Hugo Rifkind
Already a subscriber? Log in
There’s this worrying idea doing the rounds, you see, that celebrities would be good in power, because they are somehow ‘in touch with the public’. Where does it come from? The moon-faced Esther Ranzten, possibly. How normal can you be if you’ve been on telly since 1968? When she talks about ‘the public’, she plainly means ‘the owners of talking dogs, and crazy people who stop me in the street to tell me they’ve found a radish shaped like a penis’. God, she’s not doing the Diary this week, is she? Guys? Let me know, eh? I’ll ditch the ‘moon-faced’ bit, at least.
Single issue stuff, Joanna Lumley and her Gurkhas, that’s all fine and good. But actually running things? Actually delving into the tedium and wonkishness that is the nuts and bolts of running a country? Celebrities? Never. Celebrities are mad. Trust me on this. I meet them for a living. When I meet one who isn’t — which has happened maybe five times — then them not being mad is invariably the most striking thing about them. ‘How was Jason Donovan?’ the wife will ask, when I get home from doing an interview. ‘Surprisingly un-mad,’ I’ll say, and she’ll be fascinated, because it’s not a thing I say very often.
Politicians are quite mad too, of course, but it’s normally in a much more low-key way. Most people don’t recognise most politicians, unless they’ve been right at the top of the Cabinet or involved in a sex scandal. Your Purnells and Minor Milibands, they can probably go to the shops without much fuss. The odd stare. An occasional ‘are you the bloke who does the weather?’ And the shadow Cabinet? I saw this guy in a photo the other day. Never seen him before in my life. Turns out it was Andrew Lansley. Knew the name, didn’t really occur to me that he had a face, too. They have it easy.
Not so celebrities. Not even if you’ve been presenting a consumer affairs show since before man landed on the moon. As far as Esther Rantzen is concerned, the public is made up of people going ‘oh look, it’s Esther Rantzen.’ So they don’t know the public, in the same way that the Queen doesn’t know that all hospitals don’t smell of paint and soap. They never see them in their natural state.
Who are the public, anyway? Meet them as a journalist and you’re thrilled, because it doesn’t happen very often. The last time I did, I reckon I got about eight columns out of it. Normally, the public turn out not to be the public at all. Hunt for them and they’re always too middle-class, or too angry, or too drunk, or too informed, or too stupid, or too motivated to be representative of anybody less specific than themselves. Speaking as a hack, it’s bloody annoying. When people claim to be the public, moreover, they are usually lying. ‘We, the public, are outraged!’ someone will write, below an article about MPs’ expenses. And then, ‘Billy McFurious, Bangkok, Thailand.’ What’s that about?
In general, the more I hear somebody harping on about ‘the public’, the more inclined I am to think that they don’t get out much or meet anybody. And it’s because of this that I’m inclined to think that celebrities would make for even worse MPs than MPs do. Although that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be Speaker. How much harm could it do? We have a broken, archaic, backward system, and the consensus seems to be that we can fix it by finding the right forward-thinking, modern person to sit on a throne dressed like Edmund Blackadder. It’s showbiz already.
Speaking of men in funny costumes, has anything better been in newspapers, ever, than the photograph of those 17 British tourists being shepherded sullenly through a courthouse in Crete, while dressed as naughty nuns? When arrested, a police official said, ‘they were carrying crosses, but wearing thongs under their skirts and showing people their bottoms and the rest’. By the time they turned up in court, it was more nun-lite. Dishevelled nuns. Nuns after a heavy night.
I think it’s the guy at the front I like the most. The older one. Bald. Stocky. A look on his face like thunder. Would be genuinely quite scary, were it not for the fact that his upper body is clad only in a clingy, shiny (albeit nunnish) mini-dress, and his lower body isn’t clad in anything. ‘These foreigners are ridiculous!’ he’s obviously thinking. While dressed as a nun.
The latest suggestion is that they’re a football team, not a stag party. Not that it matters. This is the face of Britain abroad. Wherever there are pubs, wherever there are budget airlines, there are grown British men in women’s clothes, with their bottoms out. And to think some people say we have no coherent national identity.
Poor lads, anyway, 40 hours in the cells. According to the Daily Mail they were arrested for ‘causing offence to the Catholic Church’, but released eventually due to ‘lack of evidence’. That’s pretty fortunate, considering they’re still basically dressed as nuns. ‘Quick lads!’ somebody must have said, just in time. ‘It’s the cops! Ditch the wimples!’
Hugo Rifkind is a writer for the Times.
Also in Society
Also by Hugo Rifkind
Latest
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in