Television
Over
Richard Ingrams
On a Monday morning last month a large florid gentleman came storming into the Wallingford bookshop where my wife and her partner Mrs Pirie (Props.) were mournfully contemplating their un- sold copies of Sir David Napley's memoirs (£16.95), and started banging his fist on the counter. 'Which one of you is Mrs In- grams?' he inquired. My wife, who is by now used to this sort of thing, stepped for- ward. 'Are you Mrs Ingrams?' he shouted (another bang on the counter). She nodded nervously. 'Well, you can tell your husband that he can't do this to me, do you hear?' Oh, dear, another poor man who has been libelled in the Eye, she thought. But he went on, 'You just tell him that he can't resign from the Spectator. I agree with every word he writes. (Bang, bang.) Tell him he can't resign.'
Of course, I appreciate there may be a tiny handful of eccentrics who will feel a momentary pang at my departure, but they should try to appreciate the enormous relief that I myself am experiencing after nearly eight years writing this column. Readers of the Pilgrim's Progress will recall the joy of
Christian when he finally laid down his burden at the end of the long journey. Such are my own feelings as I pen my valediction to you all. It would be inappropriate here to go into the sad events that precipitated my resignation but at the same time it would be foolish to pretend that I did not grasp the departure of our distinguished editor as a welcome excuse to pack it in. So farewell, then.
As it happens, I have been increasingly alarmed in the last few weeks by reports of what can happen to people who watch the television. First there was the little girl who lost consciousness by sitting too close to the set. Following this incident a Cambridge professor announced that it was theoretical- ly possible that watching violent films could be fatal. 'The heart begins to beat irregular- ly, blood stops circulating to the brain and the result is death.' Another medical cor- respondent warned of further hazards. `Most of us slump,in a favourite armchair, far too soft, heightening the risk of back strain, cramps, indigestion, and damaged stomach muscles. Depression is another hazard ...' In view of all this I think that in the interests of my
own well-being I am justified in quitting.
No doctor has so far commented on the dangers of anger and indignation which can be provoked by prolonged exposure to John Humphrys or Russell Harty. But it cannot be a good thing to subject oneself nightly to the risk of becoming apoplectic, often at the mere appearance of a particular face on the screen. Frustration is another powerful emotion which is probably also a health hazard. When Ronald Harwood opened his boring series All the World's Stage he began by telling us how powerful the theatre critics are and how they can make or break a play on its opening night. He couldn't conceal his smugness at the thought that whatever any of us TV John- nies said about his series it would still run on for its interminable course, at no finan- cial loss to himself whatever. It is only very rarely that the television companies react to criticism and even then it takes a mass of angry people ringing up to complain, as they did recently in the case of the 'Dread- ful Old Man' Desmond Wilcox, before anyone does anything. That was why, very early on in my career as a television critic, I seriously proposed the assassination of Russell Harty as the only way of getting rid of the menace.
This failure to react to the viewers' needs for a change leads to a terrible monotony in the personnel. After a year or two you begin to feel you have seen it all before. The same old people, Dr Jonathan, Melvyn Bragg, Alan Whicker, come on the screen apparently saying much the same thing as they said before. Sometimes, like Parky, they disappear for a time, but they in- evitably turn up again. Even the Dreadful Old Man, one may be sure, will pop up again before long in one capacity or another, and rumour has it that Humphrey Burton is now due for a comeback.
Just as it becomes boring after a time to
see these people over and over again, so I feel sure it becomes equally boring for peo- ple to read me banging on about them over and over again. Another good reason, in other words, to go and for a younger man to pick up the cudgels (who he? Ed.). `Upon our heels a fresh perfection treads', as the poet Keats so pointfully remarked.
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