TELEVISION AGAIN
But if oxen and horses and lions had hands and so could draw and make works of art like men, horses would draw pictures of god like horses, and oxen like oxen, and they would make their bodies in accordance with the form that they themselves severally possess.
– Xenophanes
†
Today, Reverend Cake was having his busiest day since that whole gay boy band furore of the year before. He had already given four interviews (two for local radio and two for local newspapers). Now he was on his way to do several TV news segments. Although John Smith was not his usual kind of bogeyman, there was something about this story that was just getting bigger and bigger. The Reverend Cake congratulated himself on being one of the first to spot its potential and the first and loudest voice condemning the intrinsic nihilism of the Smith message.
For once the Reverend Cake had found a broad range of support for his denouncement. The story was drawing a wide range of commentators both religious and secular, from both left and right, many uneasy with what Smith’s message represented. Of course, few of them endorsed Cake’s conservative Christian position but they all acknowledged the arguments that he had first articulated against Smith. More surprising was to find himself quoted with approval by an equally large group of more cynical commentators in the liberal media, who normally would have never have sided with Cake against someone like Smith, so clearly one of their own. Behind the intentions of these talking heads, Cake guessed that most of the motivation came not from a sense of moral outrage but from a desire to settle scores with Eric Hayle.
Reverend Cake was out in front in the denouncement of the Smith phenomenon and from the very beginning he had seen through to and condemned the malevolent hand of Eric Hayle. As a result he became increasingly associated with the story. Each day his phone would ring more often as he bubbled to the top of the call lists of more and more of the journalists covering the story. The Reverend was never short of a new quote to condemn the craze. The journalists were obviously pleased with his copy because they usually used it verbatim and never asked him if he thought his own role was not contributing to the continuation of Smith’s time in the spotlight. But of course if the hacks started asking questions like that they would soon think themselves out of existence. The newspapers left out the Reverend’s evangelism but they were quite good at crediting him as the President of Families First.
The Families First group was first and foremost about attempting to prevent certain people from having families and indirectly forcing them on others who did not want them. They opposed single mothers, surrogacy and fertility treatments. They would not countenance gay couples wanting to conceive or adopt. They were against abortion - full stop. They considered both sex education and contraception inappropriate for teenagers. In fact they could not conceive the goodness in any baby not born to two monogamous, married heterosexual parents doing things naturally. That little baby Jesus was a precedent for artificial insemination and the non-standard family unit was just the exception that proved the rule.
The group spent all of its money and most of its time campaigning against these sins and sinners. At no extra cost to his organisation Reverend Cake would keep his name in the papers by regularly denouncing the latest teenage fashion or promoting with his seal of disapproval the work of ‘controversial’ rap stars and ‘provocative’ pop starlets. It was a win, win, win situation. Cake got coverage, corporate controversialists in the music industry got their free advertising and the media got an easy story.
Unfortunately, this did not bring any money into the church. The press would gladly have paid Cake for his sound bites, as would the record companies but Cake was not that stupid nor that desperate. As long as he kept his church in the news, he had plenty of funding. The funding had come in secretly from a similar organisation in the States. That group had been founded by Christian oil barons who literally had more money than sense. Following a tour he had done of the Bible Belt, they had provided Cake with a piddling few million they had lying around and the transfer was arranged in such a way as to make it appear that the Families First group had substantial support in the United Kingdom. It did not. It had Cake, a couple of his cronies and the embarrassment to humanity that was his congregation.
If he had not been a fully-fledged Church of England Bishop, he would have been ignored as just another evangelical crank. As it was, he was an ecclesiastical disaster to a Church hierarchy that always preferred to be ecumenical. Only the last week, the Archbishop of Cardiff had let slip a remark that was widely interpreted as an admission that he did not believe in any of those Biblical fairy stories (though he thought Christianity was still, on the whole, a good idea).
Cake was a canny enough preacher to know when to preach to the converted. His appointment to the Bishopric had been several years ago back when he was still ambitious about succeeding in the Anglican hierarchy. But once it had become clear that he would never process any further in the official family of the church, he had founded the Families First group. Shortly after he had taken his collection plate on a transatlantic flight. He came back with much Good News to declare and several million in secret donations.
Reverend Cake used some of his Southern oil money to arrange for a clipping service to keep track of his many media credits and he sent copies of the better ones to his state-side supporters.
Ψ ?
“Hazel, we’re live in 30 seconds.”
Hazel had agreed reluctantly to take part in this show. She had felt guilty for inadvertently embarrassing Shona on her own show the week before. When Alice, Shona’s personal assistant had called, Hazel had turned them down saying that she did not think it was a very good idea. Ten minutes later she got a call from Evelyn, her publisher’s public relations person explaining loudly and at length exactly why it was a very good idea. So when Shona herself called a few minutes after that, Hazel meekly acquiesced to another appearance on Shona’s sofa.
The format would be very similar to Shona’s usual Friday show; an open discussion in which unhappy couples and dysfunctional individuals worked through their issues on live TV in front of a braying and insensitive studio audience of equally dysfunctional members of the public. Shona would moderate and one of the show’s regular experts would offer empty platitudes. Normally each show had a particular theme, eating disorders, compulsive shopping, estranged fathers. Several misfits would recount their tales of woe then spend the rest of the show being accused of being liars, malingerers, perverts, bigamists or worse by the audience. The resident expert would occasionally try to earn their keep by stating the obvious. And whatever the topic (with the notable exceptions of estranged relatives and extra-marital affairs) Shona was usually unable to resist a game of one-upmanship with her own tales of personal hardship and suffering.
For today’s show Hazel was acting as the expert and as usual the problems came from the audience. But this week, fired up by her enthusiasm for Hazel’s book, Shona wanted to do things differently. So the chronic procrastinators, who had been due to appear, were postponed until the following week (much to their great relief). Instead the problems would come straight from the studio audience. There would be no single topic and no pre-selected panel of basket cases.
There were five carefully screened members of the audience waiting with prescripted questions ready to read them out when called on by Shona, with another two standbys in case anything went wrong. However, their problems could be anything and, unlike normally, only Shona would know in advance what they wanted to say. Fad or no fad, Shona had learnt something since the week before. She made sure she had prepared very thoroughly indeed. She wasn’t going to let this little old lady ambush her twice in two weeks.
“Hello and welcome to Shona on Friday. I am here once again with Dr. Hazel Cole and today she and I going to be helping you to help yourselves.”
Suddenly they were on air. Just Shona and Hazel sitting alone on the sound stage. Hazel was oddly less nervous than last time but with less clue as to what might happen. Before it had gone so awfully wrong, her last appearance had seemed straightforward and predictable. And the production team had been highly reassuring. Used to dealing with TV virgins they had talked her through everything that was supposed to happen and reassured her all the way along. This week she was just one of the team. She didn’t feel it but she was determined to do her best.
“Isn’t that right Hazel?”
“That’s right Shona. I have spent over forty years studying the mind and the brain but I could not tell anyone here, anything about their own minds that they could not figure out for yourselves. Everything that happens to you happens in your head. It happens to your brain and you are your brain. Events may take place ‘out there’ in the world but it is how you interpret them that makes the difference.”
“Can you give my viewers an example?”
“Yes Shona,” said Hazel and proceeded to tell the story of the man she had met on the train.
Shona cut this slightly short to tell her own anecdote about how believing in herself had got her onto television. From that they had gone straight to the first case, an unhappy looking woman in her late thirties.
“How can I get my husband to love me again?”
“Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
“For how long have things been going wrong?”
“We have been married ten years and known each other for nearly twice that. It has been tough and rocky at times but I still love him. In spite of everything I still get a magical, special feeling from being with him. But I get the feeling that I no longer excite him.”
“Have you asked him?”
“No.”
“You are able to come on national television and publicly ask me to solve your problem for you but you cannot talk to your husband?” Hazel left no room for an answer. “I am sorry to say there is nothing I can do in your relationship. But I do think that if you are brave enough to come here then I think you can definitely tell him how you are feeling.”
“I can’t.”
“You can tell two million strangers but you cannot tell him?”
Shona winced, wanting to interject that she had nearer four million viewers but she stopped herself.
“I am being unkind. It IS easier to talk to strangers than to people who have known us a long time. The longer someone knows you the less they actually listen to what you say. They assume they know it all already.”
The woman opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. Her brain was too busy thinking. This hardly ever happened. People came on Shona’s show to argue why they were right, not wonder if they might be wrong. But Hazel had just removed all lines of attack. She’d moved past the confrontations and appeared to have actually helped this first guest. The woman sank slowly back into her chair. The audience at home could see the advice sink slowly into her.
The studio audience saw it too and the atmosphere in the room became more charged. People shifted, people sat up. Here was someone who really could help. It wasn’t clear exactly how she was helping. She hadn’t said anything particularly unusual or profound but just watch how the woman had sunk calmly into herself told them that it had worked for her. And if it worked for her then maybe it would work for them. Eighty people started mentally rephrasing the questions they thought they wanted to ask.
In the awkward silence Shona sank too. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. The first problem was supposed to take them up to the adverts. Yet here they were, still less than five minutes into the show and already they were moving to the next guest. Looking at her notes she hoped this one would be better. Some middle-aged no hoper worried that he had wasted his life. Let’s see her fix that in under three minutes.
Shona called the man out and the boom mike moved to hover over his head. Before Shona could ask him anything about himself, he had flung himself desperately into the care of the good doctor.
“Dr Cole, how can I be happy?”
“What is making you unhappy?”
“Life”
“There’s no cure for that but we are all in the same prison.
Life is complicated, messy and unfair. There is no justice. The best one can do is to understand your own mind. “
“That doesn’t help me much. Give me a specific example”
“What would make you happy?” Hazel asked “You tell me.” the unhappy man shot back.
“But it is very different for different people.”
“Money.”
“It can be an answer but you could make yourself more unhappy as you chase after it. Maybe the best way to be happy is to think of something you can have and think of a reason why you deserve it. And it has to be a better reason than because you are unhappy. You should not be rewarding yourself for being unhappy, that will just teach you to feel sorry for yourself and make excuses to indulge. Find a positive reason, there will be one. Maybe you did something good at work or for your children. You’ve been on television. That’s a brave thing to do.”
“Yes,” He had wanted to be angry but it was too difficult while trying to concentrate on what Hazel was telling him. It wasn’t what he had expected and yet at the same time it seemed quite obvious. Besides, something about Hazel reminded him of his favourite teacher back in school, Miss Norman. She used to tell him off too. Back in the room, Hazel was still speaking.
“Then, before opening that bottle of wine, pause to think about that positive thing. You’ve bought the round. Your son or daughter made you laugh. If you can’t think of anything, phone a friend. You have friends and it’s good to speak to them. That can be the reason in itself.”
“That’s not much,” he protested weakly.
“No, but it’s better than nothing isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He said it in a very quiet voice and sat down. Only lip-readers would have noticed the silent ‘Miss’ he added at the end.
This was bad TV. The studio expert was supposed to provoke the audience into a stand-up fight not cow them gently into their seats with a series of verbal hugs.
There was a buzzing in Shona’s ear. Her producer wanted to know if Shona had lost her voice. The realisation that she had not interrupted anyone for ages on her own show was like a shot of adrenaline straight to her heart. She yelped. She twitched. But no words came.
Dr Hazel Cole, MD, PhD didn’t seem to notice this seizure.
The show must go on so the producer steered her shell-shocked star through a few more introductions and Dr. Cole did the rest. She soothed. She calmed. She talked people through their problems and guided them gently to their own solutions. All the scheduled guests were dealt with and the back ups. Plenty more hands went up and plenty more people were helped. Their problems weren’t solved but their helplessness was being addressed.
All except Shona’s. She had recovered somewhat from her earlier fright but this was going from bad to worse. You couldn’t make good TV without drama and tension, but Dr. Cole seemed to defuse all the bombs before they even had chance to start ticking. Shona was having trouble finding anything to add. Any place to interject with her own insights and unhappiness. She was not happy about it. But there wasn’t a lot she could do.
“We’ve got time for just one more,” the producer’s voice came into her ear and she echoed it to the audience. Finally some good news.
It seemed like everyone had had his or her say. But there was a small, shaking hand half-raised on the back row. The floor manager spotted this girl, early twenties and quite frankly not right for television. But by now they were out of other choices. He whispered to the producer, who guided Shona and camera two towards the sad and nervous figure.
“Yes, the girl at the back there. Your hand is up?”
“Yes.”
“What is your name?”
“Susan.”
“Hello Susan, You have a question for me and Dr. Cole?”
“For Doctor Cole, yes.”
“And…”
“My baby just died. She was three months old. What can I do?”
The audience hushed and Shona’s heart leapt. She felt much better. At last, here was one that Dr. Cole wouldn’t have an answer for. Couldn’t.
Camera two tightened on the girls face. Camera four zoomed in on Hazel, who was studying the girl carefully. The producer cut back and forth between the two. Eventually Hazel spoke.
“Susan, what was your baby called?”
A strange look passed across the girl’s face.
“Emily,” There was a hesitation in her speech. “She was called Emily”
“Susan?”
“Yes?”
“You’re lying.”
“No!” said Susan.
“Yes!” thought Shona.
“There wasn’t a baby was there? … Susan? Tell me.”
“No”
“But something is the matter. Please, tell us.”
By now the girl’s face was wrinkling. Her eyes were watering and fixed firmly on her lap. She wouldn’t look up, trying to block the room full of people, lights and cameras. After an age, she looked back to Hazel.
“I’m lonely,” she said and burst into tears.
Hazel was already out of her chair. She was climbing the stairs beside the bank of chairs. She reached the girl and wrapped her up in her arms. More tears came. And more. Hazel was crying too. Members of the audience joined in. It built and spread. Little embarrassed wipes of the eyes became full blowing into handkerchiefs. Sobs became howls.
Shona’s mouth opened and closed. Again and again.
The producer eventually remembered he was human being and ended the transmission.
The switchboard took lots of calls. Within minutes The Guardian and the Telegraph had both phoned Hazel’s agent to arrange interviews. Shona’s station knew a hit when they saw one. The executive producer was waiting for them even before they came off air.
~
The procrastinators were put back another week and then another.
Bookshops found themselves being asked for copies of a book they had never heard of. They phoned Hazel’s publishers to moan about how unfair it was that their competitors were being given early access to this hot new book but that they had only got one or two copies. Their competitors phoned up and said the same thing. The initial print run had been just 5,000, normal for an unknown author of this type. These had all gone.
The confused but happy senior publishing staff found that there was not even a copy in the office, they had to laser print it from proofs to see what their best-selling book was about.
They spent the morning trying to blame each other for not having been ready for this success and the afternoon fighting to claim the credit for getting this author aboard. At about four o’clock a secretary passing through to clear away coffee cups, asked her boss how many more copies of Help Yourself they were printing and could she get five put aside?
Nobody, of course, had thought of ordering the reprint to commence, but after a further brief flurry of blame-storming they called the printers to put in an order for another 50,000. This was not nearly enough.
†
“And finally tonight we have a report on Exocet celebrity John Smith, who is inspiring idiocy all over the country.” The Newsnight presenter managed just the right amount of sneering condescension. “With me in the studio is the Right Reverend Cake, Bishop of Enfield and President of the Families First group. But we go first to this report from our youth culture reporter, Natula Varaskia.”
Natula Varaskia, only 24 herself, and a former child pop star, was an ideally qualified youth reporter. Although her previous career was a distant memory and her teenage years had been almost normal. In her first year at university she had started producing short news items for student TV. A contract with small satellite entertainment news channel paid for the rest of her education and set her on her current path. She wanted to be a serious journalist but was seasoned enough to play to her strengths. She went to the BBC the first chance she had to work in ‘youth programming’. She worked hard not to be typecast and took any chance she could to do real reporting. Not that she was called upon much by this very middle-aged programme, but when she did she made extra effort.
Her report on John Smith was both highly professional and highly entertaining. The evening before she and her cameraman had gone her old university bar and found a likely group of photogenic students. She followed them through the course of an evening, interviewing them and plying them with drink, as they went along. The cameraman captured their increasingly drunken antics and these were edited down to a three minute package, which Natula spliced together with stills and audio from Smith’s performance. The juxtaposition was obvious but effective. Here were people who really did live for the instant, who swept through life with an intense focus on the immediate here and now. They enjoyed themselves and little else and this, the report and selective editing implied, was why Smith’s message was spreading so fast through their group. Yet Natula carefully left it open whether Smith and his followers stood for the same thing or whether they were just hearing what they wanted to hear. Back in the studio, the presenter turned to his guest.
“Reverend Cake, what is your reaction to this latest youth craze?”
“I just worry about the example this man sets to our young people. What he is saying is childish and we all want our children to grow up. To paraphrase the apostle John, to become a man you must put away childish things. It is irresponsible to encourage people to just enjoy themselves.”
“So people shouldn’t enjoy themselves?”
“He-hem, I am not suggesting that, Michael.” Cake replied with a little fake laugh. This was how the game was played on Newsnight. “I like music and art. If you came to my church in Enfield you would find that it is full of both.”
“So you see John Smith as just another pop star?”
“Yes and no. His message is as empty of content as any pop lyrics and he is clearly as much a manufactured commercial product as any boy band. But I worry that people won’t see him for what he is. By standing up there speaking, telling people what to think, he’s disguising the fact that his message is essentially empty.”
“Teenagers should listen to you instead, Reverend?”
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea if they did, Michael. Not at all” Reverend Cake felt comfortable, Michael Wallis was still playing straight out of the Newsnight playbook. The Reverend had been here before.
“But seriously Reverend Cake, couldn’t we argue that this man Smith is articulate and attempting to engage people in genuine existential debate? You personally might not like his message but young people are listening. Aren’t you just annoyed that you and the church youth club are failing to compete?”
“I think I know which one will still be around this time next year.” A tried and tested defensive move from Cake.
“So why are so concerned about John Smith?”
“Oh, Smith himself seems to be a nonentity.” At last Cake spotted his opening. “Nothing more than a puppet for darker, more malevolent forces. Smith’s message is nihilistic because he is an empty vessel echoing the words of a dark master. It is not hard to see that it is the Clarion that has manufactured this false prophet. It is their agenda which is really behind this.”
“Eric Hayle is the real villain here?” The Reverend Cake had pretty much won. Fire and brimstone always made these BBC types uncomfortable.
“I’m glad we agree Michael.” This was too easy. “We at Families First have long argued that Eric Hayle is not fit to run national media and we urge the government to silence the public voice of this self-proclaimed pornographer. This John Smith episode is just another example of Hayle trying to rip apart the fabric of society and destroy good Christian family values.” Checkmate.
“Reverend Cake, Thank you.” The Reverend Cake accepted the resignation graciously.