CLASSIX FACTOR
Older readers may remember the BBC Young Musician of the Year competition being televised on Sunday evenings, inbetween the teatime Dickens adaptation and the obligatory David Attenborough wildlife programme. I certainly do. Every performer (particularly guitarists, clarinettists and pianists) prompted a poke from the nearest available parent, accompanied by a hissed: "See? that's what happens when you PRACTISE!" That was my cue to remember a vital unfinished piece of Physics homework (failed that O-level too).

Young Musician of the Year has been moved to BBC Four, to sit on the Super Spod shelf next to QI. But somebody at BBC2, probably thinking that there aren't enough white middle-class people making utter fools of themselves on TV, came up with the bright idea of an X-factor for classical musicians.

So here's the deal. We get Famous Cellist Matthew Barley who is a kind of Simon Rattle Lite - all curly hair and enthusiastic jeans. Matthew decides to widen the audience for classical music by creating a special school for talented young musicians to compete with each other to be the next classical star. Like..you know...Nigel Kennedy. But not G4, oh no.

Matthew gets his classical expert friends to be the judges and holds auditions around the country, just like on X-factor. However, having a dead dad or acting like a ment doesn't get you far if you can't play an instrument to at least Grade 8 standard. Having said that, we get a few choice specimens who don't make it. Notably a boy with a haystack on his head and a weird embouchure (music speak for not puffing your cheeks out when you play a wind instrument - in this case, a clarinet). Haystacks puffed like a bullfrog in mating season, which is Not Good and leads to a crappy sound. He seemed blissfully unaware of this, and staunchly defended his crap sound, backed up by his formidable mother. Oh yes, there are plenty of formidable parents around in this series. Another generically handsome posh boy flautist declared that he wanted to be a classical equivalent of Robbie Williams. I think Tchaikovsky got there before you, mate.

You can take it as read that all our contestants are a bit...well...intense. And most of them seem to already have places at the Royal College of Music. Which is nice.

After they settle in to the country house music school (it's never a warehouse in Peckham, is it?), Matthew gets them to improvise. Improvising is not something classical musicians do; this alone probably set jazz musos up and down the country a-cackling gleefully They have to come up with a few bars that epitomises their personality. Going by this, the bassoon player thinks she's Ivor the Engine. Most of them muddle through, and try to get away with playing as few notes as possible. More bizarre, performance-related tests follow, and the poor little scraps are mortified in shopping centres, pushed around by tango teachers, and end up doing a make-or-break performance in front of a group of very patient teenagers in Hoxton.

When not being forced into strange producer-led exercises to 'expand their horizons', they practise. They get up in the morning, and do some scales. Then maybe a lesson. Then more practice. Then lunch, where they talk about music and try to ignore Matthew speaking with his mouth full. And in the afternoon, they practise some more before being forced into the garden by the producers to do non-practising-type shots. Yep, that's right. Musicians are a bit boring - well the proper ones anyway. They play the same thing over and over again for seven hours a day. Then they talk about flattened fifths. And then they go to bed. Trust me, I know. I married a musician.

The Big Performance at the end of each week is where they perform a piece or do something for the judges. This week they each had 15 minutes in front of the incredibly patient East End teenagers. Nerdy guitar boy (the house favourite) demonstrated the versatility of the guitar sound rather well, though he should stay away from funk. The Winehouse-esque pianist made emo hearts go all a-flutter with Chopin's Funeral March (OK, it's really called the third movement of Piano Sonata no. 2 in B-flat minor).

The judges accuse the pretty blonde violinist from Suffolk, who works in a bar and runs jam sessions with bejumpered folkies to make ends meet, of using sex to win over the kidz. Ummm...flicking your hair while you play isn't exactly on a par with Beyonce, but this is Classical World, where talent is everything. Unless your name is Myleene.

In the end, the judgest decide to sack Robbie Williams Boy for being a smug, irritating little twerp, and a taciturn teenage trumpet player who crumples into a quivering heap at the very thought of a three word sentence. Not great for swapping anecdotes on a sofa with Sam and Mark...

Next week: Matthew waves his arms about and wears jeans which don't have the creases ironed in. And the youngsters do a bit more practice.