda at the end of Return of the Jedi.

As my mother's hair-dryer voomed into life in the kitchen, I was to be found in the living room watching Cilla on Blind Date, contorting myself on the couch (emphatically not a euphemism), often upside down, a combination of ever-stretching limbs and rising hormones making it impossible for me to sit properly and at peace for any significant length of time.

The only thing that could be more damaging to his self-esteem at this point would be if the women decided to forgo the buzzer in favour of chanting 'YOU SEXUALLY DISGUST ME! ' at him until he fell to the floor, weeping himself into a tight ball.

We can only think ourselves lucky that Rodney Alcala never got the chance to appear on the American version of Take Me Out.

All thirty women will buzz him out long before the horrifying disco moves have ceased.

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