A man farted on Britain’s Got Talent, which raised the question: is it fun, though?

Then they put on Britain’s Got Talent (UTV, Monday, 8pm) every single night for two hours, and you find yourself thinking: I really wish there was yet another bog-standard ITV drama about middle-class people doing awful things to each other in nice houses on screen right now.

Someone shoved a recorder up his nose and played ‘Sweet Caroline’. A 64-year-old woman did an interpretive dance number in which she pretended to be a pencil sharpener, a sourdough loaf and various forms of pasta.

A man farted. No, seriously, that was his whole act.

You could say it’s just a bit of fun. But that raises the question: is it fun? Really? Because I have to be honest, I wasn’t feeling the fun.

The worst thing is that, if anyone is vaguely good, like the heavily pregnant woman singing a power ballad by Beyoncé, the audience immediately starts weeping, while little pound signs appear in Simon Cowell’s eyes as he starts to wonder how much money he can make from her.

There wasn’t even any escape on Virgin Media One, because they were showing it every night too. Presumably it must be popular with Irish audiences, despite all the Union Jack waving, or they wouldn’t buy the rights.

Strange then that Ireland’s Got Talent only lasted two seasons before being cancelled. Maybe we prefer our talent to be imported.

With everything that has happened following Phillip Schofield’s admission of having an “unwise but not illegal” affair with a younger co-worker on ITV’s This Morning – another show screened daily on Virgin Media – it was bound to come up as a talking point on Ireland AM (Virgin Media One, daily, 7am).

“I think we’re all obsessed with that story and watching it unravel day after day, aren’t we?” confessed Brian Dowling on Sunday.

“It’s like a drama,” agreed Martin King – not the most original observation, but you can’t expect too much so early in the morning.

Everyone then moved on somewhat reticently to talking about their favourite box sets.

The omission was remedied on Monday, when former Sky News correspondent turned media consultant, Enda Brady, popped up from Istanbul, where he’d gone to observe the Turkish elections, to discuss the row instead.

Asked for a prediction, he quipped that “deputy heads will roll” at ITV, a wry remark which didn’t get anywhere near the credit it deserved back in studio.

Next day, discussion turned to the interview the night before between Schofield’s former This Morning colleague Eamonn Holmes and GB News’s Dan Wootton.

“I can’t stand the man,” vented Virgin’s Alan Hughes of the latter.

Presenter Tommy Bowe’s interjection that “there’s no smoke without fire” was met with an awkward smile and a sideways glance off camera from co-host Muireann O’Connell, who looked momentarily concerned that things were about to kick off.

No such luck, alas.

The Monk: A Free Man (Virgin Media One, Sunday, 9pm), on the same channel on Sunday, was about the trial of Gerry Hutch for the 2016 gangland murder of David Byrne at Dublin’s Regency Hotel, for which the so-called Monk was acquitted in April.

It’s hard to tell these sordid stories without sensationalising or glamorising the almost universally odious people involved.

Virgin Media has regularly found a way to do so. This profile summarised events of the time, and the subsequent trial at the Special Criminal Court, with admirable even-handedness.

The title was a bit of a misnomer, mind you, hinting that it would reveal what Hutch has been up to since becoming, as the title had it, “a free man”. It was 39 minutes into a 43 minute programme (minus ads) before he was released, and the last section concentrated instead on what the chief prosecution witness Jonathan Dowdall can expect when he himself walks out of jail in a few years’ time.

A life “looking over both shoulders” seems to be the consensus.

For those tuning in late, the programme brought them up to speed by noting that Dowdall was a “one-time politician” and “member of Dublin City Council”.

Viewers unfamiliar with the background may have been left with the impression that Dowdall had perhaps stood for the Social Democrats or the Greens.

The Sinn Féin press office must have breathed such a sigh of relief.

Sunday’s Midsomer Murders (UTV, Sunday, 8pm) was originally meant to be broadcast in January, but was cancelled to make room for Tom Bradby’s interview with Prince Harry.

That now feels quite appropriate, since the killer in this episode turned out to be a man who was haunted by the tragic death of his mum, hated his dad, and was burning with resentment because a cruel world didn’t appreciate or reward him. Say no more.

Whether he also lost his virginity in a field behind a pub with an older woman was, mercifully, left to the imagination. Midsomer Murders is not that sort of show.

The whole thing was, of course, utterly ridiculous, revolving as it did around a series of murders among a group of amateur operetta singers, whose response was simply to mop up the blood from the stage and carry on regardless.

But the absurdity is part of the charm now. It’s formulaic. Comforting. You either surrender to it, or you don’t. This is the 22nd season. No one is being converted at this stage. It’s strictly for the fans.