Television
Tired of life
Richard Ingrams
Ihave been taken to task in the pages of the Times by the distinguished and witty Moreover columnist Miles Kington who ac- cuses me, quite rightly, of criticising a pro- gramme that I did not watch, namely the Anthony Clare interview with John Stonehouse. The rule, Moreover man Kington says, is that you shouldn't attack something that you haven't read or, in my case, seen, and he quotes Evelyn Waugh to this effect. I think in fact the principle was first laid down by Dr Johnson, who remarked to one of his contemporaries, `Sir, I would rather praise him than read him'. It is no doubt a sound rule, but I wonder where it leaves me. If I had to watch all the programmes I would soon find myself shut away in the loony bin answering questions from Dr Anthony Clare or his local equivalent.
Sometimes I envy my columnar neighbours in this part of the Spectator who can write about whatever they like. Thus the poet Kavanagh wrote a very life- enhancing piece a fortnight ago about the month of August, coming out quite strong- ly against it. The poet's theme, in case any of you missed it, was that everything in August seems at an end. Nature looks tired and messy and there is none of the excite- ment of spring or autumn; nothing to look forward to, in other words. I myself have always liked August but this may be due partly to the fact that my birthday falls in the month and so it has been associated for as long as I can remember with excitement, holidays and birthdays — not just mine, but everyone worth knowing has his birth- day in August. What has given August a bad name in recent years is the stubble burning, to which the poet quite rightly referred. Suddenly the whole look of the
landscape is ruined by the appearance of ugly black swathes of scorched earth reek- ing of ash. For the only time in the year walking in the country ceases to be a pleasure.
So the poet has a point in being anti- August. I suspect that if he was a television critic he would be even more so. This is the month when, along with Nature, the BBC stands still. Nothing happens. There are repeats, there is Russell Harty at the seaside. There is a programme called `That's Life Highlights' (featuring, again, the famous talking dog). ITV is just as bad. No one feels obliged to do anything new or even to put on anything that is old. Where is everyone, you ask? Well, nowadays at this time of year many television people go off to the Edinburgh Festival for a great Gathering of the Bores. This consists of several days of literary lectures and seminars in which media matters are discussed ad nauseam by assorted pundits. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that they don't show it all on television.
This coming of the Edinburgh Festival towards the end of August, is another gloomy event, like the stubble burning. I suppose the Festival may have had some life in it at one stage, but nowadays it just seems a tremendously dull cultural bonan- za. This year the theme of the Festival is 'Vienna 1900', enough to put anyone off. I watched the opening concert on BBC2, a performance from the Usher Hall of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony conducted by a bearded man looking like a fish, in- troduced of course by Richard Baker and simultaneously broadcast on Radio 3. These televised orchestral concerts are never very satisfactory. You get nice stereo music but while the camera zooms about the volume remains constant which pro- duces a disconcerting effect. When you see a close-up of a horn player you expect to hear him louder than the rest, but you don't. I ended up listening to it with the pic- ture blacked out.
My only pleasure in the last week was to see the repeat on BBC2 of 180 Not Out, a conversation between Malcolm Muggeridge and Catherine/ Bramwell-Booth, who recently celebrated her hundredth birthday and whose general alertness and vigour is enough to make most of us feel ashamed of our feeble efforts. The chief interest of the discussion lay in the speakers' contrasting 'We're having a few people round for a cheese and cocaine party,' attitudes to death. Miss Booth doesn't like to think about it. She is in love with life' regarding every new day as a present froth the Almighty. Mugg, on the other liana, cannot wait to be off. The idea of it all coming to an end appeals to him immense' ly. It was a viewpoint with which, as,a television critic in August, 1 found myself la great sympathy.
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