Television
Talking heads
Jeffrey Bernard
In the game in which you have to guess who I'm thinking about when I tell you what sort of food, drink, music, game, book, piece of furniture or vehicle they are, I'd rate Melvyn Bragg as a prawn cocktail, half pint of mild, the overture to the Bartered Bride, badminton, an anthology of adventure stories, a piece of wicker-work from Habitat and a pony and trap. Bragg is fast becoming the Andre Previn of paperbacks, and since Andre Previn is already the Michael Parkinson of music we don't want that to happen, do we? No.
Another thing about Mr Bragg that strikes me as funny peculiar is that he got Jackie Collins to appear on his programme last Sunday and that wasn't at all the sort of thing to have done if you want to be taken seriously, and believe me, Melvyn Bragg wants to be taken seriously. As yet he's got a long way to go. Previn, as cool and charming as a post-war spiv, is at least capable of crossing swords with a man as clever as Kingsley Amis, but Bragg was palpably terrified of Amis. Everyone seemed to be merely embarrassed by Miss Collins's presence, but I must say she fascinates me. She has little literary talent, ears like Mr Spock, shaved eyebrows, and what I suspect to be the longest hairpiece in Wembley (or wherever it is she comes from). She's the sort of woman that some men pursue and then realise, too late, that it was the clothes they were chasing. Presumably, those in charge of the programme — Read All About It — feel that they've got to include crumpet persons, but that there's hope for Miss Collins was quite apparent when she said that George Orwell's Killing_ an Elephant was "rather sweet." If Amis hadn't kindly pulled his punches all round only Hugh Scanlon would have survived and the programme would have probably had to be faded out.
As it was, Bragg seems to be keeping his exquisitely coiffured head above the deep waters of Bohemia. He is very much like the boy next door, if you happen to live in Chelsea that is. At the end of the programme I suddenly realised I didn't know what books they were talking about since I'd been transfixed by lunis's menace and forebearance, Miss Collins's beauty and Melvyn Bragg's hair and green velvet jacket. Jackie Collins hit the nail on the head, and her own thumb, when she said, "I don't think you have to like people to write about them."
How anyone can dislike Arthur Rubinstein (Aquarius) is beyond me, but he has been accused of schmaltz and name-dropping. He is an enchanting man and I could listen to him talk for ten times the amount of time he was given. They kept interrupting the programme with film clips of him playing the piano, when I wanted to hear more of his chat on the lines of Wagner having been a 'rascal', Saint-Saens a very 'rude' man and Schubert a 'darling'. Assuming that you're interested enough anyway, it's likely that you'd have discs of the great man's performances which you could play at any time; seeing him play was an irritating interruption. It was a pity that Peter Hall didn't get the maestro on to the subject of women. It's one that he waxes eloquently on and in a way that I doubt could give offence even to heavyweight champions like Margaret Drabble who knows just how rotten men can be on that subject. Come to think of it, Rubinstein is just the man to put Jackie Collins on the right rails. She needs a good talking-to.
Esther Rantzen can talk, too, and she does it as though she's just invented it. In common with Melvyn Bragg she obviously spends a lot of time at the hairdresser, but unlike the Cumberland Lad she hasn't a moment of doubt or trepidation in her head.
haven't seen her programme That's Life before (and I haven't seen her since she acted with Bernard Braden)—one that goes out in to the streets and meets 'real' people. These people, by and large a very funny and interesting lot, then say things which the studio audience then applaud Esther for as though she said them. Esther is very vivacious and is the girl next door you've known since she was so high and isn't it marvellous that she's got on so well and yes she always had a smile for everyone and who said a woman couldn't be an anchor man?
Unfortunately, there sits in the studio a few yards away from her a dreadful man called Cyril Fletcher. He is probably known to the studio staff as 'good old Cyril', and I'm sure he must be old since I seem to remember accidentally making contact with him on mY crystal set during what he'd doubtless call the 'last struggle'. He wears a dinner jacket and sits in a modern looking leather chair (lent by Melvyn Bragg?) and speaks with funny voices. Last Sunday he read out a lot of menu misprints.
What's so ghast!y about the poor chap is that he's exactly like one of those boring uncles that families have and dread. You must know them: they turn up at Christmas, scrounge a few Panatellas and then put on a paper hat and leave it on all day when everyone else has taken their's off. They also, like Cyril Fletcher and most actors, use silly voices as animals make various signs to show others that their intents aren't hostile.
Most of the problems that people write in to Esther about are trivial though; and anyone who needs guarding against the con man who offers to pray for you for money doesn't deserve guarding. What's interesting in that sort of situation is the con man and not the victim. The couple who bought a display cake in mistake for the real thing must be the sort of couple who'd ask Cyril Fletcher to tea.
There is always something worse, though: in this case Richard Burton's Doctor Faustus.
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