The Savile Report

A year before his death, I interviewed Jimmy Savile as part of my editorial duties at the Leeds Guide. In 2009 he was a popular celebrity, a knight of the realm, the eccentric philanthropist with access to everywhere from the nation's top charities to the BBC to Downing Street.

His house overlooked Roundhay Park here in Leeds, and he could often be spotted jogging around its green surrounds or messing with the meals at his favourite local restaurants. He had just secured a new undergraduate training scheme to help junior doctors and nurses with their medical research, and I wrote a congratulatory, if slightly sardonic first-person appraisal.

Savile had been vocally supportive of our magazine since its inception. We had access to his mobile phone number and he was an obvious, if perhaps lazy, target for us to gather local celebrity comment. I initially left a voicemail asking him to call the office, which he did. I was away on lunch so he left a message with my colleague: "Tell him it's Robert De Niro, he owes me money."

It was a rocky interview. I remember his impatience at the fluidity of the questioning, his attempts to steer and control the interview. But he eventually thawed and spoke with nostalgia of "inventing DJ-ing" at the Leeds Mecca - or at least the notion of using two turntables - his phobia of technology and his thoughts on death. With his "pop pals" Elvis, John Lennon and Michael Jackson dead, there would be "one hell of a band in heaven."

If heaven exists it would now seem incongruous to find Jimmy Savile in it. Following the release of the Savile Inquiry, Deborah Orr in the Guardian described him an "evil genius". He controlled his eccentric public image as an affront to mask five decades of calculated sex crimes - abuse at 14 hospitals, over 450 allegations, 34 confirmed rapes and victims as young as 13.

In hindsight, we played directly into his hands - another ploy for his mass media manipulation. When Savile died his gold casket lay in state for the general public to pay their respects. Even in death he had the last laugh.

Like all bullies, Savile's cruelty was underpinned by intimidation on all levels, from the authorities investigating to the victims themselves. Many questions still need to be asked of those who saw the abuses take place and did nothing. The danger, says Orr, is that the Savile case will be seen as "entirely exceptional". The fallout from Savile should surely be that the voices of the abused are not ignored. Police failed to prosecute Savile during his lifetime despite a litany of allegations. It may take time to restore the confidence of victims of such abuse, but the Saville reports are a prime starting point.

Telly Ache

When you’re unemployed, simple daily tasks take a lot longer. Breakfast lasts for three courses. A shower becomes Homer’s Odyssey. And daytime television is the procrastinator’s sworn nemesis, because the demoralising truth is nobody has ever achieved greatness by watching four back to back episodes of Come Dine with Me.

I had this epiphany during an episode of Homes Under the Hammer. It’s not even a bad show, but it has this hypnotic, repetitive, anaesthetic appeal that numbs your synapses, mushing your brain into a property pulp, washing over you like some innocuous fart. It’s the television equivalent of staring into a coal fire or a washing machine. It’s just there.

The show fits perfectly into UK TV’s daily dump of daytime discharge. The only reason you would voluntarily sit and watch Homes Under the Hammer is if you were infirmed, being kidnapped, trapped under a coffee table or hopelessly unemployed. There are currently 2.51 million people unemployed in Britain. The ratings must be huge.

I wouldn’t have thought the TV map could change so much in my two and a half year absence from these British Isles, but who could have guessed the current godlike deity status of Gary Barlow – an ex-Take That singer - or the fact a comedian like John Bishop could sell out the O2 Arena. To my ears, he still sounds like a darts player.

Speaking of The X Factor, there now seems to be an Essex version of Cheryl Cole sitting in Cheryl Cole’s seat. I actually thought it was Cheryl Cole for a minute, probably miming. Not that she would do that, of course.

Sardonic Apprentice underling Nick Hewer was an inspired choice for Countdown. He gives the droll impression that the show is constantly distracting him from a horse race at Cheltenham. I like it when he has to interview his guests and forgets to stop talking after he’s asked a question. Out of all the pseudo-celebrities enjoying partial acclaim when I left the country, Nick Hewer’s ascendance to daytime stardom is particularly puzzling. What’s next? Bargain Hunt with Duncan Bannatyne? Loose Women with Ann Widdecombe? Daybreak with Aled Jones? Hold on, that last one appears to have actually happened.

When I left the country condescending bear-baiter Jeremy Kyle was being hauled over the coals for exploiting the vulnerability of his guests. His reward: an American version of his TV show and seemingly 24 hour rotation on ITV2 (now to renamed Irritating TwatVision 2, or something). He has probably been given a pay rise and made Head of Pernicious Programming. Give it a year and he’ll be running for London Mayor.

I always wonder whether anything good comes from these programmes. Do you think the guests leave saying, “Thank you Jeremy for that insightful and at times physical debate. Following the lessons we have learnt today and under your insightful guidance we hope to go on with our lives in a more positive and compassionate manner. Particularly now the DNA test proves the baby is Darren’s. Thanks.”

Noel Edmonds’ new fuller beard is fascinating. With his floral shirts and tumbling locks he looks like a seventies version of Aslan. Deal or No Deal still deserves some credit for making the opening of a box look like a courtroom drama. It has been on nearly every day for seven years now. Seven years, for Christ’s sake. Richard Osman, of Pointless fame (more on that in a minute), said in this article that Deal Or No Deal is not about luck, but rather knowing when to quit. “It is essentially ‘stick or twist’ in the same way as any job or relationship you’ve ever had is,” he writes. “What man, when his mind turns to marriage, hasn't thought: ‘It's a lovely offer, but perhaps I should just open three more boxes?’”

Breakaway is a particularly lumbering, drawn-out quiz show where conceited one-upmanship is rewarded over coalition. Individual contestants can ‘breakaway’ from their team to answer questions on their own and therefore gobble up all the prize money themselves. There is a political and social metaphor in this. Host Nick Hancock is tolerable but a little patronising. “Now are you sure you want to do that?... They were really tough questions weren’t they?”

My favourite daytime quiz show is now BBC1’s Pointless, hosted by the always-affable Alexander Armstrong and the aforementioned Osman. The format is a loose appropriation of Family Fortunes, where contestants find the least likely answers based on the most common responses to audience surveys. So, for example, you probably know that Australia is a country beginning with A, but then a country like Antigua and Barbuda, which also begins with the letter A, may have slipped your mind. Pointless answers are ones that are both correct and so obscure that nobody in the survey thought to mention them.

It’s a quite cynical concept, really, having to second guest the ignorance of the general public. I always wonder where they find the time and the people to question for these surveys. But with so many out of work it’s obvious. You can probably do it by pressing The Red Button. During Homes Under the Hammer, no doubt.

We saw Singin’ in the Rain at the Palace Theatre in London's West End last week and what a jolly thing it was, heightened somewhat by exceptional seats within splashing distance of the stage. The gags are 60 years old but still great, and actress Katherine Kingsley has a ball playing verbally-challenged silent screen diva Lina Lamont, elaborating on Jean Hagen’s screechy drawl with ear-splitting aplomb. Director Jonathan Church gives both Lina and Kathy more stage time than Gene Kelly ever did in the movie. Here they even get their own songs. I never quite bought Kathy’s sudden infatuation with the enigmatic yet egomaniac Don Lockwood. Here she is given pivotal breathing space to assess the merits of dating a megastar with a licentious reputation.

Singin’ in the Rain works because of its celebration of movement (a universal language) and the basic premise celebrating the magic of cinema, something everyone can share. It may be the most damn near perfect film about films ever made, but it was conceived as a comedic throwaway to string together the hits of MGM songwriters Nacio Herb Brown and Arthur Freed. Gene Kelly considered his greatest work to be An American in Paris, filmed the year before. The extended all-dancing Broadway finale which concludes SITR was a formula copied from Kelly’s mammoth ballet sequence at the end of An American in Paris. The film also just about killed the musical as a viable money-spinner in mainstream cinemas, as rock and roll rebels and the rise of independent film all but killed off the studio system and the big budget musicals they championed.

But watch the show, it’s a triumph. However, a word of caution; expect to get a bit wet in the first five rows. The cast use the final 10 minutes for a vengeful, stomping splash-around as the stage is flooded and the audience duck for cover. Some people actually brought umbrellas, which was a nice touch.

This is the Neeewwwws

How refreshing, to come into contact with your heroes and not have to endure the metaphorical equivalent of a custard pie in the face. I had spoken to a few journalists before the appearance of Chris Morris at the Bradford International Film Festival on Thursday who had told me that, in the past and on numerous occasions, Morris was a loose canon in interviews, unpredictable. The rumour was that Morris wouldn’t even attend the festival as himself, instead donning the costume of a middle aged woman and conducting the whole ceremony in character. Absurd, yes, but not completely beyond the realms of possibility. This is the same man who sabotaged his own career at BBC Radio Bristol by pumping helium into the newsroom.

Morris was in town for the UK premiere of his new and fairly unique jihadist comedy Four Lions, and upon arriving on the red carpet, I bump into friends Larry and Paul, who have their own show on the commercial Leeds station Radio Aire. (Larry, incidentally, was half way through a 24 hour charity broadcast at the time for Magic, designed to raise money for the station’s Cash for Kids foundation, and his ability to be coherent after such a length of time without sleep is truly commendable, especially considering that most of this time was being spent live on air). We quickly run through a few questions to ask Morris, the most obvious ones being, “What is the letter of the law?” and, one of my favourites, “Do you think people spend too long saying things?”

Of course that kind of behaviour (ie. quoting ‘The Day Today’) would really piss you off after a while, which is no wonder why Morris is rarely seen giving interviews. Actually, let’s rephrase that, he’s rarely seen at all. Which is why the prospect of 15 minutes, one to one, with the man himself seemed unlikely. And it was, because the interview was cancelled, and we ended up loitering on the red carpet like scornful lovers after being stood up on a date.

But Morris did appear, both to introduce the film and for an interview at the end of the screening. The film is pure farce, as hilariously acerbic and on-the-button as Morris’ most potent work, even if it’s bumbling bombers plot does slightly confuse itself between actually making a point and relentlessly hammering at your funny bone. Morris was erudite, funny and intelligent when it came to explaining the movie, merely feet away from my seat on the front row. Does he feel that the film is an insult is Islam? “I would like someone who actually thinks that to ask me that question.” Could the Americans get away with making a comedy about terrorism? “They have. Did you not see United 93?” Is it right to make a comedy about something so real as home grown Islamic fundamentalism? In preparation for answering this one, Morris met relatives of the victims of the 7/7 bombings (of which the film is most closely associated, from the homemade bombs to the northern accents) and discovered that, of the few he did meet, overall consensus was one of apathy, just “as long as it’s done well.”

I have written a more detailed review here for Leeds Guide magazine (http://www.leedsguide.co.uk/review/film-review/four-lions/14035), but suffice to say that the film went down a treat in Bradford. Watching it with a mostly Asian audience (the screening included a break for pray, which is the first time I have experienced this in a cinema), the film is broad and far from a slight against Islam: in fact, I would go so far to say that I’m yet to see a more accurate, detailed look at what it must be like to be a young, disaffected, second generation British Muslim living in the UK today. It’s as relevant as East is East, and a lot funnier.

The knives will be out for Morris (again) over this one - mostly by those folks who haven’t actually seen it yet - but you have to commend him on being brave enough to have even made the film in the first place. He seemed humbled when facing his audience, and in case you’re wondering, no, he wasn’t in drag: a mop of curly hair, skinny jeans and worker boots make him look evidently more fashionable than most men approaching 50, especially when fellow script writers Sam Bain and Jesse Armstrong join him on stage, both formidable comedic talents, but practically crusty by comparison.


I don’t think I’ll be spending money to read the rest of the content on the Times website; the BBC and Guardian tend to be my personal favourites, and they’re free. For the time being, of course, unless Murdoch gets his own way which, as we know, he normally does. After all, we’ll be seeing the BBC limit their online funding by 25% in the next few years, thus purposely downgrading their service for reasons that seem ultimately quite baffling: is it to pre-empt and tally favour with a new government who will probably hit the license fee pretty hard when they come to power? Or perhaps it really is to do with the Beeb’s current monopolising of the market, thus making it unfair for private companies and competition to flourish in a rapidly commercialised broadband environment? If the comment and analysis that you find in the Times is your favourite source of journalistic nourishment, then why shouldn’t you pay for it, like you would a newspaper?

With newspapers now being handed out on street corners, the idea of the so-called ‘fourth estate’ being as viable a business as it once was has become a nonsense, it is a false economy, and who can blame those media men for trying to find a quick buck in the millions that have already been lost. Which is why the Times, I fear, is only the first in a long line of websites that will start to charge for their content, and this could indelibly alter the way we read and interpret the news in the future.

Of course if I started charging for these Toxic Math updates, just think of the routes of expansion open to me on the web today: regularly updated newsletters to always keep you in the loop, instant messaging to your Twitter and Facebook accounts. I’m sure my advertisers could slip in discounted products and giveaways for my most valued customers. But then you’ll probably delete my iPhone app when you get a bit bored and something better comes along, like a virtual online toilet which allows you to take a piss so you don’t have to physically use the bathroom anymore, or something. We‘re a fickle lot these days, and therein lies the problem - just ask Bebo, just ask Yahoo, just ask MySpace, still ploughing on but usurped by things that we hold with a much greater short term value.


I thought this was a nice story to follow on from my blog a few weeks back regarding Mother’s Day, and the film Motherhood starring Uma Thurman, which appears to have only made £88 in its opening weekend. Of course, there are numerous reasons for why something like this could have happened, far above and beyond a film just being really, really bad - because Motherhood isn’t actually that bad at all, and I know this because I appear to be have been one of only a handful of people in the country to have seen it. The marketing for it was misleading, focusing more on the knockabout comedic elements of the movie and the chaos of controlling pesky children rather than the more introspective look of a young career woman struggling to find purpose within the traditional family unit. That’s what they should have done, and I guess only sending it to a few selected Apollo cinemas didn’t help much either. Anyway, here’s the link, read and LOL: http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2010/mar/26/uma-thurman-motherhood-flop