Linda Herrick: Spies shaken, not stirred

Can it be mere coincidence that hot on the heels of the terrorist attacks in London, TV One starts screening Spy?

At a time when Britain's secret service needs to be at the top of its game, this sorry lot seem more like a threat to national security. But then, it is only a strange mutation of reality TV pretending to develop foot soldiers in the fight against global terrorism.

The series, which started last night on TV One, follows the travails of a group of people who answered an ad, "Could you be a spy?"

Thousands applied, 500 were vetted, and these are the pick of the bunch. An Irish guy is convinced someone is following him. Another one reckons he is perfect because he is gay, therefore used to keeping secrets under wraps. A middle-aged woman is confident because she is good at getting people to talk to her. One is a blonde with too many shoes, and another girl likes the idea of a lover in every country. A mouthy black guy is just that: a big mouth.

So they bade farewell to their families and headed off to a hotel in London where they had to sign in under their new spy names: David Clark for the boys, Karen Willis for the ladies.

Some of them also signed in with their real home addresses, then accepted a briefcase in their rooms when addressed by their real names. Doh!

The briefcases contained spy devices, like a watch and a pen, which they examined closely. Maybe the pen turns into a listening device if reassembled? No. It was just a pen.

Next morning, the loose cannons headed off to a spy school in a disused underground station on the Strand, where dour spy mistress Sandy - wearing a wig, hilariously - observed them chatting merrily away about where they came from, what their names were and what they did for jobs. Sandy's mouth turned further south. Naughty spies.

Then two ex-CIA and ex-MI6 chaps gave them lectures. "You will have no guns, no knives, no bombs. There will be no climbing up walls, shimmying up chimneys, or car chases." And not a hint of a lover in every country. Honestly, where is the fun in the spy game then?

As it turned out, there's not a lot. Their first task - an exercise in persuasion - was to gain access to a stranger's balcony in a housing estate flat and stand there drinking a glass of water. No, it doesn't make sense to me either, but that's what the Israeli secret service does in its training.

One berk came up with the grand scheme of knocking on the door and saying he felt sick, could he please come inside and vomit? Naturally, he failed. Another one succeeded - in getting the police called. And yet another idiot - who used his real name - bribed the resident into letting him in.

They were roundly told off, then sent to three safehouses for a good night's kip. Ha! They were woken up and bundled away for interrogation. Scary, hard-faced people shouted at the quivering wrecks. "Who are you? What did you do yesterday?"

No one thought to answer, "I talked my way into a stranger's flat, went to the balcony, and drank a glass of water".

So, after day one of spy school, they caved. Shaking, crying, boo-hooing as they went back to the safehouses, Britain's future generation of crack spies bodes ill for the security of the nation.

So where was Bond, James Bond, when you needed him? Right here in Auckland. Sean Connery was in town - and sadly Clark, David Clark, doesn't have the same ring of confidence, does it?