I blame the scapegoats (27 page)

Professor
Gunther von Hagens entered wearing a fedora and proceeded to demonstrate how
to cut up a human body, giving a Delia Smith-type running commentary as he
sliced away.
His Home Autopsy Autumn Collection
book
should be in your shops for Christmas. Some people have accused Von Hagens of
perhaps erring on the side of showbiz spectacle rather than sombre deference,
particularly when he put Punch and Judy puppets over each hand, pulled out the
intestines and squealed, 'Here come the sausages!' Then he removed the sternum
and a few ribs and these were handed around in a bowl. Most winced and passed
them on, though there was a bit of a mix-up when a bunch of drunk lads who'd wandered
in on their way back from the Chinese take-away were overheard asking for a
fingerbowl.

Channel 4 have denied that the whole event
was in poor taste and have just unveiled their winter schedules containing a
batch of exciting new shows.
Whose Spleen Is It
Anyway?, Colostomy Big Brother
and, more worryingly,
Heartbeat.
If there is any
regret at Channel 4, it's that they only managed to get a single programme out
of this. If they really wanted to make this idea run and run they should bring
in the drama of elimination used so effectively in their most popular
programme. 'Which organ is going to be removed next week? Will it be the
pancreas? Or is the gall bladder Britain's least favourite internal organ?
Remember - it's your votes that decide!'

Other channels will soon be hitting back with
'surgertainment' shows of their own, including a new TV makeover series where
you are given a general anaesthetic and your next-door neighbour chooses
whatever major cosmetic surgery they think is required. Not so much
Changing
Rooms
as
Changing Sexes
-
'Just watch the expression on Philip, or rather Philippa's, face when he
uncovers his eyes in front of the mirror to see what Handy Andy's done with a
hacksaw!'

The trouble with TV surgery is that after a
while we would become desensitized to it all. 'What a hideous sight!'

'I know - a green hat with that coat - what
was Von Hagens thinking?'

There should be a plaque above the door of
commissioning editors with the motto
'Use Shock
Sparingly'.
Channel 4 have got lots of attention by
cutting up a dead body live on telly. A while back Channel 5 managed some
publicity by having Keith Chegwin in the nude, but it is all cheap and easy
shock. In his fine film
Bowling for
Columbine,
Michael Moore uses CCTV footage of the massacre
at Columbine High School to make a wider point about guns and a society gripped
by fear. Shocking but cathartic.

In fact, the main objection to this week's TV
autopsy has been about a lack of respect for the dead, which bizarrely seems to
trump the novelty concept of 'respect for the living'. Yes, it is upsetting
when an artist exhibits the body of a dead tramp in formaldehyde, but hey, not
as disrespectful as it was to ignore that tramp when he was sleeping in the
street. We now know from this week's showbiz autopsy that this particular man
had drunk two bottles of whisky a day, and had not done a proper day's work for
twenty years. Either he had been totally abandoned by society or he was a TV
executive.

The
tabloids were appalled at this dissection of a real human being and splashed
their disgust over several pages. They would have said more about this unseemly
intrusion, but their papers were full up with so much else - 'Inside: Was Diana
pregnant? Pages 2-7', 'Barrymore groped Royal Butler!', 'Wills slams media
overkill, pages 2-24!' And perhaps this is why carving up dead people will
never really take off as entertainment. Because at the end of the day
dissecting living people is so much more fun.

30
November 2002

After
four long years, the United Nations weapons inspectors this week resumed their
search for those hidden Iraqi weapons of mass destruction. With their hands
still over their eyes they breathlessly counted, '. . . nine million, nine
hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine . . . TEN
MILLION! Com-ing!' How Saddam giggled as he watched them peeking in the
cupboard under the stairs and behind the curtains. 'Cold . . . cold . . . ooh,
getting warmer; no, cold again. Freezing!' But after a while it got a bit embarrassing
for the Iraqi President, having them snoop all over the place.

'What's in this
drawer?'

'Ooh no, don't look in there!' And they
pulled it open only to find a pair of old pants from Millets with 'Sex Machine'
emblazoned across the front.

'Look, they were a joke birthday present from
my brother. I never wear them, honest.'

The
work of the weapons inspectors is supposed to be top secret, giving the Iraqis
absolutely no warning about which sites are to be visited. So there was a mild
suspicion that they might possibly be being bugged when the first location they
visited displayed a big-banner saying 'Baghdad Fertilizer Plant Welcomes the UN
Weapons Inspectors!' and a choir of local schoolchildren sang a specially composed
anthem as the delegates were directed towards the buffet lunch. Would that
explain the wires trailing from the large bunch of flowers that was placed in
the middle of their conference table? Is that why they were given a free mobile
phone with their car rental?

First they had to decide where they were
going to look. They tried driving around a bit, but despite all the helpful
brown tourist signs on the motorway, not one said 'Nuclear Bomb Factory' next
to a little picture of a mushroom cloud. They tried photocopying a picture of a
missile and attaching it to a few lampposts with the caption 'Lost! Huge
Chemical Warhead, Answers to the name of "Scud".' Of course, when
you're looking for something you may never find it, but at least you come across
a few other things that you thought you'd lost for good. So far the UN team
have uncovered three Polly Pocket figures, a marble, the instructions to the
tumble drier and a plastic clip which they think probably came with the
micro-scooter. 'Oh look, a ten franc coin; is that still legal tender? Um, I
don't think so, but put it back in the kitchen drawer just in case.'

But
George W. Bush needs no further evidence. 'Imagine if these items fell into the
hands of Iraq's elite Republican Guard! You could have someone's eye out with
that!' said Colin Powell examining the sharp plastic edge of the charger from
an old mobile phone. The reporting of the inspectors' discoveries leaves us in
no doubt of Saddam's guilt. They have found paper cups of a type that would be
used to refresh workers making weapons of mass destruction. Also uncovered was
an atlas which included detailed maps of the United States and Britain and a
keyboard which could be used to type the letters 'B.O.M.B.' Whatever they
find, the verdict is already decided. Even if they unearth no glowing vats of
kryptonite it will prove that Saddam has hidden them all away in his cousin's
lock-up garage. The inspectors are there for appearances' sake, to give the
impression of a legitimate process, like the 'review' of a pit closure or
recounts in Florida.

Since the UN team are completely wasting
their time, would it not be more worthwhile to get them searching for something
a little more useful? 'After two weeks' hunting in British shopping centres,
the United Nations weapons inspectors have finally located som Beyblades at
Toys 'R' Us, Merry Hill, Birmingham. Oh no -apparently they've just been sold.'
Perhaps they could find us an unbreakable CD case, or the Marmite in
Sainsbury's, or a programme on the History Channel that wasn't about the Nazis.

Or
maybe they could find that international law that says that one nation has the
right to decide there will be a 'regime change' in another country thousands of
miles away. The whole world would like to see Saddam Hussein overthrown by his
own people, but Bush needs this easy battle to help him win the really big
fight the following year. Dubya's only interest in foreign policy is what it
can do for him at home now they're over halfway through the presidential electoral
cycle. So if I was a UN weapons inspector, I'd go back to the hotel, empty the
mini-bar and hope there were enough miniature Johnny Walker bottles to drown
the realization that I was a diplomatic patsy for the US Republican Party. Only
I wouldn't stay there too long because there'll definitely be plenty of weapons
of mass destruction all over Iraq pretty soon. They'll be dropping from US
bombers to mark the start of the American presidential campaign, to make sure
there's certainly no 'regime change' at the White House. And if the inspectors
can't see that, then frankly they're never going to spot anything.

7
December 2002

Tonight
in London, around a hundred women will parade up and down in their swimming
costumes until the judges finally select the most beautiful of them all. No,
it's not advertising executives interviewing for their new receptionist, but
the Miss World competition returning to Britain in the most controversial of
circumstances. The original venue in Nigeria had to be abandoned after the
event prompted rioting, arson and murder. Miss Wales commented, 'It is a shame
that a small minority of people spoiled it for everyone else . . .' Well said
that woman! It's always the way, isn't it? Just a small handful of
troublemakers who have to go and murder over two hundred people and leave
thousands injured or homeless. The Nigerian government had originally been very
keen to stage the contest, as they hoped it would show their country in a good
light. So that worked well then.

There were no prizes for guessing which
nation would step in at the last minute to stage the naffest, most
anachronistic event in the international calender. Sydney got the Olympics,
Germany gets the World Cup, but Britain has Miss World and the Royal Variety
Performance.

Obviously the logistics of getting over a
hundred foreign contestants from Africa into Britain at short notice presented
quite a few problems. The organizers were assured by that Turkish lorry driver
that for just $200 and a big box of fags he could smuggle them all

through the Channel
Tunnel, no questions asked. But when it came to it he just turfed them out of
the back of the truck outside Sangatte and told them to cling on to the
Eurostar as it sped past. It's at times like this that one realizes that
national costumes were not designed with practicality in mind.

Eventually
the girls were rounded up by immigration officials at Dover who asked them a
series of tough questions, every one of which was met with the answer, 'I'd
like to travel and work with children . . .'

'Come on, tell us the truth, what are you
hoping for?' snarled the officer.

'World peace,' beamed Miss Uruguay, glancing
left and right and looking slightly puzzled that there was no applause.

Finally they were allowed to proceed to
London, and as a hundred beauty queens boarded the train for Victoria, dozens
of middle-aged businessmen were seen optimistically moving their briefcases
from the empty train seats beside them. Some feared that the British girls
might exploit their home advantage, but in fact they could not have gone
further out of their way to assist their rivals. They helpfully advised
contestants visiting our shores for the first time that the best way to get a
really good agent is to stick your photo in telephone boxes with your mobile
number clearly marked. Miss Croatia was given lodgings with a Hampstead family,
but she's not being allowed to the contest this evening because she's got a
huge pile of ironing to finish after she's picked up the kids from ballet.

This
competition is now fifty-two years old, and frankly the lines started to show
some time ago. Despite the botox and facelifts, there's no denying that poor
Miss World has seen better days. This year the PR could not have been worse if
Miss USA had insisted that Miss Iraq could only take part with a bucket over
her head. But despite all the controversy, the promoters have been doing their best
to try to whip up some excitement. One bookie's advert proclaimed, 'Place a bet
and win a phwooarr-tune!' Ouch, my ribs are still aching from this joke. (Miss
England is second favourite to win at 20-1, and you can get an each-way bet on
the winner marrying Rod Stewart.) There have been some people who have
suggested that, with so many deaths in Nigeria, the event should be abandoned
altogether, but these are probably the very same kill-joys who for some reason
wanted to cancel the Soweto Black and White Minstrel Show. Muriel Gray said,
'The girls will be wearing swimwear dripping with blood.' That's the last time
they get Damien Hirst to design the outfits.