Game of Wool: Britain’s Best Knitter review – Tom Daley is a twinkling, passionate joy of a presenter | Television

“A new generation of knitters is taking the world by storm,” says Tom Daley, striding towards us in his ankle-length woollen poncho. “With just two needles, they are testing the limits of creativity.”

And so it proves, as 10 of “the nation’s finest” amateur wool enthusiasts join the Olympic diver (and recently murdered Celebrity Traitor) “to battle it out, stitch by stitch” for the chance to win the ineffably snuggly eight-part series Game of Wool: Britain’s Best Knitter.

The contestants, then. Among those gathering (like wool!) in the series’ bespoke “yarn barn” are unblinking cybersecurity student Isaac, blushing ex-Royal Marine Simon, preternaturally wise yarn-owl Ailsa and tense librarian Dipti (“Go away. I’m knitting”). There is, additionally, self-defeating cruise ship singer Gordon (“Oh God”). And then there is Holger. “To tell me that I have to express myself using a super-chunky yarn is like asking a vegetarian to express themselves through the medium of steak,” he tuts. Holger wears a bow tie and has brought a knitted emotional support chicken with him. “Yes, it represents me,” he says, wearily. “It is a nonchalant chicken.” It’s clearly only a matter of time before Holger and his emotional support chicken are given their own series, in which they journey between spa towns in search of Britain’s smallest doily.

While future episodes find the knitters tackling 80s fright-jumpers and hats for greyhounds, the series opener concentrates on the basics. To wit: novelty tank tops and bodysuits for sofas. “You have 12 hours to give us a really cohesive design concept,” warns judge and veteran designer Di Gilpin, who has garnished her power-bun with – what else? – knitting needles. “It’s a car crash,” sighs co-judge Sheila Greenwell, peering 12 hours later at a sofa covering that looks like a condemned Soviet-era circus tent.

“You can do it, everyone!” whoops Daley, who somehow manages to be simultaneously a 5ft 10in professional adult sports male and a capering pixie, scampering and giggling around the knitters’ ankles as they clickety-clack away. “Room for a little one?” he squeaks, squishing his medal-winning buttocks on to the knitters’ sofa before complimenting Isaac on his pompom.

Daley’s role in the show is a loose-fitting, off-the-shoulder sort of thing. He is essentially a floating omni-host, a Winkleman-without-portfolio. The first episode finds him modelling tank tops, striding in slow motion past stupefied livestock, engaging in intense what-did-you-think-of-that-tank-top-wasn’t-it-hideous discussions with Di and Sheila, and dispensing hugs to those for whom the prospect of crocheting a fourth legwarmer for a DFS sofa is simply too much. Occasionally, apropos nothing, he starts skipping around the yarn barn, his poncho flapping like the wings of a pterodactyl in an amateur production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

In quieter moments, he conducts imaginary conversations with “Wee Tom”, a pocket-sized knitted effigy in crocheted diving trunks. “You say it,” he whispers to the tiny Olympian. “No, you say it.” He waggles his faceless lookalike from side to side. “Wee Tom doesn’t want to say it,” he tells the contestants, sadly. “YOU ARE HALFWAY THROUGH.” If this nonsense were being peddled by anyone else, you would be telling your loved ones to stand back as you take a mallet to your own face. But there’s no such vexation here. Daley is a joy, a twinkling whirl of unforced cheer whose obvious passion for all things wool manages to – oh, go on then – knit the whole thing together. And lo, a potentially soggy-bottomed GBBO facsimile is instantly transformed into something that is at least 80% less rubbish than it could have been. It is, in a very real sense, The Great British Cast-Off.

In the end, the wrong contestant is sent home and outrage (mostly mine, to be fair) briefly threatens to topple Di’s power-bun. But the disgruntlement is short-lived. Hugs are distributed, everyone agrees to never again speak of Holger’s emotional support chicken, and the blanket of goodwill descends once more. Such is the power of wool.