In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a bit of a Saturday night ratings war going on. In the BBC corner Gary Barlow’s brand new seen-it-all-before Let It Shine. In the ITV corner the BBC’s far from new seen-it-all-before The Voice.

Well, it used to be the BBC’s until ITV paid a ridiculous amount of money to poach a programme that’s neither particularly successful nor much cop. No one knows why. After five seasons of relentless tedium, The Voice has never found a star. And the ungrand finale always gets the smallest audience of the series because no one gives a damn who wins. Snapped up for just £55million. Ludicrously overpriced or what?

Now, in a sulky schoolkid response, the bitter Beeb has cobbled together Let It Shine. Which is about as shiny as porridge. The simpering search for five wannabes to star in a stage musical about a boy band that isn’t Take That. How weird.

The only thing that saves this derivative production from total disaster is the excellent quick-witted host Graham Norton. Memo to X Factor plodder Dermot O’Leary: watch this guy and find out how to do it. You’re meant to be funny.

Oh how this epically long dross needed Mr Norton to save the day when bungling judge Martin Kemp unveiled his score about five minutes early. Graham: “Have you seen one of these shows before? There’s supposed to be a little tension.”

But the former Spandau Ballet heartthrob knows his stuff. “A band is made of five small cogs.” Yes, that’s why The Beatles were nicknamed The Fab Five.

Along with the likeable Mr Kemp, there is, of course, top dog (and don’t you forget it!) Gary. Plus, a return to the UK fray for Kylie’s sister Dannii. And someone called Amber Riley who keeps jumping to her feet and dancing as if the music really is something. It’s something all right. Crap.

In the soppy BBC tradition, every useless contestant is told they’re utterly wonderful. Especially when they get rejected because they’re even more tuneless than the sub-pub warblers who make the grade. Gary to some trainee fireman: “This is one tiny step forward for you.” Translation: “You’re rubbish.” Amber: “You were a little timid.” Translation: “You were massively awful.”

After a fat bozo from Northern Ireland murders New York, New York (so appalling they named it twice) with a disturbing low growl, all four panellists give him a standing ovation. I thought for a moment they were getting up to leave.

Wild over-praising is the name of the gormless game. But this could cost Barlow & Co dearly. Viewers know bum notes when they hear them and when they listen to Gary and the gang hailing loser after loser as budding Sinatras they’ll switch off in contempt. It’s a question of honesty.

Naturally, we have to meet all the mums, sisters, nans and girlfriends. Of her Michael Jackson fan son Clinton Elvis (fine name, shame about the racket) proud parent Jackie gushes: “He sings with a glove.” In his mouth by the sound of him. Nice bloke but tone deaf.

Meanwhile, Mel Giedroyc phones in her contribution backstage in “the common room”, a student style hang-out with a pool table, dart board and foosball. Here, while Mel mooches around not doing much, the plucky hopefuls mingle with greatness in the shape of Barlow’s scruffy pop pals Howard Donald and Mark Owen.

Of their formative Take That days, Mark recalls: “When we got together we weren’t all amazing singers.” Tell us something we don’t know!

Out in the auditorium the participants deliver their seamless impressions of cats being strangled, the judges gasp in faux astonishment and we wait with bated breath as their secret (apart from Kemp’s) scores are counted and a succession of stars light up the stage. I think 16 gets them through to the next round. When beaming Barlow and his mates begin banging their hands on the panel to rack up the non-suspense we are transported from the end of the pier to the village hall. Welcome to amateur hour.

At one especially excruciating point Gary travels to a Yorkshire café to surprise a 19 year-old called Tyler who assails his customers with horrible renditions of his favourite ditties. His mother Alison has entered him into the competition without his knowledge. Droning on about “a good northern coop of tea” (yawn), the celebrity visitor invites Tyler to head to Manchester to try his luck.

After all that location filming involving the undisputed star of the show, there’s no way Tyler isn’t going to get the thumbs up. Which, inevitably, he does - despite subjecting us to the very worst caterwauling of a dismal night. And that’s saying something. Again, when the prattling panellists act like they’ve just witnessed the second coming, it smacks of rank dishonesty.

Poor Ms Minogue, 46, lowers the tone by theatrically (and creepily) lusting after a 17 year-old Essex boy called Nick Carsberg who announces: “I’ve started as a classic car restorator.” Whatever that is. But music is his first love. Even though he’s no good at it. Christ, he’s bad.

Showcasing his God-given gift for comedy, laugh-a-decade Barlow cleverly quips: “Is it Nick Carsberg or Carlsberg? Because I reckon if Carlsberg made boy band members…” Our thanks to the gag writers.

In fairness, Let It Shine exudes a certain youthful energy that tired old The Voice will find it hard to match. And there are two  genuinely talented guys who buck the trend and sing beautifully. Braces on his teeth, Welsh wonder Nicky Pryce should be a must for the pretend boy band. And, while at 30 he’s incongruously ancient, West End professional Jason Brock’s spellbinding performance earns him a thoroughly well-deserved maximum 20 points.

Befriended by Take That Mark and Howard, high-flyer Wayne Thurtell hits the stage and informs us: “I work in a local campsite moving caravans.” When he slaughters My Girl it’s a case of don’t give up the day job. Watching from the wings, Howard says: “I never expected that noise to come out.” As a compliment, it requires improvement.

Reminiscent of the Beeb's shameless Andrew Lloyd Webber TV ticket-selling devices How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria? and Any Dream Will Do, Let It Shine is just about okay in a couldn’t-care-less kinda way. But after the novelty wears off I can’t see it gripping the nation unless Gary and his luvvie chums grow a pair and start telling no-hopers they’re hopeless. If they don’t, their constant absurdly unwarranted flattery will soon become even more boring than it already is.

But great to see desperate Dannii wheeling out the threadbare clichés. And she’s off: “You actually don’t know how good you are.” Oh, for God’s sake! Pass the remote. Click.