Low life
Fresh start
Jeffrey Bernard BreakBreakfast television is something of a fast to a man who wakes up, stares at the ceiling and wonders what the hell he did last night and what he's going to do today. To sit up in bed with my first cup of steam- ing Earl Grey to find Anna Ford discussing female circumcision was a wonderful ex- perience. I've done some incredible and strange things in my bed but I can't remember any of them having resulted in laughter before. Tears, yes (in the summer of 1979 1 seriously considered buying a rub- ber sheet). Usually I wake up with Patricia Hughes, two eyes that feel like fried eggs and a mouth like an ash tray, but, since An- na has graced my bedroom, I can't wait to wake up and the bags under my eyes seem to me to indicate that I'm giggling in my sleep. It's early stages yet but my one worry about Frosty and Anna's programme is that it's going to have a feminine bias. Why
wasn't mine host Norman hauled into the studio to discuss male circumcision? Chari- ty begins at home and I'm far more con- cerned about what goes on in Golders Green than the happenings in the Sudan.
What I'd very much like to see is a slot for men called 'Where were you last night?' They could bring in almost any man off the street and have him grilled by Irma Kurtz and then slapped on the wrist by Anna Raeburn. I'd also like to see my own slot in which I'd concoct a hangover drink and breakfast cure (kedgeree, a crème de menthe based cocktail and a cheque in the post, for example), and a man could swap punches with the likes of the 'Peace' women who beat up Heseltine, and quite rightly too. There are quite a lot of men too — talking of peace — who aren't hell-bent on a nuclear holocaust, but they never get a look-in with the media. But it's nice to see a female gardener for a change and one without the obligatory Hampshire accent. The riddle is how they get Hazel Evans to the studio on time since she's never got to the Coach on time. And the same goes for Irma who has often soothed this agonised uncle over a jar.
Yes, I've my own gardener and aunt and all I need now is someone to tell me whether or not it's raining outside. Much as I like the Commander I find him a trifle flam- boyant and I'd like to see a no-nonsense Charlie do the weather spot occasionally. It would simply be, 'It's pissing down in Scotland and there'll be a force 7 shirtlifter from the West.' But although I said I was worried about the female bias I do think that women should be allowed a shot at the weather: 'It's a perfectly wonderful day and there's no need for you to be cooped up in the pub all day.' There's also room for a woman doctor who could demonstrate home vasectomies to housewives and a Closed University for truants.
But if we are to be faced by women on breakfast television can we please have some ordinary, middle-aged boilers? It's ridiculous that you have to be what the public in general consider to be glamorous to read the wretched news. Personally, Angela Rippon's eyes remind me of Tony Zale's eyes. He was middleweight champion of the world in 1946 and after, and if looks could kill — never mind the left hook. I'm not squeamish, not even at 8 a.m. and I'd even watch one of my ex-wives read the news but I suppose we're lumbered with these well-packaged jobs for ever. '
Breakfast apart, 1 accidentally caught the ekening job documentary about how much harm alcohol does to people. Who on earth do they get to research such stuff? School leavers? What nonsense. Practically every- body I know should have been dead years ago. But alcohol and television go well to- gether. At weekends particularly, now, tele- vision is so bad you have to be drunk to watch it, even if it does mean having to keep one eye closed to see just the one set. But I've hardly had a drink since this morn- ing nonsense began. I get enough kicks from Anna and Dave to last me the day.
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