There are moments where you just have to give into the madness. You spent so long sneering at it to to no avail so you end up joining in. It’s easier that way, as you no longer have to battle against the tide. So it is with me finally letting The Masked Singer into my life. Blame the fact that I am now required to be sociable with my other half on Saturday evening, rather than just disappearing into a quiet room

The premise, for anybody living under a rock, is that celebrities dress up in elaborate costumes and sing (or ‘sing’ as the case may be for the more vocally challenged). You then guess who it is, aided by clue packages. Each week, one identity is revealed, as the audience and judging panel whittle down their least favourite performers.

There are so many things that really should get under my skin about the show. Joel Dommett is an irritating host, full of cliched puns and scripted comments. The panel are also largely annoying, particularly Rita Ora, who clearly hasn’t got any better forming chemistry with co-stars since her disastrous stint on The X Factor. Add in bizarre audience voting decisions (shows like this will be what historians point to in the future when democracy fails) and the gladiatorial chanting as the celebrity is due to be unmasked then you have something that resembles either a dystopian nightmare or an extreme fever dream.

Yet it works. Dommett is actually the right host for the job, leaning into the show’s weirdness without making a complete joke of it. The panel are secondary on this, and Jonathan Ross does a good enough job of, like Dommett, reveling in the show’s eccentricities without overcooking it to make it enjoyable. It is quite cheesy, yet also somehow you don’t seem to care.

Above all else, you do end up getting involved. There is a weird thrill of seeing a former Wimbledon champion dressed as a set of bagpipes or a quite respectable pop star be uncovered as the real identity of a lion fish or poodle.

This is the sort of programming that makes the Reithian types froth at the mouth. It is silly, pointless and shallow. It does not educate or inform, and you cannot argue it makes you a better person for watching. But in an era of anger and division, 90 minutes of complete froth doesn’t go amiss. So give into it. It may be mad, but it also is the biggest salve to keep your sanity in this world out there.