I hope you've been enjoying BBC4's excellently-made Comics Britannia series, which ended its three-part run on Monday. My guess is that it was well enough received to get a repeat on BBC2 in the near future, if you missed it. I was delighted to be asked to contribute to part three, Anarchy In The UK, which looked at British comics' development from the late 70s to the present day, taking in Viz, Action and graphic novels. Cornerstone though was 2000AD. Those that did see the programme will know that I had a drawing reproduced in the comic in 1977. Here's the illustrated story:
An avid reader of 2000AD I leapt at the chance, aged 12, to send in a drawing of what we thought the comic's Deputy Editor looked like. My drawing was of a tough-looking individual in a tight-fitting spacesuit, with a kind of graphic haircut and sideburns. How shocked I was to receive this envelope one morning, with a London postmark and IPC Magazines stamped on the back.
Inside was this frankly photocopied letter from editor Tharg. It thrilled me to my very bone marrow. My picture was to be printed in "Programme 25" (that's issue 25 to you, Earthlet).
Duly, Prog 25 arrived in the week of August 13, 1977. "In orbit every Monday: 9p Earth money."
And on a page towards the back was this array of readers' drawings, stylised by one of the house artists rather than just reprinted, with my burly Deputy sat at the table beside a scaly fish creature and a big woolly octopus thing.
Our names were printed in a panel to the bottom left. I was over the moon. My name in 2000AD! I'm glad I kept all of this ephemera. Not least for being able to show it to the nation on a BBC documentary. Old comics are beautiful to look at, years later, as they're like photo albums. It's funny - I could have sworn that the artists and writers' names were credited on the strips, but they're not. That obviously came later. Anyway, Splundig Vur Thrigg, and all that.
I hereby honour Radio 1's 40th Anniversary with a great picture I have in my archive, taken for BBC publicity purposes (if you're the photographer, let me know, and I'll credit you for it - although my eyes look a bit funny), of Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine posing with two DJs after recording some humorous item or other for Collins & Maconie's Hit Parade in 1994, after drummer Wez (right) had joined. How fresh-faced Maconie looks! How hirsute and childish I look! We have been written out of Radio 4's long history, despite spending a number of years on the air during the Bannister Years, and co-hosting live coverage of the Brits and the Mercury Music Prize for the station during that time. (How we laugh when we remember Stuart's off-colour remark about burning tyres when discussing "gypsy dancer" Joaquin Cortez one year.) Stuart even went on to present the Album Show for a bit after the Hit Parade had been shunted to the weekends then just shunted. (There were no hour-long slots in the new schedule, we were told.) It was a great time to pass through what used to be Egton House, just as Steve Lamacq and Jo Whiley were getting their Docs under the desk, Chris Evans was in full flight, and Mark and Lard had found their evening mojo in Manchester. I feel privileged to have been there, even in a fringe capacity. We never made it to postcard status, Stuart and I, even though we won them a Sony Award. Where are we now?
(The other prompt for digging out this pic was that I interviewed the reformed Carter for the next issue of Word the other week, and it was a heartwarming experience to see Jim and Les (alright, Fruitbat) in a cafe in Crystal Palace before watching them rehearse for their comeback gigs at Brixton and Barrowlands using the original backing tapes. I don't think any of us had changed that much. Although Brixton is totally sold out, Glasgow isn't, and all your Carter USM/Jim Bob/Abdoujaparov needs are served here.)
I wouldn't normally trouble you with my charity work - chiefly because I don't ordinarily do any - but I have just become the first patron of a fund-raising organisation in Northampton that's in the process of applying for charity status, and one of my pledges as patron is to spread the word. So here goes. Thomas's Fund, named in memory of Thomas Smith who died almost three years ago from a neurodegenerative disease, aged 10, is all about providing music therapy for children in Northamptonshire with "life-limiting" conditions (a new and evocative new phrase I have learnt) or disabilities that prevent them from attending school for extended periods. The aim is to raise enough money to pay for a music therapist to make home visits, so as to provide stimulation, increase relaxation, assist with motor skills and sensory development, and to give these kids an outlet for emotion and self-expression. I was asked if I would become a patron and I said yes, straight away. Partly because it's local, and I'm all for harnessing the power of the local community. It's specifically Northamptonshire-based, and I'm keen to maintain links with the town that has been so good to me (both in terms of my upbringing, and in the success of Where Did It All Go Right?, which has turned into the gift that goes on giving, and I'll be forever grateful for that). Also, it's music therapy. You don't have to be a scientist to see how important music can be. My third reason: they asked me. Nobody's ever asked me to be a patron of a charity before, so thanks to Kate Tollan and Jan Hall, who got in touch, or else I wouldn't be writing this.
Last night was the launch concert at the Spinney Hill Theatre, part of Northampton School for Girls, which I was asked to compere. When I arrived at 6pm, the foyer was awash with big-hearted volunteers in Thomas's Fund t-shirts, laying out leaflets and forms and balloons. Lots of kids from special schools in the area were being minibused in. There were parents and carers everywhere. The concert was mostly performed by pupils from NSG of all ages, with a mass singalong at the beginning of Reach, which was Thomas's favourite song (and is the favourite song of Harry, his younger brother, who was born with the same degenerative condition and is currenly benefiting from music therapy himself). Thomas and Harry's mum, Lucy, said a few well-chosen words to explain the genesis of the fund - what an inspiration she is - and my job was chiefly to keep everybody happy while they re-set the stage between acts. At least I had a hand-held mic so that I could stalk the stage and occasionally walk up the aisles into the audience like Graham Norton. This is so unlike what I might normally be doing on a Monday evening - attending and hosting a school concert - it held a peculiar appeal for me. There is always a thrill to be had from addressing a crowd, especially with a mic, and you'd hardly call last night's a tough audience! Parents and kids alike were there to be entertained, and the only heckle I got was from one of the kids:
While the stage was being set for Madrigalis, a close harmony singing group, I engaged the audience with my memories of Music & Movement at primary school, where we always seemed to have to pretend to be a tree. Thinking on my feet, I challenged anyone in the audience to come up onstage to be a tree - saying that if they did, I'd pledge a fiver for Thomas's Fund, and put it in the bucket myself. A few hands shot up, so I said I'd save it until after the interval. I reminded them of my plan between the other acts, coming up with idea of forming a "charity orchard". This seemed to get them going, so we ran with it. In the event, before part two, I had an entire stageful of kids and parents who all wanted to be trees. It was fantastic. I led them through the basic tree routine we always had to do (wave your branches as if in a breeze, then a high wind, then winter comes and you lose your leaves etc.), and much fun was had. I promised, in the circumstances, to empty my wallet of cash into a bucket in return for their help. A great, unplanned bonding moment from compere and audience. However, one little girl came up to me while I was onstage, and standing at my feet, asked the following question:
"Do you think you're funny?" "No," I answered, quick as a flash. "Good, because you're not." "Thank you." I replied. "You're really not," she added.
Ah well. It was a fantastic evening. And during the Big Band's final numbers, I found myself transfixed by one of the kids in wheelchairs in the front row. He was quite severely physically disabled, but between a carer and the woman I took to be his mother, he was really getting into it - one of them was clapping his hands, the other moving his wheelchair in time to Papa's Got A Brand New Bag - this was music therapy in action, I thought. I caught the boy's eye and he gave me such a big smile. I feel quite warm inside just remembering it. Sorry if this all sounds a bit meaningful, but I couldn't help compare the girl who'd cheekily insulted the compare, with this other boy. Maybe if he could have, he'd have insulted me too!
There's no website for Thomas's Fund yet, and I don't really expect anyone to be moved to send a cheque off forthwith (it is, as I say, very much a local Northamptonshire charity), but for the record, the email contact is thomas@nsg.northants.sch.uk and there's more about music therapy here. Thanks for reading.
PS: The Northampton Chronicle & Echo ran a story about the Fund and the concert on Friday. This is the picture they took:
Now listen, I have no axe to grind with Mike Soutar - I used to work with him at Emap and he always seemed a terribly nice chap from Smash Hits who got sucked up into the bullish world of men's magazines and was forced to hand some of his morals in at the door. I wish no ill-will on ShortList either - it's just magazine people getting on with their job, just like my friends at Word but in a different sphere and, presumably, with higher stakes - but this is fucking hilarious and I share it in the spirit of democracy and freedom of information. (Thanks to the anoynmous poster who pointed it out to me.) You may wish to have a bucket handy.
I am actually unable to comment on the current ructions at 6 Music, but I'd welcome yours. You'll have read about the sacking of Leona McCambridge (my producer for two years at the station and a friend) over the Liz Kershaw show pre-records, and the resignation of director of programmes Ric Blaxill (my boss there for three years). These come on the back of the sacking of Blue Peter editor Richard Marson, over the editorial decision to choose another name for the cat Socks (above) when the one chosen by viewers was deemed either inappropriate or not very good, depending on your source. (The Times said it was a "variation on Puss", which seemed to be their coy way of saying, "Pussy", but this hasn't been confirmed. Others reckon it was "Cookie", which is more baffling.) I don't mind admitting I'm angry about what I see as a massive over-reaction to some minor - in a broader perspective - misdemeanours, but what pisses me off most is the reaction of certain people on newspaper message boards. BBC-bashing is a national sport, and it's clear why the media conglomerates in the private sector who own all the newspapers have a bee in their bonnet about the licence fee (many of them have fingers in the commercial television pie), but the very commentators who effectively call for the licence fee to be revoked, thus creating a level playing field, would be the first to complain when the Today programme had ad-breaks. I've added a couple of very general post on the Guardian boards, under my whole name, as is my wont, just to counter the view that people who work at the BBC despise the public, which of course they don't. I can't really go any further, as explained, but I thought you might like to read the venomous response I had on the Times boards. Certainly, Mr Murdoch would be proud of the work of Mr Berra, or "Fuming of Leatherhead". (I'm not going back to the Times boards again in a hurry. They're scary.)
Anyway, this is what I posted (in repsonse to an earlier purple-faced post from a bloke in Oxford):
I can promise you, having working at various bits of the BBC for the last 15 years, that there is no "culture of contempt", so please don't cast that particular stone. It's just a whole load of people, many of them not well paid, just getting on with their jobs, and working under ridiculous pressure, not least the pressure brought to bear by the commercial sector of the media, who demand that the BBC competes for the same bums on seats whilst operating as a monastery. BBC employees are licence fee payers too.
I can't comment on the individual case, as I know the people involved, and it's ongoing, but I will say that it's not very attractive to applaud when people lose their jobs - especially when you don't know the full facts. Andrew Collins, London
And here's the reply:
Andrew Collins above personifies the blinkard [sic] mindset so prevalent at the Beeb. First he puts his colleagues forward as 'martyrs' for the cause, like they should really achieve sainthood for the work they do, when in fact they are more than overpaid for the poor quality, biased reporting and copycat and repeat programming, instead of fulfilling their mandate and promoting quality creativity.
He sees the Beebs' [sic] obligation is to satisfy the commercial media pressure and not the public remit of fulfilling its charter FIRST AND FOREMOST [his capitals] - without exception. And finally, he tries to be our conscience telling us what's right and wrong, when HE SHOULD BE EXAMINING HIS OWN AS WELL AS THAT OF HIS COLLEAGUES.
It's your mates who have been found wanting. Your license [sic] fee payment is what you get for working there; We get corruption for ours. Ted Berra, Leatherhead, Surrey
I won't pick it apart. But if I'm on one side, and he's ON THE OTHER, I can sleep soundly in my bed tonight. I wonder if we might have a reasoned and non-abusive discussion about this. (You won't be having one on the 6 Music message boards, which, last time I looked, had been taken down en masse. Bit of an owl goal, that.) I repeat: I cannot and will not comment on the individual cases. But there is a general problem here, and it all started with the Iraq war.
Half a million copies of new men's magazine ShortList were given away free today to commuters. I took one outside my station for reasons of research, and because I was keen to see what the "new direction in men's publishing" would look like; in other words, a men's magazine without nudity. (This was the promise of publisher Mike Soutar in pre-publicity.) It's certainly different, in that with its matt finish and squat format it feels more like a newspaper supplement than a magazine. And it's free. And will continue to be free, totally funded by advertisers (editor Phil Hilton actually makes this boast in his opening message). I'm not going to review the content at any length, as things aimed at men don't usually speak to me. I'm not particularly interested in any of the following, listed on the cover: SPORT, CARS, BUSINESS or STYLE. Certainly not enough to want to read about them. Also, I have no interest in FINDING MY INNER BOND, which is the chief promise of the Daniel Craig-adorned cover. But then again, what difference does it make if ShortList is being handed out for free? It could have a picture of John Red putting his head in a swing bin and on the cover and the same amount of men would, presumably, take a copy if it was thrust at them. (I wonder if this might be worse in London, since we have two local freesheets, but as I make my way about the place I find myself constantly having papers held out in front of me. These publications may be "free", but it's obviously very important to those advertisers that a certain amount are handed out per day, hence the intrusive nature of those presumably poorly-paid young men and women who actually hand them out, usually in branded kagoules. It's like running the gauntlet in an Indiana Jones film outside some stations. I always try to mutter "No, thanks" and smile as I hold my arms stiffly to my side and brush past the proffered publication, as it's not the vendor's fault.)
Needless to say, as ShortList is designed to be rifled through on the train, or at best in a tea break, it's almost entirely disposable, filled to the brim with lists (geddit?) and things that are short. Most features pages look as busy as the contents spread, with boxes and numbers and bold subtitles everywhere. I admire its lack of tits and arse (there's a lone pin-up of a model in the centre in bra and pants), but once again, since nobody's being asked to pay for it, normal magazine rules don't apply. As long as the requisite number of men take a copy and glance at some of the adverts, it's done its job. It's essentially walking spam. This is the state of publishing today, and I'm glad I got out ten years ago.
What I hate, apart from the death of editorial, is the sheer waste. If its costs nothing, why cherish it? Why keep it? Why not just drop it on the floor? Today's Metro was "wrapped" in an advert for Carphone Warehouse - in other words, it had a false cover, with logo and everything, bought and paid for by said mobile phone shop - and as I approached the platform of the station where commuters pick Metro I had to step over about a dozen of these false covers, which had been disregarded and dropped on the floor, some screwed up into balls, others just left to float to the tarmac. Stupid litterbug behaviour which I despise, and yet ... behaviour elicited by an adverse reaction to the increasingly common confidence trick of one's newspaper being bought out by Carphone Warehouse, as if they own it. The false cover, which was garish pink, didn't prevent anyone from reading their paper, but it was ripped off and cast down in disgust anyway, which is interesting. It's in the same vein as those who gently tip out that sheaf of inserts from a magazine before taking it from the shelf. Naomi Klein would be proud!
Can a revolution be in sight? No. Because the best way to fight back against the rise of the advertisers is to not pick up a copy of the arid Metro in the first place. A big pile of "unsold" papers at the end of the day is the only language Associated Newspapers would understand. Likewise the publishers of ShortList, who are going to have to get rid of a good few hundred thousand copies of their new product every Thursday to convince Michelob, Renault, Goodyear, O2 and Crowne Plaza hotels to keep up the payments. It's in your hands.
In praise of Saxondale This has just crept up on me, but Saxondale is my favourite comedy on television currently. As a writer who's spent much of this year tackling Difficult Second Series Syndrome, I have to take my hat off to Steve Coogan and his mystery co-writer Neil MacClennan for not only matching the first series, but topping it, bringing new depth to Saxondale himself, and his relationship with surrogate son Raymond (the excellently lagubrious Rasmus Hardiker). Though the set-up is the same - ex-roadie pest controller living with saucy hippy girlfriend in suburbs - the writers seem to have taken the foot off the pedal a bit (sorry about the motoring metaphor). Coogan has really relaxed into the character now, as if perhaps in response to the decision to perm and highlight Tommy's hair, which gives him a much softer look. (I know - sounds woolly, but might not be.) Equally, Raymond's position in the house, and by Tommy's side on the job, is just accepted. It's not an issue; they are a team, and it's a much more interesting one for a sitcom than two blokes of the same age in a pub. It's rare that a "father" and "son" (or indeed, a father and son) are the lead two characters in a comedy. You'd have to go back to Steptoe, or, less classically, Home To Roost for that. Fathers and sons are ten a penny in sitcom, but usually in group casts. Darren Boyd's neighbour character is a plus, too. Certainly a bit of a grotesque (square pretends he's "down" with Tommy when really he's a reactionary stiff), but entertaining, and he puts Tommy in a good light. I think that's the nub, actually: here is a lead character who's not a total loser. Yes, his glory days are behind him, but he's in a solid, loving relationship, and seems to be running a reasonably successful small business. This is rare in British sitcom. The joke's often on him, but not because he's an idiot, simply because he's complex. He wants to be on the side of some squatters, but discovers that they are useless bastards and switches allegiance. He thinks he hates the public school system when he and Raymond are sent to fumigate a posh school, but the teacher turns out not to be a Victorian throwback, but a decent sort, with a decent car - thus, Tommy must reallign his prejudices. This is not all laugh out loud stuff, but I find myself smiling all the way through it, and Coogan gives himself enough smart lines to raise a couple of chuckles from me a week. Is it getting good ratings? I'll have to go and check.
Rather than starting a new discussion about the sitcom Not Going Out each week, let's just use the original thread. FYI, the second episode, Gay, which was the first one I co-wrote, managed 3.2 million viewers, which was pretty good, and a 16% share, which is actually up on last week's. (Lyndhurst's figures were down, by 0.9 million, but when you start at 5.9 million, you've got viewers to spare!)
Now, first up, this is not me having a go at the Observer, which has been my Sunday newspaper of choice for many years, on and off, and one I used to writer for. I'm just using their magazines to illustrate something that has yet to stop bothering me. Yesterday it was the turn of Observer Music Monthly, one of whose biggest features was The 50 Greatest Cover Versions. Nothing noteworthy there: magazine fills up eight pages with list. However, here are the words that struck fear into my heart: "OMM, in association with Audi TT Remastered, presents ..." This sub-clause appeared, contractually, on the title page, and in the main blurb, and even in the text of Gary Mulholland's introductory piece ("... with the help of Audi TT"). Plus, the Observer's dedicated webpage turns out to be ... a great bit advert for Audi. "The Audi TT Remastered Project" is helpfully explained thus: "The OMM and TT Remastered collaboration, featuring our 50 top covers vote, is part of a wider campaign celebrating the relaunch of the musically inspired TT. To celebrate the fact that the remastered Audi TT was initially inspired by Jimi Hendrix, Audi commissioned 14 emerging and cutting edge artists to reinterpret and remaster classic tracks, including etc. etc."
Well, since eight pages of editorial in my magazine had been paid for by a car manufacturer, I felt duty bound to investigate further. A click takes us to the Audi site, where we find a sports car, whose "sleek design and blistering power reflect an uncompromising vision of sports car perfection blah blah the 6-speed Direct Shift Gearbox blah blah Quattro four-wheel-drive blah blah rich racing pedigree." I don't know about you, but I bought one. Oh, by the way, the Hendrix link is tenuous. Apparently the blokes who designed this car, in the 90s, listened to a Hendrix CD while doing so. Hmm. Well, it was enough for the marketeers at Audi to go for a music angle in the advertising, hence their link-up with the Observer. What bothers me, as an old purist who worked in magazines in the late 80s and early 90s when all this was just starting to creep in, is the way an advertiser can now so easily insinuate itself and its product into the editorial of a publication.
The first Observer Film Magazine was completely bought and paid for by a car manufacturer, Volkswagen, who have also creatively climbed into bed with The Bourne Ultimatum this summer, hence the sponsorship of a movie supplement. In neither case will the editorial have been actually influenced by the advertiser, but in both cases, money has changed hands, a deal has been made, and everybody wins: client, ad team, publisher. Except, if you ask me, tiresome old curmudgeon that I am, the reader, who thinks he is reading that which his Sunday newspaper has generated for his pleasure and information, but is actually reading an eight-page advert for a sports car. It may be subliminal, but it's there, not even between the lines. Gary Mulholland's suddenly a copywriter (albeit not as well paid). I like my editorial and advertising to be clearly boxed off. This is becoming more and more of a rarity. During my time at Q, we fell under increasingly pressure to do "advertorials" - in other words, the advertiser would pay a higher rate than normal and we'd basically make their ad up for them, so that it looked and read like a page of Q. This meant more work for our designers, and for the editorial staff, but it secured a client, who might otherwise have taken their money elsewhere. A magazine cannot survive with advertising revenue. But the insidious nature of advertorials used to make my skin crawl.
Anyway, I got out before such arse-selling became a way of life. I was lucky enough to host the Q Awards before they became the Q Awards in Association with Orange (or whoever it is this year), and had to be billed that way. (We got some free beer for the awards in 1996 and had to thank them on the page. That was it.) As an Empire reader I am constantly tripped up by what look like features but turn out to be promotions for some client or other. A successful advertorial is one that fools the reader. I don't like being fooled by a magazine I like. It bothers me less on telly, funnily enough, where bumpers are wrapped around programmes to tell us that An Insurance Company sponsors (or "supports" as they like to say) Channel 4 drama, or that Coronation St is "brought to you" by Cadbury's. At least the programme and the ads are separated. Not so in magazines and newspapers, where the lines are blurred.
Get used to it. It's the way of the world. But I don't have to like it. And the idea of a "remastered" car is fucking stupid.
I like Nigella Lawson, in that I like the fact that she's not a trained chef, but is allowed to have her own cookery programme. I like the fact that she carries the buttery, creamy, chocoately food she makes around with her on her own body. Some of her tips are very useful. But the new series on BBC2, Nigella Express (you've got to come up with new ways of slicing the same cake), has two problems. One, it's about making food really fast, which is all very well for the busy lives we are supposed to leave, and perhaps a riposte to those who've accused her of using unattainable ingredients (unattainable unless you live above a family-run deli or go abroad a lot), but it also means that, on the evidence so far, most of the recipes involve shop-bought sauces and pastes. Oh, how the shops would love us to use more of these, and less of those fresh ingredients which they stock as loss leaders. (The food manufacturers and supermarkets like processed food because it "adds value" to ingredients that don't cost much, and up the price can be hiked.) Secondly, they seem to have cranked up the "personal life" aspect. No matter that Nigella's home has been lovingly recreated in a studio this time around, we must still keep up the pretence that this is a glimpse into her perfect world - hence, the recruitment of her two kids for show two, Bruno and Cosima (not their fault), who were forced to act out domestic scenes, such as a conversation about homework. Painful. Bruno looks like a miniature member of the Klaxons with the face of Nigel Lawson. Poor kid. We've seen plenty of Nigella's beautiful friends, coming round for dinner, on previous series, but this one seems to have pushed the boat out a bit too far into private wates. Don't make performing monkeys of your own kin. Just when Jamie's taking things back to basics and calming down in his garden. (It's interesting that we seem to have got closer and yet further away from Nigella's reality in one go - and that her husband Charles Saatchi never appears. He's no fool.) Another complaint: Nigella linked the beginning of show two from the top deck of a London bus. Don't patronise people who actually take buses! She doesn't use public transport. I expect she got a taxi to and from school. (We also saw her loading a washing machine. I don't think she does that sort of thing either, does she?)
It would be easy to despise her, with her endless free time and her friendly butcher and fishmonger and walk-in larder and her made-up name bestowed by an egomaniacal father, but for me, her love of eating comes through, and that's a rare condiment on television. I'm not going to defend her like I had to with Kate Nash, by the way. So do your worst. I'd never thought of dry-frying chorizo, thus releasing the oils from the sausage, and then frying scallops in the chorizo oil. Brilliant.
Come on. He's called Shia LeBeouf and he's currently in more films than James McAvoy (Transformers, Disturbia, Surf's Up, the new Indiana Jones) - but how do you pronounce his exciting name. I'd say, "Sheer LeBurf", but I heard a lady on XFM yesterday pronounce it "Shire LeBoff", which is funnier, but surely incorrect. He is an American, so I don't expect decent foreign pronunciation (they have a city called St Louis, which they pronounce St Lewis, after all), but I'm keen for a definitive answer. (The confusing thing is that it looks like boeuf, the French word for beef, but isn't. That's definitely burf.)
Here we go again, with more moral bafflement from me. The lads mag FHM (a copy of which I can honestly say I haven't looked at since I worked at Emap, where it's pubished, in 1997, but its lurid covers assail my eyes as I walk past WHSmith) has had its well-exercised knuckles rapped by the Press Complaints Commission for publishing a topless picture of a 14-year-old girl without her consent. Its crimes seem to have been ones of privacy and protection of children. Fair enough. But what is actually going on here? The mag says, in its defence, that it believed the photo to be of an over-16 year old, as that's what the bloke who sent it in told them. (He also said it was his live-in girlfriend. Let's assume that was a lie too, since it was a photo of a 14 year-old girl. I'm not a lawyer, but I can see something wrong with that picture.) The PCC said, "the decision to publish the picture of the girl without adequately establishing consent represented a serious intrusion into her private life." I'm taking from everything I've read that she didn't mind the picture being taken, but she objected to it being submitted to a magazine, hence the "distress". But how were FHM to establish whether the bloke who sent it in was lying or not? Call him up? It's just a bloke sending a pic to a magazine. A sleazy one, but no more than that, on the surface of it, and these mags do put out requests for such material. Supply and demand etc. FHM, like all the other men's mags, can no longer rely on famous women to strip off, and have thus invented their own celebrities. Somebody called Keeley is always mentioned by Nuts or Zoo. They're even prepared to see the tits of non-famous women, or girls, if it helps to fill those pages. Suddenly, door policy is non-existent. Presumably, they would print a picture of a corpse's breasts, as long as the rest of the body was cropped. Breasts, it seems, are breasts, in this non-judgmental world.
At any rate, the question we should be asking - to quote Woody Allen on the Holocaust - is not why it happened, but why it doesn't happen more often. They apparently get sent 1,200 similar camera-phone and digitial snaps of topless "honeys" every week. Every week! Many of them from the self-empowering ladies themselves, but some from boyfriends. Who knew that "Readers' Wives" would go mainstream in this technological age? Such sections used to mark a "gentlemen's magazine" out as the scuzzier type, didn't it? That they'd happily print Boots-shocking snaps of women hoiking their skirts up behind the bedroom door? Now it's perfectly acceptable, apparently, indeed encouraged. But what are these 1,200 women doing flashing their tits every week? Do they all think a modelling contract will be the result? Are Jordan and Paris Hilton really such powerful role models to young women? Or have we crossed a moral line where exposure on this "playful" level is now the norm? A report I read about the "Son Of God" paedophile recently caught (aged 28, lived with parents, but had a girlfriend) made horrifying reading, not just about how guiltless some of these active paedophiles are (we're talking about live sex and torture, beamed round dedicated rings of damaged men), but how easy it is for them to groom young girls, and how quickly, apparently, kids whose parents are downstairs, unaware, will "expose themselves" on webcams to strangers. Are we really all going to hell now? Is it all over? (I just went to the FHM website to grab the picture above. I was invited to "enjoy the view" - for some reason, I was unable to do this. What a fuddy-duddy I must be.)
Also, the magazine got off pretty lightly. The PCC got really tough and said FHM "should have been much quicker to recognise the damage that publication would have caused the girl, and offered to publish an apology or take other steps to remedy the situation." Yes, that apology would have made everything alright, wouldn't it? They might have done it unwittingly, but they have published child pornography, about which I assumed we still took a dim view. Were they fined? No. "More stringent measures have been put in place to ensure the provenance of pictures", we're told. That's OK then. Carry on.
Series one of the humorous panel game Banter is being partially repeated by Radio 4 in the 11.30 slot after Mark Watson's programme on Tuesdays starting tonight, September 11. We've been told that a new series of Banter will be aired in the New Year. Hooray. Our regular panellists will, I'm sure, be encouraged to return to the table.
Saturday, 16:39 Heathrow Terminal 1 I'm off to the BBC Film Festival in Glasgow. I've flown precisely twice since the terrorists tried to kill us all and UK airports brought in their Pythonesque restrictions, so I know all about the tightening up of the one-piece-of-hand-baggage rule (people have been flaunting this for years, especially women, so I have no problem with this), but the liquids law strikes me as insane. I've just had three expensive tubes of organic "product" confiscated by the man at the x-ray machine because they were larger than 100ml each. (How many fucking bottles of product are as small as 100ml each? These would be miniatures.) I had taken them out to be x-rayed separately, like a good citizen, and put them in a sealed plastic bag so that they could be examined by anyone interested in my ablutive rituals (one pre-shave cream, one shaving cream, and one moisturiser, in case you missed my products being waved around at the x-ray machine - they're made by Green People, and I've used them on my face for years, they're very good indeed, and worth every penny of the eight pounds 99p I pay for them). Now my hand baggage is 600ml lighter, so perhaps I should be grateful (and I am almost 30 quid lighter). It means I will have to buy inferior products for the same job in Glasgow. Let's hope they sell Green People at the airport at the other end. I hate terrorists. They have ruined our lives without even blowing anything or anyone up. I've just realised, I've typed the word "terrorist" inside the terminal building. That means the FBI will have already intercepted this document. I may never even get to post it. Ah well, at least I'll have been incarcerated for defending my right to moisturise.
Sunday, 09.07, Glasgow Hilton Internet connection in room for 15 pounds per 24 hours. I was able to get some shaving cream from reception last night. It's very small, but I'm not complaining. I was having a drink in the bar with Danny Wallace, who's up here to compere the main stage, and some other local friends, whose privacy I will guard, as they may not wish to be named. (Danny is famous, and thus public property, obviously.) I think Scotland won something yesterday. There were some red-faced, drunk men in the bar. They may have been celebrating. Clare Grogan was on the same flight to Glasgow and Danny and myself, which made me feel sure we wouldn't crash, and we didn't. She's a good luck charm. The idea of a running blog is already running out of steam, as I doubt I'll have a connection on site at the festival, but I'll take my laptop and who knows?
Sunday, 09.37, Glasgow Hilton What a horrible breakfast room. It's decorated to look like a 1920s American bar and grill. It isn't one. Anyway, Rab C Nesbitt is having breakfast, with his wife. (Alright, the actor who played him, if you must.) The young waiting staff seem beside themselves with excitement and keep grinning at each other. Truly, Gregor Fisher is a Scottish icon.
Not Going Out went out on Friday night. I watched it. This being the first of seven episodes, I had no hand in the writing of it. (This is because I was working with Simon Day on another project in January and wasn't available to join the NGO team until February.) It was written by Lee Mack, Simon Evans, Paul Kerensa and Peter Tilbury. Yes, Peter Tilbury of the old school who's most famous for creating and writing Shelley. You'll see Lee, Simon and Paul's names on all of the forthcoming episodes. Mine will appear on five, starting with next week's, as the new system meant that two or even three episodes were being worked on at any one time. (We had six months to write seven episodes. Last year, as the pilot had already been written, Lee and I had six months to write five. You can see why more writers had to be drafted in. If we'd been an American sitcom, all five of us, handsomely paid for our exclusivity, would have been on the staff and our names would appear as "producers" on the episodes we didn't work on. That's a world away, really.) Anyway, I'd read the completed script of Episode One, Mortgage, but I didn't see the filming and I didn't ask for an advance DVD, so I was seeing it for the first time along with everybody else - and some of the gags had been added in the final gagging-up round, so many were new to me, including the Courtney Love joke. My objective, dispassionate view is that it was a very strong return. Because there was a new set-up to set up, it was a set-up episode, but thanks to the winning ways of Lee and Tim, who are basically called upon to do more of the same, and the new energy provided by Sally Bretton (very different from Megan Dodds) and Miranda Hart (whose skills are already well known), it felt fresh. It's hard for me to comment further, as I'm utterly partisan, but I really enjoyed sitting down and watching it.
What did people think? (Of course, if you didn't like it, I can say, well, hey, nothing to do with me!)
I'm saying: you'd have to be in the Glasgow area, but if you are, I'm hosting a couple of sessions at the first and maybe only, one-day BBC Film Festival on Glasgow Green this Sunday (September 9). It should be good fun anyway, with loads of free screenings and events throughout the day in some tents. My sessions are with three screenwriters - Jeremy Brock (Last King Of Scotland), Kevin Hood (Becoming Jane) and Gilles MacKinnon(Small Faces) - and a Q&A with the hugely talented David MacKenzie, director of Young Adam and Hallam Foe. My old friend Danny Wallace is compering the main stage, upon which Michelle McManus will perform! Crazy!
Why I love Bruce Parry I'm only just starting to catch up with the third series of BBC2's excellent Tribe. Saw the first one last night (they're already onto the third, I think), and remembered why I love it. Here is a man, an ex-Royal Marine and all-round adventurer, who gives us a glimpse into the lives of indigenous natives by living among them with seemingly minimal interference from vast camera crews (he shoots a lot of footage on a hand-held camera himself). He's softly-spoken, incredibly respectful and totally committed to absorption in another tribe's culture. I suppose we have almost come to expect this now, but it seems that with each visit he is obliged to join in some local ritual that involves sickness or self-harm. But this never seems sensational. Last night, with the Matis tribe of Western Brazil, he completed four hunting rituals, the least of which was being whipped all over with stingy nettles (these rituals were all about beating fear and being a better hunter), the worst of which involved frog poison being injected into his arm and side, after which he brought up his entire guts. I suppose there's some cleansing aspect to this that isn't explained on the side of a bottle, and the Matis have been doing it for centuries. Certainly, Bruce felt brilliant afterwards (although he seemed to age ten years in the space of ten minutes during the first wave of nausea).
The Matis were typical of the people Bruce has met on the series thus far: great bone structure (preserved through in-breeding, obviously - they look as alike as members of our own Royal Family), they demonstrate a suspicious attitude to "outsiders" that thaws into respect via a lot of pisstaking, and they kill only what they eat - in this case, peccaries and howler monkeys, mostly, using vast blowpipes. It's hard to imagine any other presenter doing this job as unobtrusively and unsensationally as Bruce, who you'd never have down as an ex-Marine. He's so soft and sensitive. Not the lean, mean killing machine I've always imagined a Marine to be. The Matis were understandably wary of Bruce at first. They were first "discovered" by outsiders in the 70s, after which a third of them died of diseases brought in. Now they are protected (you need extensive paperwork to enter their village by river), but Western influence is everywhere, from the t-shirts and underwear previous camera crews have asked them to remove to make them look more "primitive", to the disco they held one night to a radio one of the tribe had brought back from "the city". Clearly, logging and industrial agriculture (don't touch that soya milk!) are destroying the Amazon rainforest, and with it harmless, self-sufficient stewards of the land like the Matis. You might ordinarily accuse this sort of TV programme of patronising look-at-the-funny-natives tourism were it not for people like Parry to act as intermediary. He believes we should leave them well alone, and allows us a look at their daily lives to reinforce that view.
As usual, I thought to myself, I wouldn't last five minutes out there. How pampered and cynical we have become.
Here's the letter that I sent to the Independent yesterday, which I doubt they'll print (as it criticises them, and newspapers don't take kindly to this, in my experience). Don't worry, it's not about science, but something I do know about!
Sir: As a veteran of the BBC, John Humphrys is entitled to his views (Humphrys: BBC cost-cutters should axe new channels, 3 September). What I object to, as both a licence-payer and BBC freelance, is your illustrative panel listing BBC3 and BBC4's "hits" and "misses", based not on quality but audience figures. These are minority channels where new talent and more challenging ideas are tested. Why must they compete only in terms of ratings? This is fairly typical of the print media's double standards towards the BBC: it must provide a public service and also put bums on seats. Humphrys' Today programme is rightly judged by its quality, not its audience figures.
The original article is here, but it's the "sidebar" (scroll down to the end) I was moaning on about.
I feel I must take issue with Joe Queenan's piece about Knocked Up and why it signals the end of civilisation as we know it, or something, in yesterday's Guardian. I enjoy Joe Queenan's spiky prose, and I spoke to him once when I presented Back Row, but I feel that this piece is the epitome of the Word Count Piece often found in "features" pages of national newspapers, where the writer is either given a thesis, or cooks one up on the way to work, and is then given a thousand or so words to fill, while someone on the staff rustles up a sidebar to bump it up to a decent size. Et voila! Four pages of G2 filled, with a suitably hooky line for the front page of the paper.
Queenan's theory is this: because a fat bloke gets a girlfriend in Knocked Up, it shows that Hollywood is both mysogynist and stupid, which is dangerous, as it's so successful, this might lead ordinary blokes to believe that they can get girlfriends too. He's clearly seen Knocked Up and not much liked it - or, more likely, not liked it as much as nearly everybody else. Perhaps feeling guilty for naming it Film Of The Summer last week in the same issue of the Film and Music supplement which was "wrapped" in a quids-in advert for the film, the Guardian can't wait to redress the balance, and thus gives Queenan his head. Fair enough. Except the piece is full of holes.
Queenan points out that many "serious critics" have "fallen for" Knocked Up, as if perhaps they have been conned. Perhaps they just liked it. He says it "focuses on immature, misogynist, porn-obsessed male losers" - hard to argue with that - and that it is a "tale of a loser ultimately saved by the love of a good woman" - again, true enough. "There is, of course, another way of looking at this subject ..." he says. "That the new genre of romantic comedies are not really upbeat, coming-of-age motion pictures about young male schmucks who are saved by the love of a good woman, but heart-rending tragedies about beautiful young women who are doomed to spend the rest of their lives with juvenile, not especially good-looking dorks." A very clever turnaroud, but untrue. This is not a tragedy at all. "I think women need to start their own film industry: this one isn't working," he continues. It's odd to use Knocked Up as a stick to beat the patriarchal film industry with, when it's the first of a new generation of comedies to find a female as well as male audience, and that Judd Apatow, its writer and director and producer and my best friend, has been applauded - by "serious" critics - for providing his female characters with decent dialogue. His wife appears in his films, and he told me that she helps with this, by critiquing his dialogue from a woman's point of view. Certainly in Knocked Up there are plenty of all-female scenes to balance the male-loser scenes, notably between Apatow's wife Leslie Mann and the pregnant character played by Katherine Heigl. For once, here's a slacker comedy that cares as much about the woman's perspective. Who can honestly say that, for instance, Cameron Diaz had such depth in Something About Mary, or any of the other pre-Apatow blockbuster comedies about schmucks? Beautiful, unattainable women are usually just that in comedies, with little depth.
"One night Seth Rogen meets a beautiful young woman (Heigl) at a singles bar no bouncer worth his salt would have ever admitted him into." I'm no expert on clubs, but we see Rogen and his pals queueing up at the club, while the good-looking Heigl is allowed by the bouncer to jump the queue, thus exposing the sexist nature of club bouncers. Later, when Heigl is pregnant, the same bouncer refuses to let her jump the queue: again, a comment on the selective nature of bouncers, followed up with a very funny speech by the bouncer. Why take aim at the supposed unreality of this situation when Apatow addresses this very issue? It weakens the argument.
"It is anybody's guess what the female protagonist gets out of the relationship with Seth Rogen in Knocked Up," Queenan wonders. Why? He's a layabout, yes, and a stoner, but he's not that ugly (what is this, Nazi Germany?) - he's a bit podgy and unshaven, with curly hair, and makes a lot of jokes about being Jewish (he says he uses a product called Jew on his hair!), but his character is clearly good-hearted and sweet and funny. He's not such a nightmare. "The point Knocked Up purports to make is that men do not grow up until they have children, and maybe not even then. This will probably not come as a complete surprise to most of the women on this planet." Wow, as a guilt-ridden male myself, I must doff my cap at this example of gender self-hatred!
"The other point that Knocked Up seems to make is that women, even the ones who work in television, exist for no other reason than to help men grow up, if necessary by having babies." I'm not sure it makes this point at all. These two characters sleep together while drunk. Both of them roaring drunk on beer and slammers. Neither exploits the other. Indeed, she snogs him first. He's dumbfounded, and happily goes along with it. But she leads the way, a strong woman for the new century, who's just as fallible as a drunk bloke. This doesn't make the unplanned pregnancy either party's fault, and both parties regret it as much as the other, but I certainly don't view Heigl's character as a victim, or as a device to teach lessons to Seth. She learns lessons too. Could Queenan be taking his own feminism too far?
"We never find out why" she sleeps with him, Queenan says. Yes we do. As established, she was drunk. She was in a celebratory mood after getting a new job. Has Queenan never met women who drink heavily? They do, you know, some of them. It's not just blokes. He seems to have missed the revolution. Perhaps he is one of those men who believes that it's unseemly for chicks to drink too much. "Nobody could be drunk enough not to realise what a schmuck he is." Yes, they could. And he's very charming to her at the bar, selfless and sweet, and entertaining. These qualities do matter to some women. Does Queenan think that beautiful women are only interested in beautiful men, regardless of their personality? (Apatow himself always says he can't believe he's married to the good looking Leslie Mann! But he is. And that's because he may not be classically handsome, but he is clever and funny and creative, and presumably, a nice boyfriend who turned out to be a nice husband.)
Another blunder: "Amazingly, neither party ever seriously considers the highly attractive option of abortion, which may be a sign that the anti-abortion movement is gathering strength in Hollywood, or may simply result from a realisation that abortion makes a poor subject for a comedy." Both both parties do consider it! One of Seth's mates makes a discreet comment about it when they first learn the news, but the important thing is that Heigl talks to her mother about it, and she recommends getting rid of the baby. "The film now moves in an excruciatingly predictable direction, as Rogen gradually realises that he will have to shape up and do the right thing." It does indeed do this, but it's not predictable at all. How often do men in comedies make women pregnant? It's not exactly a common occurence. Movie pregnancies usually turn out to be a false alarm. "This is a film for teenage boys who dream of growing up to be teenage men." Is it? Most teenage boys would rather die than imagine having to grow up at all and have a baby and be responsible as Seth does. Maybe it's actually a very challenging film for teenage boys. I like to think so. Even the slacker mates grow up a bit, sharing in Seth's joy at the birth. If anything, it's a bit conservative, Knocked Up, but certainly not misogynist. There are some very funny scenes at Heigl's workplace showing her boss and female assistant treating her in a sexist way. The joke's on them.
Then he says, "The clueless, accessorial blonde girlfriend has been a staple of comedies for years, though Heigl, with her infuriating Lisa Kudrow Acting School mannerisms, brings a new level of vacuity to the genre." So now he's having a go at the actress! I don't recall many other "accessorial blonde girlfriends" in comedies actually going through painful childbirth. It's actually a very strong performance, I think, but that's a personal opinion, so not much of an argument here. Let's move on to:
"Apatow and his posse never stop working, everything they pitch gets enthusiastically greenlighted, and until one of these films bombs, the public is going to be seeing an awful lot of his work." That's certianly become true, but for most of the time up until The 40 Year Old Virgin, which was a hit, they didn't get anything green-lit, and Apatow's two TV shows were uncermoniously cancelled. Why the sour grapes? "The dark ages are back. Not that they ever left." Talk about over-reaction. Then there's a sidebar about other "nerds who get the girls". One of the threads that unites these schmucks is that, hey, most of them, from Stiller to Sandler via Rogen, are Jewish. This is one aspect Queenan fails to mention. We're in the classic tradition of Woody Allen and Larry David and Seinfeld. It's a rich seam. (Also, the inclusion of John Cusack in High Fidelity is an own goal, since he's super good looking, as well as a nerd. It can happen!)
Oh well, it filled a gap, and got me riled, so job well done. Anyone else out there think Knocked Up was misogynist, or dangerous? I'd be keen to know.
Klaxons wide-eyed at winning Mercury Prize As ever, TV coverage of the Mercury Prize was sapped by a weak live sound, with barely any of those performing to the assembled, seated music business types sounding as good as they ought. The Young Knives, the Klaxons, New Young Pony Club and Maps had a good old bash, but in all cases, the vocals were thin and underpowered - either that, or none of them can sing, and the sound quality was such that it could not be disguised. Even Natasha Khan was a bit disappointing. Perhaps you had to be there (ie. pissed on free booze). Dizzee Rascal fared better, but then a lot of his music was on tape and had instant oomph.
I had a horrible feeling all the way through that Amy Winehouse would win - not that she's undeserving, just that she's turned into a freak show and judgement has been clouded with either sympathy or ambulance-chasing glee - so I was delighted it was the Klaxons. Not as delighted as the Klaxons. Their clearly refreshed antics were a humorous antidote to the monosyllabic mumbling that had passed for gratitude up to that point. They put on a great show, both on stage and up on the balcony with an overwhelmed Jo Whiley, who was desperate not to lose her carefully-maintained cool: tears streaming down their faces, a total mess, their pupils dilated like saucers due to nothing more nefarious that pure youthful adrenaline, I feel sure. Either that or they were on coke and/or ecstasy, which I believe are very popular among the youth.
They're not particularly fashionable, they've long since stopped being The Latest Thing, and they are lumpy-looking young men, not exotic young women, which made them a bookies' non-favourite. The television show itself was, as usual, long and drawn out, with poor Jools Holland defeated by the Autocue, and very little for the pundits to actually add while the stage was re-set. It's a prize. It's for the best album. Some judges decide this. They sometimes make a late decision. They once gave it to M People. Another time they gave it to Talvin Singh. The judges, like the classical/folk artist, cannot win. If they give it to the most popular, or bestselling act, like last year, they are accused of kowtowing to the accounts dept. If they give it to an unknown, they are accused of being out of touch, or tokenistic. I salute them this year. Myths Of The Near Future is one of the few albums of 2007 that isn't propped up by one or two memorable singles; it's inventive and catchy and various and smart all the wall through, and doesn't pall through repeated listens. In Golden Skans and Not Over Yet it boasts two of the year's best singles, and yet they are only among the stand-out tracks. Maps, on the other hand, are very interesting, and have at least two storming tracks, but it's not the album of the year. Nor is Jamie T's Panic Prevention which had flashes of genius and some dull bits. Likewise New Young Pony Club, who also show promise, but have yet to produce a Great Album, to my ears.
By the way, I salute Tahita Bulmer, lead singer with New Young Pony Club, who made this unprecedented sore-loser comment: "The Klaxons already have loads of press. They should have given it to someone smaller who needed a boost." She's missed the whole point of the event, but God bless her anyway.
In a series of candid interviews with a GQ journalist for a new book called Dead Certain, the 61-year-old President of the United States of America, Mr George W Bush, has been discussing what he will do on retirement, which is still a tantalising 16 months away. It's an insight: "I can just envision getting in the car, getting bored, going down to the ranch."
Much better, this week, obviously. I particularly liked it when I made the observation that prisoner of war films are like prison breakout films, except in wartime. That's the kind of insight that's been lacking in previous weeks. (At least I wasn't Simon Weston, Falklands hero, singing the Dambusters theme while pretending to look through binoculars. At least I have that.) In case you missed the programme, here's a recap:
Yesterday's Film Programme on Radio 4 is available to listen to here (and stays up for longer than the usual Listen Again week too). It was a proper treat for me to host, as I got to interview Ken Loach and Mike Leigh, two of my all-time film heroes. Mike was in the studio throughout and I was quite nervous about meeting him, with his non-fool-suffering reputation. My nerves were not calmed by the email we received via his office before the show stating that he would only discuss High Hopes (out for the first time on DVD) and would not talk about either Ken Loach or Shane Meadows (who also has a box set out and was planned as the third corner of our British film special - the heir, one might say, of Loach and Leigh). Anyway, I needn't have worried. On the day, Mike was happy to talk about everything and everybody, and it was he who moved the discussion away from High Hopes. We played out the Loach interview, which I did last week at his Soho office, and I couldn't tell if Mike was listening intently to the playback, or thinking about something else entirely. It turned out to be the former, and the "tedious left wing polemic" remark was his, refuting that that's what Loach deals in. A few of my questions and generalisations were shot down (what a fool I was to compare he and Loach's working methods!), but ignoring my fragile presenter's ego, Mike was entertaining, passionate and revealing. See what you think. I was thinking, "top of the world."
Incidentally, I watched High Hopes again, and notwithstanding what Leigh denies are the caricatured upper class couple played by David Bamber and Lesley Manville, I found it extremely warm and moving.
I was just sorting through an old box of photos and ephemera, searching for something else, and I came across this seemingly innocuous ticket stub. It reminds me why keeping odd things in boxes is not such a daft idea: just holding it in my hand sent a little shiver up my spine. Especially having just watched Mike Leigh's High Hopes, which ends with Mrs Bender (played by Edna Dore), exclaiming, "Top o' the world," when her son Cyril takes her up to the roof of his King's Cross block of flats. I believe I'm right in saying that I was in New York to interview the cast of Devil's Advocate in June, 1997, and travelled up to the top of the World Trade Center in downtime. Hard to imagine it gone.
