At a pace that can only be described a geologic, Gillian Magwilde’s team of clueless, sexist, and, oh yes, maverick archeological investigators guff their way through a dig in Bath, doing nothing for forty minutes other than uttering eye-rollingly bad lines such as:
"Do you know what history is, mate? It's layers."
and coaxing trenches to:
"Come on, give up your secrets."
Well, I say spoilers, it would be hard to ruin this, to be honest.
Eventually, after a spot of Three Detectives level deduction and a round of breaking and entering, they dash off, looking in completely the wrong place for answers. A kindly yokel asks them if they want to check out his dovecote instead of the closed-for-renovation-chapel. For no particular reason, they decide to do just that, and, finding six hundred and sixty-six pigeon-holes within, investigate further. Lo and behold, yay, BEHOLD: hidden beneath the rural countryside, a gigantic chamber, stuffed with crucifixes, one of which presumably held the suffering body of Our Lord.
The acronym W.T.F. was invented for this sort of lunacy.
To sum up: Bonekickers began its hour as a fairly undistinguished forensic drama of the Waking the Dead school, before taking a sharp left into toontown as it began to offer up ancient mysteries, a beheading, miracle cures, insane flaming cultists, magic swords, a spot of foreshadowing, burning crucifixes and a good old singalong.
I couldn't decide how to respond, so settled on howling with laughter at the outright preposterousness of this piece of train-wreck television.