The only surprise in Jamie Oliver’s new series was that the magnificent Timothy Spall was narrator. Very welcome his roughly hewn words were as well. Away from the voiceover, Jamie was back on our screens, embarking on his next food-based crusade. Yes, he had donned his white cloak, climbed on to his trusty steed and rode off into the sunset to save the world again. In this case, his steed was a big, f***-off Landrover and his trailed blazed its way all the way up to Rotherham.

IIf you like your Jamie Oliver, try reading our reviews of Hugh’s Chicken Run, and our Food TV section.

Everything seemed to going so well during the school dinners crusade – awareness was raised, important peoples’ palms were squeezed and he did actually change things around. Until he saw a woman on the television selling rubbish food to the slavering children through her local school’s gates. It was a staggering and utterly deflating piece of entrepreneurism, which singlehandedly pulled the rug from under Jamie’s noble plan in an second.

He should have learned a lesson from that project (that all the liberal ‘you must eat broccoli’ intent a person can muster will still be met with cynicism, a harsh economic reality and an unwillingness to change), but here he was again. The reason why he wanted to travel to Rotherham was to meet the woman who derailed his school dinners plan. The woman he also called an old scrubber when he appeared as a guest on Top Gear.

Apologies out of the way, Jamie was surprised to learn that Julie could actually cook rather well, and that wholesome, family recipes had been passed down to her from generation after generation. But Julie aside, plenty of people in Rotherham very obviously couldn’t cook and he was on a mission to banish the town’s junk food habits for good and get people cooking.

Good luck, Julie said, wryly.

Jamie, he said, would teach eight people to cook 10 simple recipes. Each person in the eight would then teach two of their friends, who would then teach two of their friends. Who would then teach two of their friends. Who would then… well, you get the picture. Soon the whole town would be cooking from scratch, ditching the junk and feeling a bit better about themselves.

Good luck, Julie said, wryly.

The trouble with Jamie’s programmes is that he’s created a genre pretty much all to himself. That’s quite an achievement, but when you’re a genre in your own lunchtime there’s a danger that formula and boredom ruins it before it has even started. Jamie’s Ministry Of Food teetered on this precipice for much of its series opener. Nothing wrong with Jamie’s cause – empowering people is a great thing – but I just sat there thinking: yep, seen this, watched this before, done this, yawn. Launch noble campaign, meet ordinary people, start project with some cooking, encounter resistence, project falls apart, end. Exactly to formula.

What makes these sorts of programmes watchable are, as ever, the real people who sign up for projects like this.

People like Natasha. Mum-of-two and on a benefits budget, she fed her children kebab and chips every night. They ate out of styrofoam cartons, sitting on the living room floor. She wanted to learn how to cook because she wanted her children to eat healthier and to experience real, family communal dining. She attacked the project with real gusto, and at the end of the first month or so of the project, she was cooking like a pro, feeling good about herself and life. Then the wheels fell off. When Jamie next visited, he encountered an almost broken woman who was pawning off her jewellery in order to keep up with buying fresh ingredients.

Quiet rightly, this shook Jamie. It’s alright steaming into a town in your Land Rover but the reality of fresh food, cooking from scratch and the food revolution in harsh economic times is a lot tougher than a sunny dash of southeast England idealism. Staggeringly, he stood there in the middle of the street after a teary encounter with Natasha saying to camera: “I’m not being big-headed but… it’s me that is making a difference to that woman’s life, it’s all down to me. Me me me, pukka me, I tell you.” Shocking bit of self-ego massage there, and an outburst that perhaps proves that Jamie might just be starting to disappear up his own Aga.

I’ll watch again, but you know what’s going to happen really – some people will cook and some will won’t.

And please, stop the gratuitous swearing Jamie. It’s getting a bit boring now.