The Real Hustle (BBC3, Thursday, 10.30PM)

BBC Three thrives on being edgy. Just look at its programme names. They’re deliberately engineered to shock the flippant Freeview channel hopper – to lure you into taking a second look.

There are the ballsy ones – sometimes they’re so assertive that they sound more like a fag-breathed cider-spitting invitation to a pub brawl than a reputable documentary (Fuck Off, I’m Ginger. April 3rd. 10 PM).

Other programmes choose to style their names like a demented homage to those gasp-inducing taboo-mocking talk-show taglines (Help! My Dog Is As Fat Me. April 9th. 8.30PM) – it’s as if The Jeremy Kyle Show were a macabre creation of Will Self.

And it’s not just window dressing – some of the content is genuinely shocking. Take The Real Hustle – BBC Three’s smarmy and tasteless crimewave of a programme which has just returned for a third series.

It’s a sadistic piece of work which follows three dastardly hustlers as they take to the streets and con the British public, before mocking them for their own stupidity. It’s the sort of thing that only the BBC, unblemished by phone-in swindles or premium rate guessing games, could get away with.

They’ve got the full spectrum of crooks onboard – all that’s missing is the archetypal Nigerian fraudster. There’s Alex; ‘the confidence trickster’ – think a cross between notorious conman Charles Ponzi and a Top Shop Mannequin.

Then there’s Paul; ‘the scam artist’ – he’s like a soulless phone-shop salesman who’s crossed over to the darkside. And finally, Jess; ‘the sexy swindler’ – a British glamour model whose CV is rich with names like Playboy and Nuts. She’s there to lure in the 18-30 demographic, while the other two induce the paranoia which will root them to their seats.

Despite the programme’s success (it’s just been snapped up by a top American network – a glowing certificate of success if ever there were one), it’s brimming with flaws. And the show has faced a blogosphere backlash with sharp-eyed spoilsports arguing that the show’s scams are faked.

And they may be right. How else can you explain the use of multiple camera angles and startlingly clear footage?

Other scams are suspicious for different reasons. Take the ‘proposition bet’ segment, in which Jessica heads to a trendy bar, sips at a chemical corporate lager before proceeding to con free drinks out of the punters by inducing them into proposition bets.

It sounds impressive, but that’s before you see the hair-gelled leering primates that Jess approaches. They’re the sort of hormone-saturated specimens who spend three pounds on a Kelly Brook wallpaper for their mobile phone. She could probably just ask them for the drinks and they’d happily oblige.

So what has kept the show afloat for three series? My guess is it’s that same perverted fascination with crime which propels criminals' confessions into the top slots of the book charts.

Or it could just be Britain’s growing paranoia. That horrible feeling that everyone’s out to get you – or at the very least steal your identity and credit card details. The sort of state of fear which keeps people like John Reid in power. Either way, it doesn’t look good.