I blame the scapegoats (11 page)

The key to the Blairs' apparently obsessive
protection of their children's privacy is to understand that Cherie has had
first-hand experience of media intrusion from the child's point of view. When
she was growing up in Liverpool her father was not just a national celebrity;
on Merseyside he was a virtual folk hero. 'Mr Booth, Mr Booth,' the papers
would say, 'if your daughter was to grow up and be the wife of the Prime
Minister, do you think she should get her baby immunized?' It was very hard for
young Cherie; every week she would see her father on the telly espousing
radical left-wing views. Though some might say that her husband has gone
slightly too far to ensure her kids never have to endure this experience.

Or
is there another reason why the Blairs are particularly sensitive about hacks
getting too close to baby Leo? It is typical of the British press that they
have failed to spot the real story in the middle of all this. There is no Leo
Blair. The baby idea was thought up by Alastair Campbell when the Prime
Minister's personal rating started to slip a couple of years ago. Since then a
variety of infants from a baby modelling agency have been used, but now the
casting problem is getting harder and harder. At some point in the New Year
they'll come clean and admit that they have only three children, claiming that
the fourth child was only an 'aspiration', it was never an actual manifesto
commitment. And the Fleet Street editors will kick themselves for their
stupidity and promise never to be so gullible again. And then finally Tony and
Cherie will be able to turn to little Leo and say, 'Ha ha! Can you believe they
bought it, darling? Now the tabloids will definitely leave you alone.'

29
December 2001

Well,
by now we have all seen that infamous video message and listened to all the
experts analysing every detail: those staring eyes, the grey hair, the lined
face, that religious fervour. But still the question remains: what was the
Queen's Christmas message designed to achieve? Many experts believe that the
address may have actually been recorded some time ago at one of her secret
hideouts - possibly in the mountains surrounding Bal'mor'al. But why did she
choose to release her Christmas message over the Christmas period? Perhaps the
recording was an attempt to prove that she is still alive, or perhaps a coded
message to her supporters. But why did she not move her left hand? Was it tired
from a whole year of waving?

Sadly, any attempt by the Queen to get her
message across was completely upstaged by another millionaire religious leader
- Osama Bin Laden. This Christmas the Arabic satellite news channel Al-Jazeera
pipped BBC1 and ITV to top the holiday ratings with their Osama Bin Laden
Christmas Special. What is amazing is that Bin Laden managed to talk for
thirty-three minutes (or an hour, once the Americans had put in the commercial
breaks) without answering any of the questions that the West is desperate to
know. Where is he hiding? What is he planning next? Why doesn't 'Al-Qaida' have
a letter 'u' after the 'q'? And how is it that a parcel containing the video
sent from Pakistan a week ago can arrive more quickly than a Christmas card
sent a couple of miles across London? In fact, the video really only tells us
one thing: Osama got a camcorder for Christmas. (The FBI are questioning
Dixons to see if he sent back his guarantee card.) Now Bin Laden's made a video
of himself, which is exactly the sort of cry for attention you'd expect from
the middle child of a family of fifty-four children. Next week the offices of
You've
Been Framed
will receive a video of a contrived
'accident' of Osama walking past a swimming pool and falling in fully clothed
as the Al-Qaida network desperately tries to raise a bit more cash. The delay
between the tape's recording and transmission is easily explained. Imagine the
scene in the cave: 'Right, we have made the recording, Osama. Now to transfer
it onto this VHS tape.'

'No, not that one - I just recorded the
Christmas
Only Fools and Horses
on
that one.'

'Oh all right, what
about this one?'

'No - that's got the
Christmas
EastEnders
on
it.'

'Oh come on - you're
never going to watch that now'

'I am, I am. Look, what's on this one?
Honestly, why can't you label your bloody videos?'

'Urn, I think that's
Before
They Were Famous.
I wanted to see if they've dug up that
clip of you
on Junior Showtime
in
1973.'

In his video address Bin Laden discusses the
American action in Afghanistan, although his exact words depend on whose
translation you read. For example, the Pentagon version has him saying, 'I now
see that American foreign policy is totally benign and justified, oh yes. The
United States is truly a wonderful country and I never miss
Ally
McBeal
or
Sex and the City.
Oooh
I really fancy an Egg McMuffin and vanilla shake and no mistake.' If you put
this version to one side, along with the translation in the
Sun
in which Bin Laden claims that the best Christmas telly
was all on Sky One, there was very little in the half-hour monologue of any
great surprise. He criticizes the Allied Carpet Bombing, which raised a few
eyebrows (I knew the missiles were inaccurate but I didn't know they'd hit
Allied Carpets). He reads a poem and his eyes go all watery, but frankly it's
just all too static, too much 'talking heads'. The producers of
The
Two Ronnies
used to get round this problem by having
Ronnie Corbett say, And now the Young

Generation,'
and we'd cut to some dancers in T-shirts and flares prancing around Studio One
at TV Centre. Or maybe Osama should have put in some sketches to break it up a
bit. Either way, his style is too wooden and the content too thin for this
unsolicited pilot to get its own series. So a letter has gone back to the Tora
Bora mountains thanking Osama for his tape but explaining that BBC Talent get a
lot of videos from people wanting to be on television but competition is
extremely fierce, etc., etc. - although his details have been sent to Carol
Smillie for her new series,
Celebrity Cave
Make-Over.
In fact, the production values on Osama's
home video are so poor that it nearly didn't get broadcast at all, but the
channel controllers watched it and decided they had no choice. 'No, put it out
at peak time,' they said; 'we've got to have at least one programme this
Christmas which doesn't feature Neil and Christine Hamilton.'

10
January 2002

This
week George Carey announced that he would be stepping down as Archbishop of
Canterbury in order to spend more time with his tambourines and immediately the
race was on to become the new top dog collar. Traditionally the Archbishop of
Canterbury was one of those jobs that you wouldn't get if you were too obvious
about seeking it. It's like the leadership of the Tory Party, or being
boyfriend of the most beautiful girl at school. It should seem as if you just
happened to be standing nearby looking cool when the vacancy came up.

But this time round the shameless battle for
press attention began only minutes after Carey announced he was hanging up his
cassock. Senior bishops desperate for a bit of coverage trampled all over each
other in the rush to come up with the story most likely to get them splashed
across the newspapers. 'Harry Potter is my bastard love-child claims Have-a-Go
Bishop', 'Cheeky Cleric streaks at Old Trafford', 'I was dumped by
EastEnders
love-rat says Booze-Hell Bishop'. That worthy 3000-word
piece in the
Church Times
entitled
'Whither the General Synod?' never stood a chance.

Incredibly, the post is still not open to
women and a couple of the front-runners have grown beards just in case anyone
wasn't sure. The bookies already have the Bishop of Rochester as favourite at
3-1, with the Bishop of London at 4-1 and the Muslim terrorist leader Osama Bin
Laden looking very much a long-shot at 5000-1. Sven-Goran Eriksson has made it
plain that he does not want the job, while a suggestion that it might help end
religious divisions if we gave the job to the Pope was only broadcast in order
to wind up Ian Paisley. One rogue application has been received from a local
parent who wants to become the 104th Archbishop of Canterbury in one last
desperate attempt to get his kids into the local Church of England primary
school. Another pitch was made by a leading property company hoping to convert
Lambeth Palace into luxury riverside apartments.

When St Augustine became the first Archbishop
of Canterbury back in 597 it was a very different job, as many of today's
churchgoers will probably remember. Evensong would often be disturbed by hordes
of Viking heathens charging into the churches, shouting and tipping over the
tables and smashing priceless artefacts - an atmosphere not dissimilar to
Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve after the pubs have just closed. Most Britons
were not Christian; more people believed in the mystical power of the stars,
magic crystals and the energy fields around Stonehenge - so in fact there's not
been much change there either.

Of course, back in the sixth century the
service was given in Latin; no one could understand a word the Bishop was
saying, so the clergy generally busked it with what little Latin they could
remember from school: 'Amo amas amat, Caesar adsum jam forte, habeas corpus,
nota bene, status quo et procul harum.' The Latin versus English debate
continued to split the church for hundreds of years after the great Synod of
Whitby of 664 settled on the messy compromise that the Bible would still be
published in Latin, but they'd put the answers in English at the back.

But of course the relevance of language is
still an issue today and any new candidate to lead the Anglican church should
now declare himself in favour of an even more modern version of the Bible, that
would express the good book in today's inner-city street slang: 'And yo man,
that bro' Herod; him was one bad-ass mother chillin' big time with the Judea
Massive.'

Even if the Church of England does not go
this far, the appointment of a new Archbishop is its big chance to get back in
touch with ordinary people. Frankly, leaving the decision to the Crown
Appointments Commissions is unlikely to get the great British public caught up
in the excitement and heartache of today's ecumenical hopefuls. A nationwide phone-vote
should follow a twelve-part fly-on-the-wall TV show in the manner of every
other show on telly at the moment. Various clerics should have to audition live
on air and then stand there trying not to look embarrassed while their efforts
are ripped to shreds by the industry experts.

'So, Bishop of London, you've done really
well to get this far,' Pete Waterman will say. 'I think you chose a hymn that
was not great for your voice - "When I Survey The Wondrous Cross" is
not the catchiest tune in Tin Pan Alley. I loved that little twirl you gave us
on the lines "Did e'er such love and sorrow meet, or thorns compose so
rich a crown?" Okay, it was a shame your mitre fell off, but you recovered
well, so congratulations, you're coming back next week on
Pick
a Prelate!'
But of course in the end none of them
would win, because if it was a straightforward popularity poll there could only
be one contender. 'The Archbishop of Dibley' - it has a ring to it, doesn't it?

19
January 2002

There
is still too much elitism in British universities. For example, how come it is
always Oxford and Cambridge who get through to the final of the Boat Race?
Apparently only 9 per cent of the students currently admitted to Oxbridge are
from working-class backgrounds. The Vice Chancellors were said to be shocked at
this figure - it's far too many. Critics have suggested that the Oxbridge
entrance examinations are still biased towards the upper middle classes and a
look at the paper would seem to back this up. NAME: (please put all surnames;
you may use a separate sheet if there is not enough room here). Question 1:
What team's rugger jersey are you wearing today? Question 2: How many girls do
you know whose nicknames are characters from
Winnie
the Pooh.)
Question 3: When a waiter invites you to
taste the wine, can you confirm that you do not feel the slightest bit
embarrassed?