AS A self-confessed Gleek, I cheerfully buy into whatever daft storyline Glee (E4, Mondays 9pm) throws at me each week, regardless of how ludicrous it may be.

Kitten-cute Emma Pillsbury seriously considering marrying Ken Tanaka, a man who makes a baked potato look hot? I’ll buy that.

Sue the snake Sylvester getting married? To herself?

Okaaaay.

Lovely, lispy Kurt cajoling McKinley High’s football jocks into an all-singing, all-dancing, pre-match performance of Beyonce’s Single Ladies. I bought that and watched it over and over again.

Heck, even when Sue astonishingly joined her detested Glee Club this week, I nary batted a sparkly eyelash.

But Puck fancying Lauren? Give me a break, even with disbelief firmly suspended, it’s just a stretch too far.

Although Puck has a soul – he sings and hoofs a bit with New Directions, after all – he’s also the ultimate meat-headed skirt-hunter. He is very good looking and, I know opposites attract and all that, but he’s already proven his type is a size zero, pom-pom toting, pant-flashing bimbo with breasts instead of brains and a huge enthusiasm for, er, sport.

Lauren, on the other hand, bless her, looks like the love child of Bernard Manning and Beth Ditto on a really, really bad day and is about as sweet as a scorpion with a headache.

Yet even Puck staring adoringly at her – especially during that frankly alarming rendition of The Waitresses’ I Know What Boys Like – still couldn’t detract from the rest of the hilarious goings on in this week’s episode (Comeback).

Such as the side story in which Sam, desperate to win Quinn’s heart, combed his fringe across his forehead just like her idol, and formed a new band called The Justin Bieber Experience.

It didn’t go to plan and Superbitch Santana cruelly pointed out that the hair simply made his huge mouth look even bigger.

Best of all, though, was when Sue, now a fully-fledged Gleester sang and danced with the very people she loathes most in the world. Even better, she chose Sing by My Chemical Romance.

Not since she covered Madonna’s Vogue, has the terror of the Cheerios been so out of her comfort zone.

A bit like the hardcore My Chemical Romance fans who have been whipped into a frenzy on internet forums, posting scathing comments about how devastating it is that MCR have sold out by allowing this travesty to take place and, OMG, how utterly (insert expletive here) is Glee?!

Come on you angry MCR fans. Nobody died, apart from embarrassment maybe, and who knows, your favourite rockers could get a whole new fan base out of all this publicity. And if Kurt is one of them, perhaps he could add a bit more pizzazz to those official merchandise jackets your chemically commercial boys are flogging on their official website for $90 a pop!

Still on people with an axe to grind, those home-spun, half-baked, puce-faced members of the Westboro Baptist Church Kansas have been at it again, waving their banners of hate on Louis Theroux: America’s Most Hated Family In Crisis (C4, Sunday, 9pm) but as the title suggests, there’s a might less of them these days.

You may recall them with their God Hates America, God Hates Fags, God Hates Just ’Bout Everythin’ signs from Theroux’s previous 2007 film.

They believe God’s a sod, a vengeful deity who likes nothing better than meting out punishment to the human race and so things like Aids, breast cancer and the death of servicemen are all good news to these unlovable dolts.

It was a depressing watch at times, underlining man’s capacity for irrational hatred and confirming that there are people in this world too thick to understand that, essentially, we’re all the same species.

The sensible ones have already left the church in their droves, but Theroux, the king of subtlety, managed to win over the remaining hardliners. Which is how he eventually got to do that thing he does so well – drop a killer statement bang into the middle of the rants of these ridiculous zealots then step back and watch them verbally hang themselves.

Next week, the Glee Club entertains the Westboro Baptists at their summer hoedown with a mash-up of Queen’s I Want To Break Free and Dusty Springfield’s You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me, followed by a Kurt and Mercedes homage to Aretha Franklin and George Michael.

Well, you can dream.