Notebook
Ihave tended in the past to regard with some envy the stars of television like Michael Parkinson and Russell Harty. It is not their fame that I have envied, because nobody in his right mind would like to be a celebrity, but the fact that they are paid a great deal of money for doing what appears to be a very easy job. I now feel a good deal less envious, for a month ago, just before I went on holiday, I myself underwent the ex- perience of hosting a television 'chat show'. For those who have a natural aptitude for this sort of thing — in other words, iron nerves and a capacity to feel relaxed in the Most intimidating and artificial surround- ings — it may all be quite easy and enjoy- able. But to the shy and uninitiated the fee, substantial though it is, seems afterwards to have been only barely adequate compensa- tion for the emotional stress involved. I did not expect, for example, that I would be treated like an actor. On arrival at the theatre, I was put in a dressing room com- plete with huge looking glass and little nak- ed bulbs. Then I had to rehearse, reading prepared passages from an 'autocue' — an experience which revealed for the first time the truly extraordinary numbers of people Involved in producing even the most modest television programme, all of them amiable and efficient and well-practised in trying to soothe and placate the nervous performer. Then my face was greased and powdered, Which made me feel distinctly odd. Finally, and strangest of all, there was the studio au- dience. Where do these poor people come from? They look as if they have been kid- napped by the BBC and brought to the theatre in a cattle truck, so bemused and uncomprehending do they appear. But this does not matter. There is a 'floor manager' to tell them when to clap and to encourage them, if necessary, to laugh. The chat show Itself is a strange thing, having no purpose other than to be vaguely entertaining. This is unnerving for the participants. For the Presenter there are other distractions — the autocue, the cameras, the lights, the floor manager warning one that time is running Out, the prepared questions on a piece of Paper which have to be read as if one has °,111Y just thought of them. These distrac- tions at least have the advantage of enabling one to forget that the show is being watched by thousands of cold, detached people in the comfort of their homes. But they do not encourage sensible conversation. The pro- gramme, Friday Night . . . Saturday Morn- 117g, was dropped by the BBC a week after I appeared on it. The decision, I am glad to S,ay, was taken beforehand, so at least I can Dear no responsibility for that. Now, any
lucrative I might have felt to pursue a lucrative television career by applying for a
job as a presenter on the new, glamorous Breakfast Television programme has been nipped in the bud. Mr David Frost an- nounced this week that its stars — Michael Parkinson, Angela Rippon, and Anna Ford — would be encouraged to flirt with each other on screen because 'sexual chemistry is always very important'. Can you imagine being required to flirt with Angela Rippon at 6.30 in the morning? I am not sure that Mr Parkinson is being paid enough.
Immediately after the show, in the early hours of the morning, I fled with my family to our house in Tuscany where nobody would know of my shame. Italy, so the first Article of the Italian Constitution mysteriously states, 'is a Republic founded on work'. The view of the Italians as hard workers is not very widely held. But it is my impression that most of them do in fact work extremely hard, which is why so many of them are prosperous. On Easter Bank Holiday Monday, which is a holiday in Italy as well, there were about half a dozen men carrying out essential repairs to the house in their spare time. The only resistance we met was when we asked a man if he might like to go to the village in his tractor to pick up a piece of machinery. To be working was all right; but to be seen in the village to be doing so was another matter. It might make people think, he said, that he 'wanted for a crust of bread'.
Afriend has drawn my attention to the intimidatory practices of 'Thames Water', as the London water board now trendily calls itself. On 29 March he receiv- ed a notice warning him that there would be a 'temporary suspension of water supply' either that day or the next and that he should '1) conserve your stored water 2) not draw hot water 3) reduce fires to hot water systems 4) not leave taps open'. On 30 March an identical notice was put through the letter box. On 31 March a man actually rang the door bell carrying another notice — giving the same instructions but this time printed in red — with the more arresting headline of 'Attention! The water supply has been shut off.' On the first day my friend obeyed the instructions exactly, on the second day half-heartedly, and on the third day not at all. Needless to say, the water was never cut off. The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, possesses a Press Office the purpose of which is to facilitate communications bet- ween that august body and the working journalist. Not long ago it sent us a post- card announcing the installation of a new telephone system. Its purpose was to ex- plain 'How to get through to the Opera Press Office'. 'The general Opera Press Of- fice line is now 01-240 1200 ext. 149,' it said helpfully, but went on: 'The direct line to the Opera Press Office is now 01-240 1200 ext. 150. (If you dial 01-240 1200 and just ask for the Opera Press Office you will automatically get put through to ext. 149. It is absolutely essential to ask for ext. 150 if you wish to be connected with the direct Iine to the office.' Only if it were absolutely essential would I dare to try to telephone at all.
he news of Britain's showdown with 1 Argentina over the Falklands reached me in Italy in dribs and drabs. First I learnt in the village that we were 'at war'. This was disturbing news for someone who had just arrived on holiday, so 1 started buying the Italian newspapers. From these I was pleas- ed to discover that if there was to be a war, it would not begin until my holiday was over, given the length of time which the British fleet was planning to employ getting to the Falklands. The Italians, despite the fact that half Argentina's population is of Italian origin, seemed to be securely on the side of the British and rather surprised that I was not taking the first plane home. I read with some sorrow of the resignation of Lord Carrington, who was described in Le Monde (which I read on the drive home) as 'exquisite'. I then read an Italian newspaper report of Mr Francis Pym's first interven- tion as Foreign Secretary in the House of Commons under the headline: 'Britain does not appease dictators'. This was an appeal- ing line for the Italians, whose support for Britain seemed to a great extent determined by their dislike of Argentina's dictatorial government. But even before I returned to I.ondon and discovered how often politi- cians here had been emphasising the 'fascism' of General Galtieri as grounds for taking a strong line, I felt there was something a little wrong. It is entirely irrele- vant whether General Galtieri is a dictator or not. If 'Britain does not appease dic- tators', there is any number of countries with which we ought to be at war. As it is, we would welcome the support of any government, dictatorial or not, that decided to take our side in the present dispute. General Galtieri's offence, as far as Britain and the rest of the world are concerned, is not that he is a dictator, but that his govern- ment, with apparently the full support of its population, has committed an illegal act of aggression. That alone is why we may be obliged to fight the Argentinians. But it is desperately to be hoped that it still will not come to that.
Alexander Chancellor
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