All's well that ends well

Just in case anyone gives a toss, this finally turned up today during a spring-clean of my study. I just need to find my missing fountain pen now, and all will be safely gathered in.

Gerrymandering or Geffen-Mandy-ing?

Last night's Panorama on downloading and the Digital Economy Bill was predictably shrill and ill-informed. The sight of Jo Whiley practically dancing with the bloke from the BPI during a presentation on why downloading was bad, m'kay, was particularly sick-making. The most interesting bit for me, though, was the fact that screen shots of YouTube kept popping up as examples of naughty digital activity. This is not unjustified, but it didn't acknowledge the fact that BBC programmes routinely use clips gathered from YouTube, which were put there by people other than the original rights holders. Meanwhile, in programmes like Screenwipe, I've seen clips clearly sourced from Divx/XviD files of the sort used in BitTorrenting. So, is the BBC's Internet connection going to be cut off?

Maybe I'm old-fashioned. I don't download things that are commercially available. If I want something and it can be bought, I buy it. However, I do share and download an awful lot of commercially-unavailable archive TV, some of which will never be released due to rights tangles or the fact that I'm the only person who wants to watch it. What I'm doing is technically an infringement, but it's not taking any money away from the content producers, and it's creating an awareness of the material. If companies want to stop people like me downloading, they should make their archives available at reasonable prices. It's the same argument I've used since the record industry got humpty about Napster a decade ago. Indeed, some unofficially-shared material has gone on to be a great success when finally released on DVD or CD, largely because of the increased audience who became aware of it through file-sharing.

I gave up on the programme before the end, but the upshot of it seemed to be that if you download illegal stuff, you will be visited by a fat IT man called Keith. Isn't that deterrent enough?

Dear Diary

Inspired by the Michael Palin 1980-1988 chronicles I received for Christmas, a desire to rescue my handwriting from ruin after years of typing and the fact that Asda had day-to-view diaries for £1, I've been keeping a journal this year. I wondered whether I'd be able to keep it up, but 11 days into the 3rd month of the year, I can report with some pride that I haven't missed a day yet. Sometimes I forget to jot down my thoughts (such as they are) at the end of the day, and have to play catch up, but I've managed to fill every page so far. Most of the contents seem mundane and humdrum now, but in time, I suspect they'll acquire a greater level of interest, particularly the bits about sharing my living and work space with a small, inquisitive, very funny child. Even if they don't acquire any interest, the regular practice has improved my scribble immeasurably, and gives my small fleet of fountain pens an outing other than writing shopping lists on the backs of envelopes or drawing splotchy moustaches and antennae on Z-list celebrities in the paper. I know that a blog's a form of diary, but are there any other analogue diarists out there?

Sense amid the senseless

Anyone who wishes to venture an opinion either way on the Jon Venables situation should read and digest this superb blog post by a social worker. This Guardian comment piece by Simon Jenkins is worth a look too, as is Brian Masters' contribution to the debate in the Telegraph. Everything else I have seen in the mainstream media has been fit only for cutting into squares and hanging from a nail in the outside privy. If I've missed any other intelligent contributions to the debate, please let me know.

Mike Giggler writes

I've just had a text message from Terry Venables saying that he's Eddie Calvert, the man with the golden trumpet. At least I think that's what it said. The spelling was atrocious. Anyway, let's go round and attack his house. Throw paint at it, I say. Cherry pink and apple blossom white. That's the way.

Special Kay (slight return)

The contemporary reporting of the John Kay case is oddly muted. The Times carried a news in brief paragraph on 12 September 1977, stating that Sun chief reporter Kay was to stand trial for the murder of his wife, but that's it as far as the nation's journal of record goes. For a bit more background, we must turn to page 4 of the Guardian of 13 December 1977, and a report headlined "'Torment' of reporter who killed wife".

The Grauniad reports Kay's QC Daniel Hollis as saying that "Mr Kay was cracking up at the prospect of taking over as the Sun's industrial editor - a job he did not feel able to hold down". Kay himself claimed to be "taken over by voices. I seemed possessed. It was an utter nightmare".

Then the report comes to the details of what happened on the night in question. Having despatched his Japanese wife Harue in a swift and efficient manner "by strangling and drowning her", Kay then "tried repeatedly to kill himself". The paragraph listing Kay's attempts bears repeating in full:

"He slashed his wrists with razor blades but did not inflict serious injury; he flung himself head first out of a window, but a plastic dustbin broke his fall; he tried to gas himself but an automatic lighting device on the cooker prevented him; he tried to hang himself with flex but could not get into the right position; and then he drove to a bridge over the Stevenage bypass but found it was too low to fling himself over. In his final attempt he drove his car into the back of a parked car at 80 mph, but 'miraculously' survived with relatively minor injuries."

Sober, sensitive reporting, as you'd expect from the 1977-vintage Guardian. Can you imagine how The Sun would have reported this case, had it not involved a valued member of the paper's own staff? Do I hear the word 'loony'? Meanwhile, I'm wondering if the creators of Viz read this report and remembered it when creating the hapless Suicidal Syd?

Special Kay

The Sun's coverage of the Jon Venables situation is the embodiment of all that's worst about modern journalism. In the right situation, bumping into the boundaries of acceptability and legality can be a valuable safeguard of free speech and freedom of information, as it can bring out into the open details that the public not only have a right to know, but, as citizens, should know. This isn't that situation. We're looking at simple bloodlust - an eye for an eye. Already, idiots on Facebook are claiming to know Venables' new identity and getting other idiots to pass it on. With any luck, they'll soon have experience of incarceration themselves, as it's impossible to see such an act as anything other than incitement to violence.

Meanwhile, The Sun's coverage is being overseen by the paper's chief reporter John Kay. The same John Kay who, in 1977, drowned his Japanese wife Harue in the bath of their Barnet home before attempting to gas himself. Driven mad by the pressure of work as the paper's industrial correspondent, he could see no other way out for himself or his wife, who had been cut off by her family for marrying a westerner. He was convicted of manslaughter with diminished responsibility, and, on his release from Friern Barnet mental hospital, was welcomed back by his employer. The problem for me isn't that Kay killed his wife. I'm happy to accept that he was temporarily deranged. I've been temporarily deranged too, and it's a dark place to inhabit. The problem is that The Sun showed a greater degree of enlightenment and understanding when one of its own transgressed than it would ever have done in any other circumstances. Imagine the reporting of a similar case where the killer was AN Other.

There's also the question of whether Denise Fergus realises that the man to whom she is pouring out her feelings about the killers of her son is a convicted killer himself?

You can tell by the hands and the Foot

Woo's right. I can't mention the Michael Foot in Madame JoJo's story without elaborating. The occasion was the launch of Francis Wheen's Who Was Dr Charlotte Bach? As the book concerned a male posing as a female, it was thought apt to hold the beano in a venue best known for its glamorous cross-dressing hostesses. I can quite honestly say that the sight of Michael Foot sat on a velvet banquette, immersed in deep political discussion with another guest, while flanked by a group of very tall transvestites, all ostrich feathers and concealed bulges, will remain etched on my retinas for a long time.

Michael Foot RIP

Sad news about Michael Foot. Others can concentrate on the long life and good works. I'll just say that I was present at what I suspect was his only ever visit to Madame JoJo's.

Don't have your say, you're an idiot

A pearler from the BBC's Have Your Say site, re: the proposed cuts

"1846. At 3:29pm on 02 Mar 2010, iknowsbest wrote:

And those stupid dancing spectacles are utter rubbish and are only transmitted for to inflate the egos of the judges & celebs. Thank be to God I know none of them personally or TV wise, they're all "Goosesteppers".

& as regard serving the British public with quality..."That'll be the Day". The last time that happened was when Bill Cotton ruled the roost both as television producer & then Managing Director. A time when the BBC excelled!"

This seems to be saying "I hate big, expensive Saturday night entertainment shows. Bring back the big, expensive Saturday night entertainment shows." Imagine being trapped in a lift with numbskulls like iknowsbest. Hideous.

6Music (slight return)

I'm going to have a proper read of the BBC's Strategic Review later, but it confirms the worst fears for 6Music and the Asian Network. If the BBC shouldn't be doing what the commercial sector does, shouldn't they be cutting things like EastEnders, Casualty and Holby City? Also, if the objection to 6Music and the Asian Network is that they don't do the numbers, what about if they did them too well? If either station pulled in large audiences, wouldn't it be equally in danger? So, the question is whether there's a mythical point at which the audiences of niche stations are deemed to be "just right", like Baby Bear's porridge? Another question is whether the BBC's doomed whatever it does because its enemies simply have too much money and influence (see how Lord Mandelson's deeply unpleasant Digital Economy Bill - more of which later - is stacked in favour of large private media organisations). I fear that might be the case, so why not go down proud and defiant rather than disembowelling yourself?

6Music and the Asian Network must be saved

I'm wondering about the source for the Times' story on BBC cutbacks. Is it as 24 carat as Rawnsley's source for Bruiser Brown, or are Murdoch's henchpersons merely flying a kite? It would be a dark day for broadcasting and choice (Remember that? The thing that free markets were supposed to bring us?) if either 6Music or the Asian Network closed.

Even if you listen to neither, the fact that they exist is important. If we let either go, it's the thin end of the wedge. Pastor Niemoller's advice applies. When the barbarians come for BBC4, its viewers will be on our own. People who regard the licence fee as an acceptable tithe for civilisation, not an unfair tax, really need to stand out for this issue from the outset. Both stations are run on tiny budgets. 6Music is run on £6m a year. I'd love to know how much Big Top cost the Corporation. Is anyone saying "Don't make sitcoms starring Amanda Holden, as it's a misuse of public money if they tank"? Perhaps they should.

Quite apart from the Times' obvious bias, we also see the Grauniad barely able to contain its glee. That'll be the same Guardian that owns the Real Radio, Smooth Radio and Rock Radio brands, as well as the Guardian Unlimited online news service. Funny, that.

The BBC's critics seem very muddled. The Corporation can't compete with the commercial sector, nor can it provide distinctive niche services. What exactly can it do? Maybe it should start by growing a pair and saying "We're the BBC. This is what we do. Got a problem with that, Rupert?".

Davies (Alan) at Large

Of all the celebrities on Twitter, Alan Davies (@alandavies1, should anyone be wondering) is by far the most interesting. Not because of what he himself says, which is usually something about Arsenal, but because of his modus operandi, particularly with regard to re-tweeting. For the uninitiated, this is when you take a tweet written by someone else and forward it to everybody following you.

Davies has built a career from his regular guy/affable eejit persona (good luck to him - I wish I could find a niche that didn't pay atrociously), but many who've worked with him or otherwise encountered him have found him less than affable. Me included. I met him once at a Jane Goldman book launch, and received a withering tirade about the evils of journalism and journalists, even trade press hacks who were just there to neck a few canapes and write an innocuous 'guests included' paragraph for the dreary, sorry, diary column. Seemingly, he didn't realise that, had I been the vindictive sort of journalist, he'd have been giving me plenty of ammunition to give him another unfavourable bit of coverage. I wasn't, so I just thought "what an appallingly rude man". Or words to that effect.

Last week, a friend of mine asked on Twitter "Anyone got a story about Alan Davies where he doesn't come across as a complete prick? ...Anyone?". This was then re-tweeted by Davies. The aforementioned friend then received a number of messages from some of Davies' followers.

• just shut up.
• I interviewed him at a charity event at Emirates Stadium a couple of years ago and he was a thoroughly nice chap
• no, but that's the genius of it, making a living out of being a complete prick. That only happens with politicians, celebs and Alan
• No i haven't, has anyone got a story about you being a complete prick? is there any need to be offensive?
• i don't have any storys about him but he comes across as charismatic, funny and positive.....unlike you !
• well I interviewed him on my show and he was perfectly charming.
• Aw what?! Alan Davies is a legend!!!
• nope
• I could write one, aside from being a Gooner he seems OK to me.
• I once bumped into him (quite literally) as I was walking out of a Bill Bailey show. He said hello! he did ignore a direct msg i sent yesterday for some big big help i need. that does not actually make him a prick
• That time he retweeted you so his large fanbase can have a laugh at your expense ;)
• Ouch!
• Hv u tried @alandavies1 He might have 1?
  
• that isnt nice at all, would you actually say that to his face? if you cant say something nice, then say nothing! (@alandavies1)
• Yes thanks. @alandavies1 is a top fella.
• but really, he's a lovely man. Said hi to him at the DB10 testimonial and he replied nicely.
• Now that's a tricky one...
• yes, i was begging for change once and he bit me on the nose. it was for my own good like, he popped a spot for me with his teeth.

As you can see, the responses ranged from the reasonable to the idiotic, with a disturbing number suggesting that because Davies is famous, he must also be a smashing bloke. One indicated that a reply or a retweet from Davies would make her day. Why, exactly? The downside of Twitter is the number of people trying to get noticed, however briefly, by celebrities. I use it mostly to kvetch with my mates. To the famous, it's mostly a marketing tool. Nothing wrong with that. Just know the rules of engagement. Following a celebrity does not make you closer to them.

Some of my chum's replies came from people who appear not to read Davies' tweets properly. The "If you can't say something nice, say nothing" tweeter seems not to have noticed Davies posting messages like "@alandavies1 Can you get a JLS punchbag? Why not? Just photos of all those great boys, but on a bag you can punch?".

When I picked up on my friend's situation, I sent him a message: "So, how does this work? You say something critical about @alandavies1 and a bunch of fuckwits start following you? Coincidence?". The word 'critical' was a carefully-placed red herring (or even a QI-style elephant trap), as neither my friend nor I had actually said anything critical about Davies. We had merely asked questions. My message was re-tweeted by Davies within minutes.

Another friend of mine picked up on the situation and offered moral support. I explained what was going on, copying Davies in.

• @alandavies1 has retweeted it and 1 of his followers is now following me. Here's hoping he's not a fuckwit.
  I'm hoping to disprove someone else's suggestion that @alandavies1 uses his fans as a sort of Praetorian (Twittorian?) Guard.
  If @alandavies1 did, it would be quite cowardly, very twatty and not a little needy, don't you think? Let's hope he doesn't.

Curiously, Davies retweeted none of the above. I didn't receive any direct responses, but plenty of Davies' followers replied to him with messages along the lines of "Why are all these beastly people so mean to our favourite curly-mopped funster?", the followers not actually noticing that I hadn't actually been mean to him. I was particularly amused by "Thanks for the @cheeseford RT. Good to know who the prats are, out there on the Twitter fringes. All the best." Out here on the Twitter fringes would have been more accurate, as the Twitterer in question is no closer to the epicentre than I am. Maybe he thinks he's at the throbbing heart of power because he follows some bloke from a panel game. He isn't.

One exchange was interesting:

• - @alandavies1 Thanks for the C-word RT. :-}
  - don't shoot the messenger...just the sort of stuff that comes in daily. And I'm supposed to be the rabble rouser on here...
  - @alandavies1 There are so many dorks out there. Water off a duck's back I hope?
  - Yes. It's been a relentless campaign of libellous blogging & anonymous tweeting with the odd ludicrous article in the Telegraph
  

Anonymous? Well, that's me and my mate in the clear, as our real names are at the tops of our Twitter pages. Oddly, he doesn't seem anywhere near as dismissive of praise from people who tweet under names other than the ones on their birth certificate. The "ludicrous" Telegraph article? Decide for yourself. Personally, I think it's perfectly fair. I might feel different if it had been written about me, but I try not to do things that get me written about (apart from book reviews). It's the "don't shoot the messenger" that intrigues me most, though. He's saying "Hey, I just pass it on", but as we've seen, he re-tweets selectively, and it always seems to be the stuff that could look, if you were in a hurry or not very good at reading comprehension, like someone was having a go at him. This raises the question "Why does he re-tweet these messages?". Or rather why he re-tweets some messages, but not others. Could it be that he realises he has an army of adoring fans who think he can do no wrong, quite likes it, and knows how to play on their loyalty? Nah, he's TV's top tousle-haired affable eejit regular guy. He wouldn't do that. Would he?

Chance would be a fine thing (slight return)

Having mentioned that the untransmitted pilot of Chance in a Million was on the new DVD, I was asked elsewhere how the two versions differed. So, here goes. The first half of the pilot Plumstones and the tx version are identical. However, the second half was completely re-shot, indeed recast, and the plot differs considerably. The transmitted version is a much more interesting and satisfying experience, with the absence of the laboured food fight and the neat tying up of the various coincidences with the revelation of the waiter's identity. So we have:

Different recording of the theme tune, presumably pre-existing commercial recording on pilot, with glaring edit to fit the on-screen movement. Pilot has noticeable head-switching, so assume it's from VHS. Pilot has Thames ident, transmitted version doesn't.

Scene 1: Hotel - identical on both versions.
Scene 2: Street - woman locked out of car - identical on both versions.
Scene 3: Street - policemen apologising - identical on both versions
Scene 4: Street - identical on both versions, until "Make a run for it?/Yes"
- Cuts straight to part 2 on transmitted version.
- Pilot runs 20 seconds longer, with 'End of Part One' caption, over locked-out woman and husband chasing Tom's car, with sting from Ted Heath's Decca recording of Taking a Chance on Love, then VT clock for part 2.
Scene 5: Restaurant - different takes, indeed sets completely different.
- Longer chat with maitre d' on the pilot - "Special table? Ah, you are special people".
- Maitre d' brusque on the transmitted version - no special people, just "This way".
- Waiter takes drink order on pilot, transmitted version cuts straight to table after several pints of lager had been drunk.
- Waiter - Brian Croucher on pilot, Paul Chapman on transmitted version - brings more drinks on both versions. Keeps pint of lager for self on transmitted version.
- On pilot, Alison drinks wine - confusion over glasses, she gets Tom's lager. On transmitted version, she drinks lager too.
- Dialogue substantially identical.
- Conversation at table largely two-shot in pilot, but individual close-ups on transmitted version.
- A couple of lines cut on transmitted version when summoning waiter.
- Pilot "You want soup in soixante seconds?" - transmitted version "You want soup in sixty seconds?".
- On pilot, waiter spills soup on Tom's lap, very deliberately. On transmitted version, waiter spills soup on Alison's lap, obviously an accident. “If it was deliberate, I would have done it like this”. On pilot, maitre d' breaks Tom and waiter apart. Tom responds by smearing food on waiter's head, then pouring gravy in maitre d's pockets. Maitre d' responds by asking for the sweet trolley and starting a long food fight with Tom. Cutaways to laughing diners. When waiter puts ice down Alison's blouse, Tom announces they're leaving. They do to applause from diners. In waiters' changing room, it emerges that “special people...special table” is code for slapstick - “You are from the Sarah Bernhard School of Drama?” “No” “Oh...”.
- On transmitted version, maitre d' passes and asks if Tom and Alison are enjoying their meal. Tom says waiter can say what he has to say to his face. Waiter plants custard pie on Tom's face. Cuts to changing room, with maitre d' apologising, but admitting it was a mistake to taunt the waiter so close to the sweet trolley. Waiter – now sacked - comes in. It emerges that he's the lover of the woman locked out of the car earlier.
Scene 6: Outside Tom's house
– pilot has short bit of dialogue from Alison about not wanting to miss tonight for anything. “I've really enjoyed myself, in a way”.
- Obviously studio set.
- Transmitted version on location
- Both end with Alison climbing in through open window. In pilot, it's the lavatory (“Mind the cistern”). In transmitted version, just the window next to the front door. Both versions end with policeman shining torch on Tom and Alison, and Tom's line “Alison, I think you'd better come out now. (I think) We've just hit (found) another plumstone”.
Some people credited on pilot not credited on transmitted version. Most notable is the designer credit – Alison Waugh on pilot, Peter Elliott on transmitted version, despite pilot hotel scenes being re-used.

The transmitted version runs 25m 6s, the pilot runs 29m 20s, although a minute is taken up by the ident, black level and the VT clock into part 2.

The Wogun Inheritance

While it's splendid to have Sir Terry Wogan back on Radio 2, it's a pity that Michael Ball's Sunday Supplement had to go to make way for the Togmeister's return. Couldn't Steve Wright's Sunday Love (the Show) Songs have been sacrificed painlessly, allowing Ball to move to the earlier slot?

Chance would be a fine thing

I've just finished a review for the Oldie of the soon-come DVD of Chance in a Million series 1. For the uninitiated, it was a sublime yet subtle send-up of sitcom conventions, starring the splendid Simon Callow as a man plagued by coincidences and Brenda Blethyn as his loyal librarian girlfriend. Subtle? Yes, for all of its satirical intent, it could also just about be taken on face value as a pure sitcom, and probably was by many viewers when ITV repeated it a few months after it had premiered on Channel 4. At one point in the first series, it was 4's 4th most popular programme, its 3.1 million viewers putting it just behind International Snooker and the two mid-week editions of Brookside. My 11-year-old self adored it from the first bar of the theme tune, a Ronnie 'Two Pianos' Aldrich arrangement of 'Taking a Chance On Love', and my 36-year-old self adores it no less. I'm still trying to work out which I love more out of Ms Blethyn or the character she plays, an outwardly timorous yet seethingly passionate specimen of womanhood. When I first met young Masterton in a radio dungeon beneath the Psychology department at Lancaster nearly 20 years ago, a shared love of the series was one of the things that sealed our friendship. Anyway, it's great to have it on a shiny disc (to say nothing of the untransmitted pilot version of episode 1 'Plumstones'), even if the ad break captions are missing. It's a small point, but the jump cuts from part 1 to part 2 really jar with me. Even though I've watched it all many times, one line still made me guffaw earlier. Playing a paratrooper on a treasure hunt, the late Jeremy Sinden remarks on the extreme unlikelihood of finding the requested nude picture of Shirley Williams that "I know one of the lads is prepared to give it a go with chloroform and a Polaroid". Maybe it's the rhythm, maybe it's the choice of words (hats off to Andrew Norriss and Richard Fegen for the gleeful scripts), maybe it's the image. Maybe it's all of the above. Certainly it's funny.

Cycle path on the loose

Walking back from the shops along our local cycle path yesterday, I had a strange encounter. At a junction, I'd walked across and as soon as I had, I heard a bicycle moving slowly behind me. I made sure that both I and the dog were on the side of the path marked out for walkers and carried on. The cyclist moved to the half of the path marked out for bikes (the one with the big bike painted on it), and as he passed, I saw he was a child (of no more than 12) in a hooded top on a BMX. No sooner had he passed me than he turned around and shot me a look of purest contempt. I met his gaze. He turned to the front briefly, before looking back over his shoulder again, maintaining that look. I kept looking ahead, that being the direction in which I was going. When he was about 20 feet away from me, still cycling, he broke the silence. "Fucking cunt". To which I replied "Turn around and face the way you're going. You might fall off". The reply came: "Fat fucking twat". To which I responded: "Face the front and keep cycling". He got a little further away and stopped, before delivering another volley of insults. Unfortunately, he was too far away for me to hear them properly. I merely reiterated my suggestion that he should go about his business and leave me to get on with mine. As I drew closer, he resumed his journey, taking a short cut through the cemetery, which was slightly annoying as that was what I was planning to do, and now I couldn't without appearing slightly creepy. That was the last I saw of the wee chap. So, I'd been on the right side of the path and been facing the direction of travel, but I was the cunt of the piece? Strange. Or was he simply hoping that I'd bite and get angry with him? Even more strange.

Metropolis regained

Full marks to the German/French arts channel Arte for going to town with the restored version of Fritz Lang's Metropolis. The screening of the reconstructed film was preceded by half an hour of speeches and interviews, then followed by a documentary on the restoration. I had planned to record the evening's proceedings for later viewing, but I found myself caught up in the excitement of the occasion, unable to tear myself away, just about following the captions and commentaries with my rusty schoolboy German. The idea that I was sitting in my Lowestoft living room experiencing this film in something resembling its entirety for the first time in 83 years, at the same time as the audience in the Friedrichstadt Palast in Berlin, was ever-so-slightly mind-blowing. The idea that I was experiencing it in a relatively warm environment while thousands froze their extremities off at the Brandenburg Gate to achieve the same end made me profoundly grateful for my £30 Lidl satellite box and the hours I spent up a ladder aiming the dish.

What of the film? Well, I'll be honest. I'd never seen it before, not even in the 1980s pop version by Giorgio Moroder. However, having seen it now with the restored material, I can't believe that it made any sense at all in its edited form. Every single reinstated frame seemed vital to me, no matter how dire the picture quality. I say dire, but the restorers have worked miracles with the 16mm reduction print found in Buenos Aires. This clip gives a rough idea of how much work they've done.



It's like patching a 30ips audio master tape with sections from a wax cylinder, but the most important thing is the story, and the elements told in those flickery fragments were meant to be there. And now they are, again.

I'll expect the same gala treatment from BBC4 when the telerecording of Fred Emney Picks a Pop finally surfaces.

Barrymore spiked

When the Irish chap in the previous Barrymore clip mentioned a troublesome encounter with Spike Milligan, I suspected very strongly that the Cheeseford archives held a copy of it. So it proves. Interesting to see how Barrymore deals with a turbulent guest. Interesting also to see how much Spike was relying on verbatim recitations from his war memoirs by this point. Apologies for the long-play VHS recording on threadbare tape via indoor aerial-type quality of the clip.

Barrymore is less

Cards on the table: I like Michael Barrymore. I saw him live at his mid-1980s peak, and I've never seen anybody control an audience like him. The self-destructive urge within him prevented him from becoming one of the greats, but, on his day, he was a stunning performer. As for the Stuart Lubbock thing, the basic, horrific fact is that a man drowned in his swimming pool. However, the same happened to Art Malik, and nobody blames him for what happened. Relative values at work again.

Fast forward to Barrymore's recent appearance on an Irish chat show with right-wing crusader and host Brendan O'Connor. If ever something deserved the description "car-crash telly" this is it. With a strong, intelligent interviewer, Barrymore would be a worthwhile guest. He needs someone to say "Sit down and stop showing off. You're here to have a conversation with me". Brendan O'Connor isn't that man. Barrymore evades every question in the most unsubtle manner. O'Connor should have opened with a couple of softball questions, just to see if Barrymore was in chatty mood. Then, he could have asked about the comedian's fall from grace. Instead, he opened with it, and was met with a rambling and unfunny flight of fancy about being the patron of the Sheep Society, followed by an audience participation version of Charles Aznavour's 'She(ep)'.

From there, getting any sense out of Barrymore was impossible. The male guest (who he?) almost managed it by remembering Barrymore trying to keep a similarly wayward Spike Milligan under control. For a second, it looked like Barrymore was going to respond with a proper anecdote about working with Spike, but he was distracted by a gap in the sofa and the thread was lost again, with Barrymore standing up and asking the audience if they liked his shoes. That this interview should be such a jaw-dropper for all the wrong reasons is a shame, because Barrymore's looking better and sounding more lucid than he has in years. If he sat down, behaved himself and talked like an adult about his life and bad choices, maybe people wouldn't think so ill of him. The odd thing is that his success was based largely on refusing to sit down or behave himself. Barrymore remains constant (the Jedward gag near the end is a genuine flash of the old mad brilliance of the man, and also a fine example of his utter fearlessness on stage), but the context has changed. Pre-Lubbock, the public were happy to indulge him, but the goodwill is no more.