Television - A furry-hooded joker goes in for a spot of nation-building. By Andrew Billen How to Start Your Own Country (BBC2)

Giles Coren recently wrote in the Times that however grim things became in London this summer, nothing should be allowed to get in the way of the great British silly season. And nothing, it seems, has got in the way of it on BBC2. Squeezed between the worthy drama serial The Slavery Business and the news of the latest disasters on Newsnight comes How to Start Your Own Country (Wednesdays, 10pm). Whatever else it is, it certainly isn't a history of Israel.

It is, I think, a comedy documentary about a young man called Danny Wallace who, judging by his flat in east London, has already done quite nicely for a 28-year-old. He has a studiedly nutty plan to start his own country (although that should perhaps read a studiedly nutty plan to get a commission from BBC2). It will be interesting to see where the conceit takes him over the next six weeks. In the opening episode alone it took him to America, Ireland and the Principality of Sealand, a Second World War fortress in the North Sea commandeered by a radio pirate in the 1960s, who at some point - to no one's great interest - declared its unilateral independence. Wallace bobbed out to it in a boat and secured an interview with a windcheatered prince who was winched down from the fortress on what looked like a park swing seat.

Next it was to New Jersey to meet an author who, miraculously, had actually written a book on starting countries. Erwin Strauss turned out to be perfectly mad, controlling what was left of his life by a series of file cards (one read "Brush Teeth (2)"). He demonstrated to Wallace that most of the globe's unclaimed land lay in Antarctica. Instead, Wallace decided to investigate a ruined castle for sale in Ireland. Its owner was Irish charm itself until it became obvious that Wallace did not have "in excess of half a million euro". After going on exercise with a major general in the British army, who could not really advocate the invasion of any foreign territory (except, perhaps, Iraq), Wallace took a day trip to/invaded somewhere called Eel Pie Island, whose citizens did not seem to care whether he called himself their leader or not. The episode ended with Wallace declaring his promised land to be his flat in Bow.

This is take-a-silly-idea-run-it-up-the-flagpole-see-if-anyone-salutes television. It was such a crazy idea it might just have worked, as they used to say in POW escape movies, and, who knows, before the series has finished it may have. The comedian Dave Gorman, who sought out people who shared his name on The Dave Gorman Collection, may be the originator of this sub-genre. Tony Hawks hitch-hiked round Ireland with a fridge and made a radio series about it. John Sweeney did a brilliant but now forgotten one-off for ITV about travelling the country using only public transport. These are low-concept ideas, the opposite of high-concept ones such as Michael Palin's Pole to Pole, and they rely even more than the latter on our finding the presenter appealing.

Wallace is compared by the Radio Times with "offbeat charmers" such as Louis Theroux and Simon Reeve, who visited Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan for BBC2's Meet The Stans. I'd add Jon Ronson to that list. But "offbeat charmer" is not a description likely to charm me, and RT's listings did not help by referring to the programme as a "light-hearted quest" (they'll be calling it a "sideways look" at statehood next). Wallace has cultivated a cool nerd look, slept-on hair, deliberate glasses and a furry-hooded anorak. He looks all right now, but will probably end up resembling David Aaronovitch. The numbers who passed him in the street and refused to take his flyers suggested he is low on natural charisma. Nor do his jokes add up to much. "My name is Danny. There is no need to be annoyed," he yells to Eel Pie Islanders. I wouldn't be so sure.

Yet his faux-simpleton modesty comes into its own in his interviews with experts. In next week's instalment, almost despite himself, he comes dangerously close to turning into a decent reporter. In the US again, he visits the immigration museum on Ellis Island where an attendant explains how officials devised simple intelligence tests, such as identifying the emotion behind a frowning man's face in a cartoon, to stop total idiots from migrating to the land of the free. Wallace also gave us a glimpse of what the famed design firm Pentagram does for its living. The legendary David Hillman (who redesigned the Guardian in the 1980s) and a partner set about designing a brand identity, name and flag for Wallace's imaginary country. After thinking about it for a week, they concluded that the new country ("Alternation", perhaps, in which case its citizens could be "Alternatives") should have on its coat of arms the legend "Die dulci freure", an idea Wallace thoroughly approved of once it was translated for him as "Have a nice day".

Back home, e-mails from volunteers to become his first citizens were, well, trickling in. Not everyone was impressed. "Are you some kind of joker - or worse, an idiot?" wrote one correspondent. To be frank, I am still trying to decide myself.

Andrew Billen is a staff writer on the Times

Post your comment

Please note: you will need to login or register before you can comment on the website