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.

Daisy of Love is a spin-off from the Bret Michaels-fronted Rock of Love, in which the erstwhile Poison frontman was given twenty hot ladeez to choose from, in the vain hope that love would be found. Needless to say, it wasn’t, but one of the rejects from the second series of that show, Daisy de la Hoya (not her real name), has now started her own show trying to find, you guessed it, lurve. I’d be very surprised if more than one per cent of couples who have met each other on ANY similar series are still together, and indeed season two of this show is in pre-production as I type. It just doesn’t work, but then, we all know that anyway, including the people in it.

What we do get instead is a house full of twenty hard-rockin’ blokes who all basically want to get inside Daisy’s extremely skimpy underwear. “You’re the epitome of sexiness!” they cry as they meet her for the first time. Indeed, if your idea of sexy is an overblown caricature of a Barbie doll then yes, sexiness is oozing out of every oversized body part. Actually they don’t use words like “epitome”, they say things more like “damn you so HOT wooooo!”

Like all similar shows, the contestants are put through their paces in a series of elaborate and ridiculous stunts and eliminations. In the first week the show’s producers seemed to gather from all corners of the globe a selection of men personifying the widest array of rock stereotypes you could think of. We had Chris Cornell from Soundgarden, Motley Crüe circa 1985 (three triplets from Sweden, bizarrely), Van Halen, a Japanese-looking guy who made noises like a dolphin, Ian Astbury from The Cult, Henry Rollins, Mike Muir in 1981, and Robert Smith from The Cure, to name but a few.

The pant-wetting mirth from the first episode came when the blokes were shown where they’d be staying. A couple of the wiser heads found the best beds straight away. Everyone else went to the bar and got absolutely wasted on all the beer and Jack Daniels conveniently lying around. Once they’d all been boozing for a couple of hours Daisy herself turned up and tried to speak to everyone, but, apart from a few cooler heads amongst the guys, since everyone was totally faced most of the conversations didn’t go too well. Robert Smith was discovered passed out, face down in a pool of dribble in the toilet, and Van Halen’s attempted “horn” hand gestures were stunningly inept after he drank “a couple of bottles of JD’s and some chasers”. If you have any sense of the absurd then Daisy of Love, one of the more pointless reality shows in an ocean of pointless reality shows, is guaranteed to give you a good laugh.

NICK BARLOW