The Emperor has no clothes
It is perhaps a sign of our turbulent and unsettling times that my somewhat eventful weekend brought together events and ruminations that resulted in some uncomfortable conclusions and judgements.
To be more specific, a what was later identified as a several-days’ old leak from a flat two floors above made itself apparent across the ceiling of my kitchen via an ever-growing damp patch which yesterday required a flurry of phone calls, investigations, plumber-summoning that left me last night with yet another semi-resigned “you couldn’t make it up” feeling in a context in which all I had originally been looking forward to was a quiet couple of days of relaxation, which just occasionally in life you would think isn’t too much to ask.
Separately, by chance, my television-watching over the period included regular drop-ins to the BBC’s coverage of the World Athletics Championships taking place in Dohar, a ridiculous venue for such a prestigious event with its excessive heat and vast stadium woefully devoid of spectators.
The decision to hold it there must have seemed like a good wheeze at the point the governing body concerned took the decision, no doubt influenced by the massive cheques the oil-rich Qatari rulers were offering and wishful thinking that ‘taking the sport to the far corners of the earth’ would prompt further global popularity and revenues.
However, it has left a distinctly flat feeling in the minds of everyone watching at home, especially since, following various retirements, these days track and field has relatively few superstars with appeal capable of crossing-over to the general population and there is the constant ‘elephant in the room’ that an unnerving proportion of those who do make the podium are performance-drug-abuse-tainted in one way or another.
My other television-fare took in such diverse offerings as two wonderful matches from the Rugby World Cup (Japan’s victory over Ireland and Wales’s over Australia), two editions of Strictly Come Dancing culminating in the first competitive exit of the season and the Prime Minister giving a twenty-minute interview to Andrew Marr yesterday on the eve of the Tory Party Conference in Manchester.
As hinted in my opening paragraph, taken together, the above items left me feeling deflated and borderline depressed about the way the world is going.
It left me pondering on the irony of the enormous degree of lack of self-awareness possessed by people in the public eye in the 21st Century era of the all-encompassing internet and social media on which when everyone seven years old and above is putting every aspect of their lives ‘out there’ for the world to see and comment upon.
Let me expand.
The concept behind Strictly Come Dancing – a show aimed squarely at the Saturday (and Sunday) evening prime time television audience – is simple and direct.
It marries an entertaining and demanding pastime – ballroom etc. competitive dancing, which requires hours and hours of practice and mental determination to do even passably well – with celebrities who have made their names in quite different areas of life.
The latter, together with their professional dancing partners, all go on individual ‘journeys’ (that fashionable term) inevitably involving significant commitment, hard work, reverses and little victories in an atmosphere where the programme-makers want everyone to avoid personal humiliation, hopefully have fun and enjoy themselves … all in the cause of grabbing huge television ratings and radiating a ‘goodwill’ factor in what – in the final analysis – is not so much decided by competitive achievement as by a popularity vote.
For the dancing establishment, no doubt, it must be as frustrating as belonging to the UK’s political elite.
The eventual winners are rarely the best dancers from a technical stand-point because – annoyingly – they’re chosen by the pesky ‘electorate’ who for the most part know bugger-all about dancing.
(Just as, of course, Leavers knew bugger-all in 2016 – and perhaps even less now – about what leaving the EU would actually mean for the nation).
That said, in all honesty, the ‘celebs’ and their managers, agents or best pals know – or ought to know – what they’re getting themselves into.
If you’re not used to making a fool of yourself in public, or have two left feet, or possess a total lack of physical coordination, it’s probably best to play safe, ignore the handfuls of cash being waved under your nose, and decline the invitation.
Unless, that is, you’re so desperate to remain – or get back – in the public eye that you’re prepared to go down the Anne Widdicombe/Ed Balls/John Sergeant ‘comedy turn’ road in the hope of attaining a degree of ‘national treasure’ status.
Which brings me to this year’s Strictly line-up and supposed celebs Olympic rower James Cracknell and footballer David James.
Quite what persuaded these two former sports greats to sign up – well, perhaps beyond ego, conceit and the prospect of being raised in the public’s consciousness whilst banking oodles of cash – I know not.
I very much doubt that there have ever been two other contestants on this show so lacking in potential dancing ability, let alone any of the other attributes a Strictly celeb requires.
Somebody, somewhere, should never have invited them to take part – or else (as a friend and advisor) someone should have taken them aside, told them a few facts of life and persuaded them not to.
Their excursions on the dancefloor have been excruciatingly awful – if the phrase “car crash television” hadn’t already been invented, it might easily have been specifically for their performances on the show this term.
Inevitably, they were paired in the first “dance off” of the series.
It was difficult to chose which of them was worse – they both looked as if they were semi-detached rabbits in headlights, wishing they were anywhere else as they repeated the ordeal of stuttering in their learned-by-rote-moves-by-numbers around the dancefloor.
In the end James Cracknell was arguably the lucky one.
He got voted off last night and won’t ever have to dance again in public.
My God, it was embarrassing …
And then we come – one might suggest incongruously, but then again maybe not – to the Prime Minister’s interview with Andrew Marr.
The parallels came to my mind.
They say Boris is supremely-intelligent, a student of the classics and a wordsmith of the highest-order.
And yet his public persona as put about by the media is that of a bumbling clown with no morals or principles.
In an ideal world one would like to think that one’s national political leader – whatever their Party or policies – would be a smooth, confident, perfectly-mannered, sage, wise, thoughtful, man or woman with the common touch and both possession of an unerring ability both to ‘tune into’ the mood of the nation and/or deal appropriately with any situation that might arise at home or abroad. A leader in the true sense, i.e. with the innate capacity to get the best from his or her team and also ‘take the people with him (or her)’ even when making the toughest and sometimes unpopular decisions.
Yesterday – disappointingly given it was a cast-iron prime opportunity to impress the viewers – Boris came across exactly like the caricature portraits of him trotted out in the media.
In other words (the best analogy might be) as a stand-up comedian on a tour of the provinces – and not a very good one at that.
Yesterday he’d got his patter learned by heart and just spewed it out, irrespective of the questions being put to him.
In twenty minutes or so I honestly don’t think he once answered the question Marr had put to him.
He’s not even a natural funny-man like Eric Morecambe, Eric Sykes or even Kenneth Williams.
I doubt he could have a normal conversation with anyone – he just performs his standard routine and hopes for the best.
A statesman like former President Obama – whatever his policy strengths and weaknesses – would have charmed the pants off both Marr and the onlooker, leaving us with the impression “I could follow this man anywhere”.
Boris is incapable of that. The media has got him right – he’s just a B-list music hall act.
