Who doesn't love a good penis?

Wait, don't answer that question: there's probably some sort of shame in your answer, the same type of shame I'm feeling for writing this piece.

Saturday evening on the BBC: I think the polite term here is "fluffy," full of appointment-viewing that you're not exactly heart-broken to miss. (Doctor Who and Strictly Come Dancing are on the better end of the spectrum, some weeks anyway; then you have perpetual hanger-on Casualty, a show that's lasted longer than most of its patients.) Whatever some Whovians might insist (that's the word, right?) it's not that usual to find something meaty, substantial and enthralling on the Beeb of a Saturday night.

But that's enough about Tom Hardy, I should probably talk about the show.

Taboo brought sex and ultra-violence to Saturday viewing for a whole eight weeks, and on an evening usually reserved for fluff, the show tried hard to give Game Of Thrones a run for its money. It's a comparison that isn't entirely deserved: Taboo stood out on its own merits, but there were enough beats and faces that at least someone on the production office had to know what they were doing.