Broadly speaking I am in favour of
sex education.
When I
was a lad I was told I had grown on a blackcurrant bush. Not very nice going
through life thinking you were adopted and your real mother was a shrub.
No
whittling wood for me on the doorsteps of my childhood. I might
have been
cutting up a cousin. As autumn approached each year I waited in dread for my
hair to turn gold and fall at my feet. In the gardens of my youth pruning time
was an agony.
In the
same way no one has been able to convince me there are no fairies, so I have
never been able to shed - if you will forgive the arboreal expression - a feeling
that I am part twig, though I rejected with vigour allegations that I was a chip
off the old block.
When
I got older I was introduced to the more conventional forms of procreation but
to be frank with you I think there is more gravitas in the blackcurrant method.
No
one warned me that in real life the position was absurd and the method
improbable. And it did not always work, though in all honesty it worked more
often than blackberrying, an activity which had very sinister connotations in
my childhood.
I
was always surprised when two people went out to pick soft fruit, three did not
come back. My own efforts to provide myself with a brother were a gloomy
failure. I would select this fine bouncing bud and place it in a matchbox lined
with cotton wool. But alas, nothing came of it.
As
to other functions I will only say the blackcurrant bush has much to commend
it. No mouth, therefore no toothache. Eats through the feet and the leaves.
None of those tiring strolls to work up an appetite for lunch.
Some
of us, I regret, are built even more oddly than most. I was literally an all
round reporter. I was as broad as I was long. The last TV series I made was a
source of great embarrassment. Not to beat about the bush - and how that phrase
strikes at the heart- where other people go in at the waist, I went out for
quite a distance. People doubted the reality of my body.
On
radio you get used to the size phenomenon. The way listeners invariably tell
you in a disappointed tone: ‘You are much taller on the radio.’ But what was I to do about the lady who came
up, patted me familiarly on the belt buckle and asked: ‘Is that real or are you just wearing it on tele?’
I
loved broadcasting. I felt at home the moment I sat behind a microphone.
Nervous until the microphone went live, then a feeling of peace. Wynford
Vaughan Thomas (oh, that he had commentated on the Jubilee) explained it wasn’t
really nerves, it was adrenalin. The spirit telling the body to do well.
Broadcasting
is writing with an extra dimension. Punctuation is replaced by a change of tone
or a brief pause. You can add emphasis, even emotion. I experimented with
broadcasting columns in a series I called Radio Brynsiencyn, rather than
writing them in various newspapers, and it worked.
I
was never part of the BBC. For thirty years I worked on weekly contracts, which
meant I began every week unemployed. It didn’t matter. In those days working
for BBC Wales was like joining a new family. Alas, the BBC changed and my happy
family life ended in a spectacular bust up.
For
all that I still feel proprietorial about my favourite Auntie and it hurts when
she makes a mess of things. So this week has been a bummer.
As
always the camera crew filming the jubilee were faultless. They knew where to
look and where to linger. They lingered on the shots of those brave girls,
soaked to the skin, singing their hearts out in pouring rain on an open deck.
Even the Royal Family applauded. Sadly not one of the brash young commentators
even mentioned it though it summed up the whole damp day. One critic said of
the commentators: ‘It was like an endless One Show.’ Can anything be more damning?
I
am in an email loop of newspaper men and they were appalled. Said one, the
highly respected former editor of two national newspapers: ‘I yearned for the days
when experienced, highly professional journalists worked for the BBC.
‘Describing
the gold leaf on the bows of the Royal boat, a BBC idiot said:”All that gold
leaf on the stern on the boat must have taken some doing.”
‘Talk
about not knowing his arse from his elbow. Had he bothered to do his homework,
he would have known that the gold leaf he was describing adorned the bows of
the boat. He would have been able to tell his audience that the work had been
patiently carried out by a father and son team who, from their workshop in
Greenwich, had also worked on gilding the name letters of the Cutty Sark.
Further, he would have also known that the gilding on the Royal boat took each
of them 47 man hours. And if I knew all that, why didn't he?’
A
former managing editor of the Mirror Group counselled:
‘You
really can't blame the poor bloody interviewers.
Are
you having a great day? -- Er, yes.
What
was the best bit for you? -- Er...
Did
you see the queen? -- Yes, good.
How
was that? -- Er... great
Did
you see the fly-past? -- Yeah.
Was
it good? -- Yeah, good.
What
do you think of the queen? -- Er, nice lady.
And
the duke... I suppose you're hoping he has a speedy recovery? -- Er... yes.
You
can blame the bloody editors and producers who are running this meaningless,
time-filling crap all day (and night), over four or more days.
Difficult
to imagine that TV can actually ruin a spectacular occasion. But it does.
I
appreciate that it can't be easy to think of something new to say every half
hour, all day.
But
this, this morning, on Sky News:
"Tell
me about this ship. It is unique, isn't it?"
"Yes
indeed. Absolutely. In fact it is one of only two in the world."
When
I did Vox Pops for the Beeb two researchers preceded me looking for people with
interesting stories.
The
only newspaperman who spoke in favour of the coverage lives in America. A
former Head Honcho on the National Enquirer, he wrote:
‘Remember
one thing: in our heyday, we all were trying to please the vast majority of our
intended audience. If during my stint at the Enquirer, I had worried about the
opinions of other journalists, current or past, I would have been out of a job
in no time. The real question is: did the audience (grannies, mummies, postal
workers and dustmen et al) hate the commentaries as much as you? If they were
happy and too dumb to notice the difference between now and yesteryears it just
puts an emphasis on the old adage (which I don’t totally buy): you’ll never go
broke underestimating the intelligence of your audience.’
