The Grand Delusion of David Mitchell

So, Would I Lie To You? panellist David Mitchell and Victoria (the academic, not alcoholic poker player) Coren are engaged. Good luck to them, they're a cute couple. An Oxbridge Vernon Kay and Tess Daly, or Wayne and Coleen if they sold their wedding photos to the Observer Magazine rather than Hello! It makes sense for sure: Together, they could take over both Twitter and the whole of BBC2's Thursday night schedule, effectively annexing the two largest avenues of harmless middle-brow culture. But David's not too interested in that right now, because he's got bigger fish to fry. You've probably all seen the "David Mitchell's Soapbox" videos shared on Facebook – no doubt by someone who ran for student president or organised the Freshers party at your college. They're the videos in which Dave puts on his stiff upper lip and tells us all how we shouldn't say certain things because Americans say them, and decides what we should and shouldn't call our children, and holds court on other subjects that he feels must be addressed in one of his "witty rants". I'm not being facetious when I quotation mark "witty rants" by the way, that's in the channel description.

He sits there in a burgundy shirt which makes him look like a Majorcan sommelier, in front of a screensaver vaguely related to whatever subject he is ranting wittily about on that given day. He scrunches up his face and starts most of his sentences with "I'm sorry, but…" Then he furrows his brow until the rest of his face matches his shirt. He strikes a strange tone, not quite comedy and not quite discourse. He makes gags, but then undermines them with some forced objectivity, like an angry student who's been told to consider both sides of the argument in his essays.

The overall effect, with the shoddy graphics and straight-to-camera monologues, recalls mid-90s American public access television at its most bizarre. David doesn't look like he should be "fuming about trains", but rather telling us about how he once looked Satan in the eye, or banging on about Masonic symbolism on the dollar bill. To put it in YouTube terms, he's somewhere between Chris Crocker and David Icke. He's also playing up to that horribly outdated stereotype of the "cantankerous Englishman", the sort of tired cliche last seen in that episode of

Friends

where they go to London. Why not just put on a Beefeater costume for the next one, David? The Americans might like it. I'm pretty certain that if these videos were posted on WorldStarHipHop, somebody would accuse him of minstrelsy.

The sheer range of subjects that David sermonises about suggests he sees himself as a prophet in an age of error. He preaches to us like a country vicar who's just seen Fight Club. He's pissed off, but he's got the grace to be wistful about it, even though referring to his "soapbox" undermines him, as the term conjures up images of bearded men shouting about chem-trails at bemused tourists on their way to the Diana Fountain.

Mitchell's qualifications for official spokesperson for the reasonable are dubious at best; sure, he has a newspaper column, but so did Paul Ross, and so does Piers Morgan. Other than that, he's a decent sitcom actor with a sketchy record of his own sketches. It's evident that in the same way Ross Kemp began to believe he was actually Staff Sergeant Henry "Henno" Garvie from Ultimate Force, Mitchell has begun to believe that he actually is Mark Corrigan from Peep Show. The problem is, he didn't even write Peep Show. He isn't a comedy character, he's a panel show guest who has confused moderate popularity with Moses' burning bush. Nobody wants to hear from the real Mitchell, they want Mark Corrigan. But he isn't real, so Mitchell has to pretend to be more like him. It's the same dilemma that killed Johnny Vegas. At least his sometime partner Robert Webb has had the good grace to stick to hosting clip shows where they show viral videos to people who haven't seen "Charlie Bit My Finger" yet. Mitchell, on the other hand, has appointed himself Chief Wizard of the Guardians Of Sense, but rants, however witty, are not to be taken seriously. They're the discourse of the mad and the desperate, the former domain of coke-fried weathermen and racist backbenchers. Glen Beck goes on rants because he is a lunatic. Richard Dawkins doesn't go on rants, Richard Madely does. They indicate a loss of control and sense, the death rattle of the out of touch. But many happy returns nevertheless, David. I hope that when you and Victoria have kids, you name them well, because I've seen that rant you did about children's names and if you err, I'll be fucking furious.

Follow Clive on Twitter: @thugclive