Gather round, fellow sufferers, because the apocalypse of entertainment is upon us! Two new shows have oozed onto our screens, and frankly, they’re so mind-numbingly boring, they could be used as a form of torture by the Geneva Convention.

First up, we have “Dullford Close,” the soap opera that makes watching paint dry seem like an adrenaline-fueled extreme sport. Forget glamorous locations and scandalous affairs, this show features a cast of characters so ordinary they make beige look vibrant. We’re talking about people with names like Brenda and Keith, who spend their days discussing the merits of different washing-up liquids and the optimal way to organize a sock drawer.

The most exciting event in the pilot episode? A character finding a 20p coin under the sofa. Yes, really. I actually started hallucinating from sheer boredom, convinced the dust bunnies were forming a synchronized dance troupe. Apparently, the producers think viewers are so starved for normalcy that they’ll be captivated by the sight of someone ironing a shirt. Well, I say BRING ON THE CHAOS! Let’s have a meteor strike Dullford Close. Or maybe a rogue herd of llamas invade the local supermarket. Anything to inject a bit of excitement into this coma-inducing snoozefest.

But hold on to your hats, because it gets worse! Feast your weary eyes on “Celebrity Dusting,” the reality show that makes counting grains of sand seem like a thrilling pastime. This week’s contestants? We’ve got faded reality star Tracey “Ten-Minutes-of-Fame” Thompson, who seems to be under the impression that a feather duster is some kind of mythical creature. Then there’s Gary “Gaz” Grimshaw, a former footballer whose most notable achievement is having once eaten an entire pizza in one sitting. And let’s not forget Doreen “I Was Once on a Quiz Show” Dibble, who appears to be perpetually lost in a fog of confusion.

These “celebrities” (and I use that term with the utmost generosity) will be battling it out each week, armed with nothing but feather dusters, microfibre cloths, and an arsenal of cleaning sprays. They’ll be tackling cobwebs the size of small dogs, dusting antique furniture that hasn’t seen a polish cloth since the Victorian era, and attempting to remove mysterious stains from ancient rugs (most likely left by Gary “Gaz” after his pizza-eating exploits).

Each week, one of these hapless souls will be eliminated by the withering stares of our esteemed judges: Lord Tarquin Fitzwilliam the Fourth (a man who has probably never encountered a speck of dust in his life) and Agnes Bottomley, a 97-year-old woman who remembers when a good dusting was considered a national sport. Viewers will be treated to riveting commentary like, “Oh dear, that technique is simply appalling!” and “Goodness gracious, she’s missed a spot!” I’m half expecting a dramatic slow-motion replay of someone fluffing a cushion.

Honestly, I think I’d rather watch a documentary about the migratory patterns of woodlice. At least that’s got some element of danger. Will they cross the perilous patio? Will they survive the onslaught of the garden hose? Stay tuned to find out!

Someone pass me the brain bleach, because I think I’ve just witnessed the death of television.