SPECTATOR'S NOTEBOOK

J. W. M. THOMPSON

If the BBC's new radio programmes stir up half as much excitement as the arguments

which have preceded them, then sound radio

is in for a new golden age. They won't do so, of course. Still, I fancy most people would agree that Mr Charles Curran and the BBC

management have had the best of the argu- ment over the Reithian concept of 'mixed programming'. Their opinion that this, so far as sound radio is concerned, is now out-of- date seems so well founded on the facts that one is forced to look for other explanations of the passion with which it has been de- fended. And the real explanation is in the widespread fear that the reshaping of the radio system, while ostensibly correct, is in fact part of a much more important process of lowering standards and penalising min- orities.

The formation of a pressure group of leading broadcasters to urge a royal com- mission on the whole question of television and radio (as the SPECTATOR recommended last June) is another sign of this fear. When a large part of commercial television is deep in financial trouble and the BBC is rent by internal dissension, the case for such an in- quiry is clearly very strong. A new view of the whole troubled scene is called for—and some new ideas.

So far as the BBC is concerned, I suggest that this could well be started on the road to sanity by two relatively simple reforms: (1) Abolish the absurd licence fee method of collecting revenue and provide adequate money from taxation, preferably from pur- chase tax on radio and ry sets; this would cut out all the nonsense of millions of pounds being lost because the Post Office can't be bothered to collect them; (2) Pro- vide the BBC with a new charter (one is due anyway in 1976) establishing it unequivocally as a national institution with the duty to maintain the highest standards rather than the largest audiences (whether for news, drama, or anything else).

Six-letter word

Sir Hugh Greene, in his letter to the Times castigating the rebels within the BBC, accused them of telling the management, 'you are a lot of bloody liars'. A resounding phrase, which would probably have eluded a BBC governor in other days. I was duly impressed to see that the Daily Telegraph, even in these days, could not bring itself to reproduce Sir Hugh's language in its entirety. When the Telegraph reprinted the letter the key word appeared as `b—'. I'm surprised the Tele- graph didn't go one step further and refer to 'a letter in the T— newspaper',

Sixpenny banger

No one seems to complain about the new ten-shilling coin any longer. If it had been introduced years ago as a simple measure of convenience unconnected with decimalisa- tion it would, I dare say, have attracted out- raged armies of defenders against any pro- posal to do away with it. What was really being expressed in its hostile reception was, I suspect, a general feeling of irritation at the upheaval which the public is being pushed into over the whole decimalisation business. The same is true of the fight to save the six- pence.

Given that we are to have decimalisation, and on the pattern which has been laid down, the case for retaining the sixpence is really _rather weak. Apart from anything else, the presence of a coin called 'sixpence' which is actually worth two and and half pence would introduce a positively surrealist element of confusion into what in any case promises to be a chaotic situation. But in defending the sixpence, which happens to be an attractive little coin and almost the only one of our present series which isn't too big, people have a chance to let off steam about decimalisa- tion generally. Hence the Government's thoroughly timid wobbling on the subject, ending up with a feeble request to the Decimal Currency Board to re-examine the coin's future. After four years of planning!

What is really bothering the Government, plainly, is the public's awkward refusal to warm to the idea of decimal money at all. Well, it would bother me if I were a poli- tician liable to be held responsible for intro- ducing it. So far, if one's ordinary experience is any guide, nobody at all really wants the change apart from a few elderly neophiliacs who have a special interest in bringing it about.

In the spotlight

A novel or a film could be written about the effect upon a small community of the sudden discovery that it is at the centre of a sensa- tional news story. Usually the theme is lost sight of in the stir created by the news story itself. The village of Stocking Pelham, in Hertfordshire, a small and rather nondescript settlement in pleasant countryside, has lately undergone this strange experience in connec- tion with the alleged murder of Mrs McKay I have been hearing from someone who knows the place of the odd character life assumed there when the 'communications' spotlight was turned without warning upon its quiet scene. People became quite dazed by the amazing invasion of reporters, photo- graphers, men with microphones and men with -ry cameras, all in addition to the swarming force of policemen. The village was packed with cars and strangers; inter- views were being conducted at every corner; the pub ran dry.

People's reactions varied. One girl whose mother had actually spoken to one of the men concerned in the case carried a news- paper cutting to school and was sternly re- buked by a teacher for taking 'a vulgar inter- est' in the affair. And even such a macabre event produced its comedy. One local lady arrived at the village pub in the evening un- aware of what all the commotion was about and found herself being instantly interviewed by a radio man. She not unnaturally ex- pressed surprise that 'we country bumpkins' should attract such startling attention. The remark, duly recorded and broadcast next day, stirred up a bizarre local row. One man collected thirty signatures to a 'protest' against the term 'country bumpkins'; he made the priceless remark: 'We are not prepared to be sat on as our grandfathers were'; and the Hera and Essex Observer gravely reported, 'Feelings in Stocking Pel- ham are running high . . .' There are times when I feel sorry for my favourite satirist Peter Simple. He must often feel that his wildest fantasies are doomed to be outdone by the unconscious humour of the real world.