AND ANOTHER THING
Giving a Bronx cheer to the priests from the House of Rimmon
PAUL JOHNSON
The Yorkshire race-steward who told two television 'executives' to take their hands out of their pockets may have been rude — what Yorkshireman is not? — but his heart was in the right place. Any move calculated to lower the self-importance of people who work for television is welcome. Television is the enemy of civilisation, the chief threat to the good taste, morals and decency of society, the corrupter of the young and the daily inciter to depravity and violence. I would ban it. If all the sets in Britain, nearly 40 million, I believe, went suddenly and permanently dark, it would be as if the nation were waking from a gaudy, drug-induced dream of hor- rors to a natural world of sweet scents and birdsong, of crystal streams tumbling by the side of green meadows, under a flawless, unpolluted sky. People could begin to live again, to exercise their imaginations, to recover their individuality.
Failing this total liberation from the idiot- box, I have taken a vow never to appear on television again, thus ending a habit of nearly half a century. My first venture was in 1953, when I was posing as an expert on the Arab world. I was a regular on Tonight, a reporter on This Week, have made 60-minute docu- mentaries for Intertel, and appeared as a talking head in countless programmes like Panorama or Question Time to put forward non-solutions to pseudo-problems. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, there was a mere- tricious early-evening talk-show, four days a week, called Three After Six which, at £100 a go, brought me the easiest money I have ever earned. But I have never participated in this fraud on the public without feelings of shame. In one way or another it is always a con-trick. No programme has ever been transmitted without some degree of decep- tion. No person who flourished in television has ever remained wholly honest. Newspa- pers are indeed cesspits but, compared with television, they are like purgatory as opposed to hell.
Malcolm Muggeridge and I often dis- cussed the way in which television, like Sat- urn, devoured its children. His own attitude towards the monster was ambivalent; he loathed it and craved it. Being a good Christian, he hated the way its acid ate into his soul. Being vain, he relished its oppor- tunities for reckless self-exposure. It is a drug, no doubt about it, whose appeal is the desire for recognition. There is a familiar pattern. If you are doing, say, a 13-part series, at a fairly popular hour, nothing happens in the first four weeks. After five weeks, people look at you in the streets. After seven or eight, they are liable to stop you and ask you questions. By the end of the series, you are a national figure, and you are hooked. You can then descend further into the abyss by signing on for a new series. Or you can undergo a cure. For the first five weeks of non-appearance, people still recog- nise you. Gradually the looks you get are more puzzled and it is then, depending on your temperament, that withdrawal symp- toms begin. After a dozen weeks, you are once more invisible, and if you are wise you will stay so. But most — poor Muggeridge included — fail to kick the habit and become pathetic recidivists, until, in due course, it kicks them. You see former televi- sion stars wandering around London, beg- ging you to seize their hand and say, 'Aren't you. . . ?' Then these zombies, these burnt- out cases, come briefly to life again.
Putting television 'executives' in their lowly places has long been one of my plea- sures. They are so accustomed to those they ring up — often quite important or distinguished people too — tumbling over themselves to appear, that they do not know how to handle indifference. A Panorama girl rings and expects an intellec- tual red carpet to be unrolled. What she gets from me is commerce. Researcher: 'Paul [we have never met], I'd like to ask your views on devolution.' Me: 'You'll have to pay a consultation fee. I charge £50 for three minutes, starting from [I look at my watch] now.' Researcher: `Aaaargh, I'll have to ask about that.' Me: 'Do so' (hang up). Interestingly enough, I am often paid this fee, sometimes doubled when the three minutes run out. Never agree to go to their studio. Always insist they bring their cam- eras to your house. It's more trouble for them, less for you and it has a particular advantage. Wait until they have set up and are about to film before saying, 'Oh, by the way, I don't think we have discussed the lit- tle matter of a fee.' This is particularly important with American television compa- nies who try to get away without paying you a cent. With British ones I usually contrive to multiply their proposed payment by four by using this tactic. Remember you are not dealing with human beings, but with automata who will happily pay the IRA to stage an 'incident' so they can film it.
Some weeks ago, after a squalid visit to the South Bank, I finally decided never to do another programme. It is evident to me that the bosses of the commercial compa- nies are trying to squeeze the last penny out of their franchises by cutting down on budgets and forcing their employees to live like squatters. There was not even the pre- tence of a hospitality room and I was grudgingly offered — it was lunchtime — synthetic coffee out of a paper cup. I almost left without performing, but I was afraid the pretty, faded woman who was interviewing me would burst into tears if I did. So I promised myself, never again. I have long been accustomed to turning tele- vision down for a variety of reasons. But I now simply say, 'No thanks, I never do tele- vision', just as I refuse to speak to gossip- columnists: 'Sorry, nothing personal, just a rule of mine, goodbye.'
Those who invite you to appear on their programmes are baffled by a flat refusal. They can't understand it. They demand an explanation. Me: 'There's no explanation. All television is incorrigibly vulgar, menda- cious and naff. And taking part in television involves meeting undesirable people and degrading oneself.' They think I am mad, of course: you can hear them whispering to a colleague, 'Johnson's finally lost his marbles.' Then, a bit desperately, to me: 'Could you suggest somebody else?' Me: 'How dare you imply that I am the kind of person who would involve another human being in some- thing I consider morally degrading for myself? Oh, well, try Sir Peregrine Worsthorne.'
I wish more people would follow my exam- ple and give the arrogant television world the Bronx cheer. They should ask themselves, about a television invitation: 'I can see what's in it for them, but what's in it for me?' The usual answer is nothing. Except the indul- gence of vanity, of course. And that, alas, is a powerful opiate. So I dare say I will remain a lone voice crying in the wilderness. That is why I warmed to that fat, cross-looking man in Yorkshire. Needless to say, he has already been disowned by his committee, the Jockey Club etc. We are a people who have aban- doned the true God, but worship greedily in the House of Rinunon.
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