Television
Political ignoramus
James Delingpole
If I were to script the first episode of a soap opera set in the House of Commons, it would probably go something like this: after unexpectedly winning a local by-elec- tion, a naive Tory MP receives his baptism of fire in the cut-throat world of politics.
He arrives full of optimism, eager to serve both his constituents and his party. But he soon discovers that honour and decency have little place in this nest of cor- ruption, Machiavellian scheming, backstab- bing, alcoholism, infidelity and ruthless ambition.
On the way, he will meet a kindly, mid- dle-aged secretary who will help elucidate — ostensibly for the benefit of the naive MP, but really for the politically illiterate viewer — the complexities of parliamentary procedure. He will also encounter one or more of the following: a thuggish Chief Whip who knows where all the bodies are buried; a Bunterish Shires MP called some- thing silly like Stiggy Bedford-Bounds; a lubricious researcher who is far more cun- ning than her pretty face might suggest; a severe, power-dressing, female representa- tive of New Labour; and a horny-handed son of toil with a Scottish/Northern accent to represent Old Labour.
My dialogue — at least on the first draft — would probably include lines like 'never get caught with a live man or a dead woman'. And my early scenes might include one where the new boy goes into the Commons bar and starts hob-nobbing with some MPs only to be told this is an enormous faux pas because they belong to the Other Side.
Once I'd written all this — and it would have taken me, ooh, at least a day — I would read it through and, very likely, toss it in the bin. No one, I would have decided, could ever be so foolish as to commission such a compendium of hoary old clichés, penned by a man who obviously had no knowledge of parliamentary life whatsoev- er.
This, I now discover, would have been a big mistake. A series very like the one above is now showing on Channel 4 every Wednesday night. It's called Annie's Bar and is the first of what may or may not be many drama series commissioned from Prince Edward's production company Ardent.
The royal connection has, of course, brought Annie's Bar far more pre-publicity than it might otherwise have enjoyed. It has also, no doubt, enabled critics of a republican bent to indulge in a spot of gra- tuitous prince-bashing. But I have no axe to grind on that count, first, because I gath- er that Edward, who specialises in docu- mentaries, had little to do with Annie's Bar; second, because I would be more than happy if at least one member of the royal family could live a successful, fulfilled life.
That said, I find it difficult to believe that unless one had a fanatical (and in this case misguided) loyalty to the Crown one could find anything complimentary to say about Annie's Bar. Its characterisation is so thin it makes Archer look like Tolstoy; its sets have about as much authenticity as the wobbly walls in Prisoner Cell Block H; and its script gives about as realistic and insight into parliamentary life as did the latter, excruciatingly melodramatic episodes of the House of Cards trilogy.
You may think I was exaggerating for effect when, earlier, I played upon my political ignorance. Sadly, I was not. You are reading a piece by a man who once took Lord Jenkins out to lunch (seemed a nice chap and I thought it would look good on my expenses form) without once being aware — despite several awkward refer- ences to the fact over the claret — that he was a former Home Secretary. If someone like me can find Annie's Bar hackneyed and unconvincing, I dread to think what, say, a parliamentary correspondent would make of it.
Besides the Edward connection, the series' other supposed unique selling point is its topicality. As with the wondrous Drop the Dead Donkey (and there the compari- son most definitely ends), Annie's Bar episodes are updated at the last minute so that hot new issues can be slipped into the script. That, at any rate, is the official excuse as to why preview tapes are unavail- able (and why I'm reviewing last week's episode). But maybe it was really just a cunning ploy to avoid adverse publicity before the first broadcast. Apart from a reference to the Harman debate (a Labour ' - and an instruction book, please.' MP, I think, turned out to have a daughter at Cheltenham Ladies College) and a laboured discussion about the ban on women-only candidate lists, the episode might just as well have been filmed a year ago.
I suppose, viewed as just another soap opera, Annie's Bar is marginally more sophisticated than those Brazilian numbers Clive James used to mock, and by no means less watchable than, say, Albion Market or that magnificent, nautical saga Triangle. But it seems to think it's rather better than that. The much vaunted 'topi- cality' is one indication of this. Another is the way it includes John Major lookalikes and even real 'personalities' like Edwina Currie and 'Lord' David Sutch. Perhaps we are supposed to think: Wow! If I didn't know better, I'd imagine this was the real House of Commons. and how did they secure the services of such publicity-shy luminaries?' What we're really thinking, though, is: 'Heavens. Any programme that lets Edwina come on to plug her latest book must be really scraping the bottom of the barrel.'
Still, I'll say one thing for Annie's Bar. It can only get better.
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