Introducing the people's award for self-importance

They say that satire is dead, but this weekend saw the broadcast of a television programme that presented such a perfectly comic portrait of the way we live now that it should be left as a time capsule for future generations. "Ah," they'll say as they wipe away the tears of mirth. "So that is how it was in Britain at the turn of the century."

They say that satire is dead, but this weekend saw the broadcast of a television programme that presented such a perfectly comic portrait of the way we live now that it should be left as a time capsule for future generations. "Ah," they'll say as they wipe away the tears of mirth. "So that is how it was in Britain at the turn of the century."

The show was called The People's Awards. It was put on at the Albert Hall by the BBC and presented with such hilarious self-importance that it seems quite possible that some viewers might actually have taken it seriously. I fell for it myself before realising that the whole event could only be a glorious, brilliantly sustained leg-pull.

Presented by Gaby Roslin and Michael Buerk, the programme, in which prizes for Courage, Achievement, Innovation and so on were allegedly decided by the votes of viewers, took us on a tearful, soft-focus tiptoe through the never-never land where famous people reveal their humble side. Capturing the mood, the set design had the stars eating dinner in an illuminated area in front of the stage, as if Knightsbridge restaurant San Lorenzo had been transported to the Albert Hall, while in the seats beyond the plebs marvelled at how modest they were.

Much of the satire lay in watching the celebrities interact with Ordinary People - heroic lifeboatmen, gallant toddlers, handicapped sports folk - before, with carefully rehearsed gratitude, they accepted their own "people's award". The cast of comfy middle-England heroes - Sir Trevor McDonald, Lord Lloyd-Webber, Sir Richard Branson, Sir Elton John, David Jason - was impeccable.

There were subtleties in the comedy, too. Because People's Britain is a beautiful capitalist place, a whiff of money-making, of guest appearances in return for on-site promotion, was in the air. Not only did the BBC ensure that products were mentioned - a new record here, a book of memoirs there - but, in one unforgettable scene, Ben Elton was invited on stage purely to plug his new musical and introduce his co-writer Lord Lloyd-Webber.

Brilliantly, The People's Awards satirised the idiocy of our new obsession with popularity polls by setting up fatuous contests for each prize. Billy Connolly defeated JK Rowling and Stella McCartney for his contribution to the arts (pushing the joke a bit far, in my view). In the innovation section, the Human Genome Project was pitted against a primary school's scheme for walking children to school. An eminent heart surgeon edged out Richard Branson for lifetime achievement.

The climax of the evening was a comedy moment that will be cherished in years to come. Roslin mentioned Britain's performance in the Olympics. There was wild applause. Several medal-winners trooped down to the stage and stood in line as a Welsh baritone in the Harry Secombe tradition bellowed out - what else? - "Jerusalem".

Of course, The People's Awards was not perfect. There was no Lenny Henry, no celebrity visits to Third World countries or kiddies' hospitals; and surely there should have been a place in all this for Mo Mowlam.

But let us not carp. With brilliant, merciless accuracy, the programme captured a country obsessed with banal, homely celebrity and hooked on its own sentimentality as being as pathetically nationalistic as any banana republic.

The People's Awards should be entered in the comedy section of the Montreux Festival. There is a danger that foreign judges might mistake it for a programme presented seriously by the BBC, in which case they will want to throw up, but great satire involves risk. Besides, who needs foreigners to tell us how to make fools of ourselves when we can do the job so well ourselves?

terblacker@aol.com