Sir Jeremy Paxman QC is far more magnificent than the puny politicos he tears apart
STEPHEN GLOVER
Readers may possibly have noticed an entertaining article by A.A. Gill in the most recent issue of the Sunday Times. Mr Gill went down to Henley, where Boris Johnson, the editor of this magazine, is standing as a parliamentary candidate. He professed himself a great admirer of Mr Johnson's journalistic abilities but was not so complimentary about his political ones. The general theme of the piece was that Mr Johnson had defected to the other side, that he had exchanged an honourable trade (journalism) for a dishonourable one (politics), and that the worse he performed in his new line of business, the more he would earn Mr Gill's undying respect.
Such views — I mean those about the low standing of politics and the contemptible nature of politicians — are widespread these days among the new media class. They are partly born of snobbery: Mr Gill is vastly better paid than any politician and is a comparatively glamorous figure; he looks down on the vulgar practitioners as a Whig aristocrat might once have patronised a yeoman farmer. They are also formed by a kind of perverted idealism. Mr Gill rightly treasures the role of the fourth estate in criticising and illuminating the political process. But for him and many others like him the job has become almost wholly confrontational, and mockery and abuse are his natural weapons.
During the past couple of weeks I have been spending a little time on the campaign buses on behalf of the Daily Mail. You certainly see what politicians would do to journalists if they could. We are transported around the country without first being told where we are going. We are plumped down in St Neots or Bognor Regis or West Bromwich to see politicians performing on their own terms in front of audiences which are as hand-picked as it is possible to be. It is no exaggeration to say that the journalist on a campaign bus is a kind of political prisoner. The normal balance of intercourse between hack and politico have been enormously tilted in the latter's favour. It is at times like these that I would be happy to take to the hills with Mr Gill.
Equally, the morning press conferences, which admittedly I have generally watched on Sky rather than attend in person, do not inspire trust and belief in politicians. They sit up there on a podium, spouting their propaganda and being allowed to set the agenda. The questions are often too friendly for my liking, possibly because many of those asking them are print journalists unaccustomed to being inquisitorial on camera. As on the bus, I have the disagreeable feeling of the fourth estate deferring to politicians. They have determined the form of debate and we have gone along with it rather meekly.
So do not think me a patsy in these affairs. I am not saying that we should be nice to politicians. But nor should we treat them as though they are inherently criminal and the political process naturally worthless. About ten days ago John Humphrys interviewed Tony Blair on Radio Four's Today programme. I am a great admirer of Mr Humphrys because, unlike some of his colleagues, he is even-handed and unfrightened of New Labour. On this occasion he gave Mr Blair a terrific bashing, interrupting him on many occasions and repeatedly asking him questions about sleaze which he did not want to answer. Naturally many of us cheered and danced around our kitchens. The following day the Daily Mail and the Daily Telegraph were so moved by Mr Humphrys's performance that they reprinted great chunks of his interview.
And yet, of course, nothing came out of it. No light was shed on Labour policy. No new bits of information were elicited. The world was none the wiser. It was simply a splendid gladiatorial contest. Mr Humphrys had no purpose other than to beat Mr Blair, and on this occasion he succeeded.
On Tuesday night William Hague gave his first interview to Jeremy Paxman for three and a half years. On his last appearance on Newsnight he had been savagely bitten by Paxo, and had not been anxious to return. Mr Paxman, like Mr Humphrys, is a marvellous performer who is in awe of no man. He reminds me of one of those grand Edwardian QCs who would play shamelessly to the gallery, watched by admiring ladies. He interviewed Mr Hague in his most sneering manner, as though the leader of the opposition was not merely criminal but also stupid. Mr Hague had changed his mind about everything, no one liked him, and he was going nowhere. At different times Paxo would curl his lip and press his fingers together. In many ways he seemed the more substantial man; certainly the more intimidating. Mr Hague acquitted himself quite well, I thought, but he was in
the position of a boxer on the ropes blocking punch after punch with impressive skill. Again we learnt nothing. No news emerged from the encounter, nothing that a newspaper could have followed up the next day. But it was a wonderful show.
Paxo is a member of the A.A. Gill school of journalism. All politicians are crooks or fools. We love him for it. He has become a far greater figure than the mere politicians whom he destroys for sport. Sir Jeremy Paxman QC has recently come to live near me in north Oxford — temporarily, I believe, while his country house is refurbished — and the return of Ruskin from Venice could not have occasioned more commotion. Middle-aged ladies hide behind trees in the parks in the hope of catching a glimpse of the great man as he exercises his dogs, his noble brow furrowed in contemplation.
There are, I freely grant, many journalists who do not think that all politicians are criminals, and still cling to the old-fashioned belief that the political process is important. They want to tease out the truth rather than batter politicians to death. Adam Boulton of Sky News is one example. The BBC's Andrew Marr, who has practically dispelled my reservations as to his objectivity, is another. But the A.A. Gill tendency is a powerful one. How much does it matter? It may be great stuff but it is not illuminating. Politicians either engage in the gladiatorial bust-up to no great purpose or, more and more, they avoid these bruising encounters to seek solace in the more treacly questioning of Richard and Judy, or in the dependable charms of the narcoleptic Sir David Frost.
The riot in Oldham rightly got a lot of coverage. But there was also another riot in another part of the kingdom in which 57 police officers were injured, and petrol and acid bombs were thrown. It was probably a bigger affair but it happened in Northern Ireland. The rioters were republicans reacting to a parade by eight child-members of the Protestant Orange Order. Some papers did not even cover this riot, presumably because it might have challenged the widely held notion that the peace process is working. It illustrates the old adage that news is not what happens; it is what the media think important enough to report.
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