Poor Jamie Oliver. A few years ago he single-handedly saved every child in the country from imminent cholesterol death with his school dinners campaign. And there was nationwide rejoicing. The Queen called a national holiday, councils held street parties in his honour and the City erected a 600ft glass-and-metal statue in the shape of one of his Flavour Shakers (known today as "the Gherkin", after one of his favourite sandwich fillings).

Now, instead of reducing the kiddywink generation's waistlines he's attempting to expand their minds by establishing his own Dream School. A tape recording of this selfless act of altruism somehow ended up in Channel 4's hands, and they've been broadcasting extracts from it for the past few weeks. And what do we do? We watch MasterChef on the other side. The professional chef is being shunned in favour of a bunch of unknown amateurs. Because they're actually bloody cooking.

The audacity of Dream School is truly inspiring, assuming you're impressed by mountains of bullshit. The first episode opened with Jamie recounting how he left school with no qualifications. The British educational system failed him, just as it fails millions of others like him every year. Now he wants to make a difference. Not by campaigning against education cuts – which might be boring – but by setting up his own school. Not one staffed by actual teachers – which might be boring – but by celebrities. And it won't be open all-year round – which might be expensive – but for a few weeks. Thus our education system will be saved.

Simon Callow taught them English by shouting at them. David Starkey taught them history by insulting them. And Alastair Campbell taught them politics by arranging a debate, which soon degenerated into a full-blown playground ruck. This was their first true lesson: they learned first-hand that Campbell is shit-hot at instigating conflict from thin air.

Thank God Jamie merely opened a school, and didn't decide to explore the NHS's failings by opening his own Dream Hospital, in which famous actors who've portrayed doctors in popular dramas perform operations on members of the public. Watch Hugh Laurie sew up a gaping abdominal wound! See James Nesbitt conduct intricate neurosurgery! They'd make mistakes now and then – slicing the wrong bit off here, letting all the innards spill out there – but that's where Jamie could come in. He could take that human offal, whip up a delicious intestine-and-kidney casserole, then spoon it into the dying patient's grateful, gurgling mouth as they drew their final breaths.

Anyway, back to Dream School. When the series was announced, the initial promotional material was couched in the trad Bash Street Kids visual language of British school-based capers: chalk, blackboards, board rubbers, pencil cases and so on. It looked like Jamie versus Grange Hill. But, presumably because the authorities wouldn't allow the production team to meddle with the education of actual children, they're reduced to teaching teenage volunteers who've already left school. So: no real kids, no real teachers, and no real exams. Nothing is real. No wonder they called it Dream School. It's effectively a youth club with Starkey instead of a pool table.

And what's the worst thing about youth clubs? The youths. And they've got a prime selection here. Watching Jamie's Dream School is enough to transform the wettest liberal do-gooder into a furious Nick Ferrari type by the third ad break. They gawp at iPhones, they burble witlessly amongst themselves, they slouch in their seats looking bored and surly and demanding respect for absolutely no reason whatsoever . . . Maybe our educational system has tragically failed them. Or maybe they're fuckwits. Even the most helpless fuckwits can change, of course, but they tend to do so quietly, and of their own volition. Which doesn't make great television.

Follies of youth aside, their biggest problem seems to be a chronically stunted attention span: they're constantly texting or yapping on their mobiles instead of applying even 1% focus on whatever's directly in front of them. The entire programme should have been billed not as a crusading mission documentary, but as a chilling warning about how technology will inevitably destroy human civilisation by distracting it into stupidity and madness.

Dumb though half the kids may be, they're just plodding meat fodder for a shockingly arrogant TV experiment, which exists for no apparent reason other than to demoralise any genuine teachers watching, potentially to the point of suicide, which really would cause a crisis in our educational system.

After two episodes I wound up hating almost everyone in it, aside from a couple of the kids and, curiously, Jamie himself – because he just looks so crushingly, dizzyingly confused by the whole thing. Why is he there? Why is this happening? What's the ultimate aim? If he's got any sanity left at all, come episode three he'll tear down all the Dream School signs and turn it into a sandwich-making academy. Because that, at least, would fulfil some kind of function.