At one point, the cardboard box containing the Plantagenet king’s remains was whisked off to the local CT scanner in a Vauxhall Astra.
Foremost among the intrepid archaeologists was Philippa Langley, an avowed “Ricardian” whom by the level of emotion she had invested in every twist and turn, you could have mistaken for the dead king’s widow.
Proof of Richard’s curved spine had her fleeing the lab room in tears, to the evident bewilderment of the forensic consultant. Once she’d wiped away the tears, she confided that “I don’t see bones… I see a living breathing human being.”
By the time she’d been informed the dead king’s body had been stabbed “in the arse, basically”, there was only a sad, indignant silence.
In her defence, no less out of his depth was the programme’s unkempt presenter Simon Farnaby, a self-styled “comedian actor” best known from The Mighty Boosh. His credentials for the job – beyond originally being from Richard’s old duchy of Yorkshire – were never raised.
His most meaningful contributions seemed to be the odd admittedly decent one-liner – after assessing the various tell-tale wounds pockmarking Richard’s skeleton, which had originally been buried in a friary chapel, he pondered: “If that isn’t Richard III, that is one unlucky monk.”
But if the tone of the programme felt confused too – flitting between forensic science, clips of Laurence Olivier in a prosthetic nose and a visit to the ruins of Richard’s childhood home accompanied by tingling, melodramatic piano music – it ultimately all felt rather apt, even charming. An English monarch, a member of one of history’s greatest, most powerful political dynasties, located by an eccentric fan and a wise-cracking comedian. That really is a story.
Foremost among the intrepid archaeologists was Philippa Langley, an avowed “Ricardian” whom by the level of emotion she had invested in every twist and turn, you could have mistaken for the dead king’s widow.
Proof of Richard’s curved spine had her fleeing the lab room in tears, to the evident bewilderment of the forensic consultant. Once she’d wiped away the tears, she confided that “I don’t see bones… I see a living breathing human being.”
By the time she’d been informed the dead king’s body had been stabbed “in the arse, basically”, there was only a sad, indignant silence.
In her defence, no less out of his depth was the programme’s unkempt presenter Simon Farnaby, a self-styled “comedian actor” best known from The Mighty Boosh. His credentials for the job – beyond originally being from Richard’s old duchy of Yorkshire – were never raised.
His most meaningful contributions seemed to be the odd admittedly decent one-liner – after assessing the various tell-tale wounds pockmarking Richard’s skeleton, which had originally been buried in a friary chapel, he pondered: “If that isn’t Richard III, that is one unlucky monk.”
But if the tone of the programme felt confused too – flitting between forensic science, clips of Laurence Olivier in a prosthetic nose and a visit to the ruins of Richard’s childhood home accompanied by tingling, melodramatic piano music – it ultimately all felt rather apt, even charming. An English monarch, a member of one of history’s greatest, most powerful political dynasties, located by an eccentric fan and a wise-cracking comedian. That really is a story.