Beyond belief
Simon Hoggart
The James Hewitt profile on Channel 4, Confessions Of A Cad, was a superb example of train-wreck television. This is when you watch a terrible accident unfolding, as if in slow motion, appalled at what is in front of your eyes, unable to drag them away.
Just when you thought things couldn't get worse, they did, from the moment he drawled in that charming, foie gras-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth fashion, 'He [Prince Charles] was probably grateful that someone was looking after his wife while he was shagging Camilla Parker Bowles. Don't you?' — it's the silky 'don't you?' that tries to draw the listener in — I was hooked as surely as any trout with a barb through its cheek.
'I'm in between jobs — have been since 1991!' he told us. This was Bertie Wooster with betrayal, Tim Nice-But-Vicious. (He does have an alarming look of Harry Enfield's famous character, and like him tends to keep his mouth open at inappropriate moments.) To go with the title, the filmmakers ran jaunty music from the 1960s British pornlite films such as Confessions of a Window Cleaner, which at first I thought went badly with the images of his expensive flat, expensive tailor, Range Rover and skiing holidays (two weeks in Gstaad — there's posh for you!). But in the end, that's what he is, an upper-class window-cleaner, having it off with lonely and unhappy housewives. He just happened to snaffle the world's most famous lonely and unhappy housewife.
Many philanderers are torn between the desire to keep quiet about their activities, and the equally powerful desire to let us know how successful they are. (I remember a friend, a noted all-Britain shagger, describing how he'd been put in the wrong sleeping compartment with a beautiful blonde. He couldn't bear to tell me they'd had it off, because I knew his wife. But he also couldn't bear for me to think he hadn't, because his reputation was at stake. The poor fellow's torment was pitiful. Whether they had made love was, of course, irrelevant to his dilemma.)
In the same way, when Hewitt was asked if he was Prince Harry's father, he replied, 'Bollocks,' then ran his tongue over his lower lip. When he was told people were saying that, the tongue came out again. Then he said, 'I've told them that I'm not, then they can just go and swivel [sic]. I just think it's very sad for him — sad and unnecessary.' At which point the tongue made its third and longest appearance and his fingers were twisted into a cat's cradle.
The programme found the woman he'd been having an affair with while the relationship with Diana was in full flight. I suppose we were supposed to be shocked, but we were hardly surprised. As pointless as moral outrage when your cat brings in a dead fledgling — nasty, but it's what he's wired to do.
The wonderful thing is that Hewitt really is every bit as bad as the tabloids tell us — self-indulgent, irresponsible, smug, sociopathic and, at the risk of sounding like Dr Raj Persaud, with a streak of self-loathing. Only television gives us the chance to examine these people and to relish our hatred of them. It's fabulous.
Almost as grippingly awful was the first of Ruby Wax's new series, Ruby Wax with Liza Minelli (and Husband) (BBC1). The BBC has been very indulgent of Ms Wax. Her programmes are mostly about Ruby Wax. We get to sec Ruby Wax with lots of famous people. Her schtick is to befriend celebrities and then be horrible about them behind their backs, even while the filming goes on. It kind of works — she once strung up poor Fergie and left her hanging from the rafters — though usually she is just too star-struck to put the boot in.
Though it was only half an hour long, periods of this show were dreary in the extreme. Liza and her husband David pretending to serve fish and chips, with her affecting a mockney accent, was embarrassing. I quite liked the scene where he bought her an £82,000 crucifix on a necklace (gosh, the artefact was ghastly, but that was the point, I suppose). The climax, his birthday party, at which he had never met most of the guests, was splendidly grisly. But for the most part, they behaved like three drunken American tourists doing the clichés of London, which is something you don't actually see very often. (Americans usually have a horrible time in London, because it's pricy, the hotels are rubbish, and there's no air-conditioning. They should get drunk more often.)
The programme was made by a company called Waxworks. In other words, it was Ruby Wax's firm making a film about what fun Ruby Wax is, Come on, BBC, you must have better things to spend your money on. You have executives to relocate! Bonuses to pay! Andrew Gilligan needs food and shoes!
The Real Doctor Evil (BBC2) was a stupid catchpenny title for a brilliant programme. This man — Kim Jong 11 of North Korea — is far, far scarier than Saddam Hussein ever was. When his goons blasted out of the water two fishermen who had accidentally strayed near his lavish beach resort, he repaid their grieving families with a fridge and a colour TV each. So they could watch him on television. This man will stop at nothing, including destroying South Korea, the United States and, if he gets the chance, us. Again, this is the kind of thing you can only see on television.
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