Television
Ghoulish questions
James Delingpole
Afew years ago, my girlfriend's house was invaded by giant killer rats. We could hear them scuttling between the partition walls at night. And one day we found one running around little Jim's bedroom presumably because the rat wanted to be with his own kind.
Anyway, having read my James Herbert at prep school, I was terrified. Tiffany, however, went into fierce mother mode and squashed the rat against the sideboard with a tin trunk. Before he died, the rat squealed pitifully. I suddenly felt rather sorry for him. It wasn't his fault that he had been born a lowly sewer rat. But for fickle fate, he might easily have been a pampered pet rat — probably with a really imagina- tive name like Ratty — like the ones fea- tured on Animal Hospital (BBC 1, Thursday). You might not have seen this hugely popular series — and I'm not sure I'd rec- ommend it — but the title's pretty self- explanatory. Each week, its presenter Rolf Harris hangs around vets' surgeries, waiting for wounded animals to come in. We hear from the pets' owners what's wrong; we hear the vet's prognosis. Rolf makes con- cerned noises. Then we see the animals being treated/operated on. And finally we discover whether or not Rover/Ratty/Spot/ whoever pulled through.
It's a bit like Antiques Road Show. The experts burble on about the old pot in which grandma used to keep her false teeth. But none of us — least of all the pot's owner — gives a monkey's for the his- torical detail. All we want to know is: how much is it worth? Of course, it's always fun when the pot turns out to be worth mil- lions. But not nearly as entertaining as the moment when the rapacious, 'of-course- I'd-never-sell-it-it's-a-family-heirloom' owner learns that it's a piece of cheap trash. That's why, to drive the point home, we're always treated to a reaction shot. `Bye, bye loft conversion,' you can see the owner thinking, as their face falls.
In much the same way, the ghoulish question on the minds of Animal Hospital viewers is: 'Will Spot die?' Normally he doesn't — this is family entertainment, after all. But, just occasionally, he does. The owner dissolves in tears (which makes especially good television if it's a child), the vet murmurs solemn platitudes, and Rolf — his voice cracking with emotion moves us on to a more cheerful item.
Of course, no one would admit to watch- ing Animal Hospital for that reason, any more than motor-racing fans would acknowledge that they only attend Grand Prix for the pile-ups. Really, though, I can't think of any other reason why the series is so popular. Other people's manky pets are dull enough at the best of times. Watching them when their eyes are weeping pus or their bellies are cut open is simply beyond the pale. Actually, I lie. I can think of hun- dreds of reasons for the series' popularity and some of them are very frightening. One unfrightening reason is Rolf Harris. We've all loved him ever since those days in our childhood when he asked us, 'Have you guessed what it is yet?' Rolf will never go out of fashion because he's never been in fashion. He's just there — a steady voice of comfort in a cruel, changing world.
I glimpsed this at Glastonbury Festival one year when, along with several thousand drugged-up weekend hippies, I was nearly reduced to tears by the moving rendition of 'wo Little Boys'. It worked because Rolf is so boundlessly sincere. He's an irony-free zone. He really does care, as you can see from his aghast expression on Animal Hos- pital whenever there's a pet in pain.
Now on to a rather more scary reason. Animal Hospital offers further proof that we have become a nation of animal obses- sives. Granted, we've always had a reputa- tion for preferring dogs and horses to humans, but now we've started heading even further down the evolutionary scale to embrace rats and fish as well.
This cannot be healthy. Quite often in the series, you see RSPCA inspectors in grey, militaristic uniforms lurking in the back- ground like some shadowy, quasi-official police force. It makes me wonder whether we've given too much power to what is, after all, a charity not a branch of the legis- lature. I'm all for the good work they do preventing badger-baiting, cat-abuse and such like. But I shudder whenever I read newspaper reports that they've attempted to prosecute, say, goldfish owners for neglecting their pets. Goldfish are tiny, scaly things with brains so small they scarce- ly know whether they're dead or alive. How can we possibly grant them the same rights we afford to sentient tax payers?
At least some people still have a sense of perspective. Ray Mears, for example, on his engaging World of Survival (BBC 2, Wednesday). He understands that the only good animal is the one in your cooking pot. And Hugh Feamley-Whittingstall, too, who so memorably fried hundreds of live elvers the other day on A Cook on the Wild Side (Channel 4, Thursday).
We need heroes of this sort. Without them, I fear, the time will soon come when squashing sewer rats with tin boxes becomes an imprisonable offence.
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