Where on the Scarlett-Moffatt-Is-England’s-Rose-O-Meter™ are we at the moment? I always forget. There was that ascent to fame when she sat horizontal on a sofa and said arch things on Gogglebox: we quite liked her then. After that there was the predictable I’m A Celeb … win and the boom-and-bust fitness DVD: an unfurling of the bud. After that, the full bloom of Moffattism, where she was drafted by ITV as a sort of Ant and Dec ancillary on Saturday Night Takeaway, turning them from a diarchy to a triumvirate by holding cue cards a lot and waving.

Since then, a holy silence: the panel-show guest appearances, some sort of Instagram controversy about a skirt, a little McDonald’s spon-con. And now this, The British Tribe Next Door (Tuesday, 9.15pm, Channel 4), one final swing of the Moffatt bat, a last attempt to cement her as beloved in the British canon, a sort of Kerry Katona/Princess Diana mash-up event; and a, uh, show where her and her family live in a faithfully rebuilt version of their County Durham terrace house in among the mud-and-stone huts of a Namibian tribe.

Betty Ironing with Kandisiko. Photograph: David Bloomer/Channel 4

I doubt I am the first to say this and I will not be the last, but: what? On paper, you would be right to think that this does not sound like a good idea. In practice, it is also very much not a good idea. The vague intention is: the Moffatts – dad Mark, who is boring; mum Betty, who is boring; the teen sister Ava-Grace is mostly mute – move in with the semi-nomadic Himba tribe in Namibia, and they stay in an exact replica of their home (frustratingly glossed over are the logistics of building an exact replica of Scarlett Moffatt’s house in the middle of the Namib desert. I would rather watch an hour of someone explaining how they erected an untethered terrace with electricity and running water in such a setting than, say, the dire five-minute segment where Mark Moffatt goes metal detecting and finds a whistle). The Himba – who are pitched somewhere between props for the Moffatts to bounce off and actual, rounded people with their own thoughts and feelings and to-camera segments – patiently explain to the Moffatts how much they prize their livestock’s health, shy away from excessive possessions and dress traditionally; the Moffatts nod and point to a plug socket and say: “That box, very spiky!”

This is the thing: what would otherwise be, at the very edges, a semi-interesting anthropological exploration – a member of the Himba sees her face for the first time in a mirror; Betty’s new friend, Ueripanga, marvels at the time-saving practicality of a washing machine; cattle herder Mbiki questions the fundamental need for an upstairs – is ruined because all of the Moffatts are totally uninquisitive, only seeming to venture out of their new build when lured there by the camera crew. Their every interaction with the tribe is boiled down to slowly walking somewhere with them and saying: “Oh you do this, do you?” and looking scared whenever someone starts dancing. It feels as if there were other ways to clang Scarlett Moffatt stiffly over the head with life lessons, frankly. Time to stop shovelling manure on this one.