JIM Bartlett throws excrement at aristocrats. "Heh, heh, I just chuck it at em," he said. "They don't like it when it goes down the front of their shirts." Jim is a self styled "class war activist", a sewer rat with a mission. Ironically, Jim was being poled along in a punt as he proudly detailed his contribution to the noble, historical struggle against institutionatised, unearned privilege. He was, in truth, as execrable as his targets.
Still, on the antiaristocracy side, Jim was in a class of his own. The more discerning opponents of the nonsense realised that Jim's assaults with ordure implicitly saluted the codology he railed against. Then again, so did the programme. Made by the company which brought us Hollywood Women, the producers fully accepted the silly and simplistic class hierarchy of the Hello! Academy of Sociology.
There is, undeniably, a parasitic class in Britain (with remnants here too) which continues to have money, power and privilege ludicrously in excess of its own inherent worth. As we approach the 21st century it is clear that, in historical terms, this class is a rump of a primitive and unenlightened social order which, perhaps - (though, given that it plundered band pillaged its way to wealth, probably not) had some, albeit atavistic, moral legitimacy in the mediaeval world.
But this was tabloid TV - ostensibly parading the parasites that they might be ridiculed while, in reality, being far too accommodating of the unsustainable notion of their superiority. All the usual suspects: Peregrine Worsthorne, A.A. Gill, Molly Parkin, Michael Winner, Jilly Cooper, Liz Hurley, John McCririck, Brian Sewell, Peter York, Ascot, Cowes Week, polo, debs, public school brats ... were dragged out to bat for the spongers. They made a thoroughly pathetic bunch.
Indeed, it is difficult to imagine a more vacuous group of apologists for any cause or class. Beside this crowd, the Spice Girls seem like intellectual and ethical giants. We were told how "the upper class are hornier and have always had loads of sex". Wow! What exciting people! At the Ivor Spencer School for Butlers, Ivor taught his pup its how to behave if they found that "Sir" was in the sack with "a lady other than his wife".
"Even if the lady is completely naked, you mustn't stare," said Ivor, as he carried a bottle of champagne on a tray and a glass on his head. You just say. Good morning, sir. "I's a pleasure. Good night, sir? Sleep well, sir?" At a school for nannies, Louise E. Davis, nanny of nannies (nanno di tutti nanni) inculcated comparable servility in the name of civilised behaviour. At the Lucy Clayton Modelling and Grooming School, big, strapping girls, were being taught "how to walk".
And so it went cliche piled on cliche. Given that Tony Parsons and Peter York have been [over this territory on television before, it was all rather sad. But, the acceptance of the discourse about "good breeding" and "desirable elites" and "rather sweet people" remained offensive. True, there were commentators - Will Seat, David Puttnam, John Humphrys, Melvyn Bragg and Tony Benn, among others - who pointed out how undesirable and vulgar most aristocratic behaviour actually is. But, in the long run, Class was essentially PR for parasites.
It was tired and tiresome, designed to allow viewers indulge their prejudices without attempt and political contexts. Three 14 year old public school brats brayed to the camera about their "£12,000 a year fees", adding don't worry - you couldn't afford it, we can", pretty well summed up the value system of a class described by the usually mild mannered David Puttnam as "stupid".
In this, however, Puttnam was only half right. These people have managed to retain undue privilege in the face of logic, knowledge and common decency. The media - a combination of the trash media and an elite media which has a vested interest in maintaining the fiction - is also to blame. Class (though Crass would have been more accurate), for all its publicity guff about "no holds barred", bought into the nonsense too. Now, maybe Jim Bartlett could consider television producers .
THE programme Reputations raised the dilemma about the possibility of knowing what to do but being unable to do it. Its subject this week was Dr Benjamin Spock, America's child rearing guru between 1943 and the early 1970s, hen feminists decided to do metaphorically, a Jim Bartlett on him. Certainly, the gap between Spock's theories and his life was considerable.
Advocating that a father should "be fond and show when he is with them, that he is fond" of his children, Spock admitted that it never occurred to him to treat his own children with such affection. So, there you had it: the man who told American fathers to demonstrate their love for their children didn't do it to his own.
He had reacted against the harsh, cold, Victorian ideals of parenthood (particularly those of his mother) to which he had been subjected himself. But, while he changed his mind, he replicated the behaviour he had experienced.
Perhaps this could be interpreted as a triumph of nurture over intellect or even of the tyranny of the genes. Certainty, it is the established and understandable reaction of the preachedat (preachees?) to attack the preacher for not practising what he preaches.
But, in Spock's case, it seems only fair to say that his own behaviour did not invalidate his message. The ideal balance between a child's selfesteem and sense of responsibility needed, in midcentury, to be tipped towards some indulgence of the child.
Perhaps in recent decades, the indulgence has gone too far. Self confidence and ambition are all very well, but these traits are more attractive when supported by a sense of duty and real ability. Anyway, it is ironic that the first two words of Spock's Baby And Child Care (published in May 1946, it has sold 24 million copies and is still selling well) are "Trust yourself". Few who bought it, did. They wanted a guru and a Bible.
Still, given that most young parents at the time would have come from a tradition of being told what to do and think, it's not all that surprising. Spock's sons, Mike (64) and John (54), agreed that their Da had not practised what he preached and Mike, especially, seemed quite unforgiving of the fact that he (Ben) had left his wife, Jane, to marry a woman 40 years younger than himself.
Reputations is usually a hard, debunking programme. The job done on, for instance, Enid Blyton, another writer with huge influence on children, was real hatchet stuff - much of it, it appeared, deserved. Not so with Spock, however. Sure, the contradictions between his private life and his public prescriptions were detailed. But Ella Bahaire's documentary clearly maintained a soft spot for its subject. Perhaps her parents read the book and cuddled her lavishly.
Now 94, Spock's reputation as a medical/cultural loop of the 20th century, though diminished, is se cure. Back in the 1960s, he became, though it was not his nature, a leftie. He clashed fiercely with LBJ who he believed, with good reason, had lied to him about Vietnam. Later, prats like Nixon and Reagan attacked him. On the strength of that alone, he must have got something right.
Mind you, the brats from Class, though few of them would have been shown excessive parental fondness, display even more selfishness and selfindulgence than the Spock generation. Clearly, corrupt values have many sources. But the core of the poison is in insisting to children that they are inherently better (or worse) than others. Reward without effort and/or effort without reward will twist anybody. Knowing as much is one thing, of course. But as Mike Spock said: "Behaviour cascading down through generations can't be changed just by the desire to do so."
RTE'S election count coverage, cascading down the years, hasn't altered radically. This time there was an emphasis on technology, hyped by rather dodgy thriller music at the outset. John Bowman and the dickiebowed Brian Farrell, entering from separate wings, brought to mind the reaction in the Glasgow Empire to a gig there by Mike and Bernie Winters: "Christ, there's two of them," said a voice near the front.
But, for all the technology, hype and choreography, it was less exciting than usual this time around. In fairness, much of this was not RTE's fault. The election had been a bore and even though there was the possibility that, like the Eurovision Song Contest, the vote counting would be better than the event, it never really took fire. There was a lack of bitter confrontation, perhaps the best moment arriving when Toddy O'Sullivan attacked Independent Newspapers.
Here, at last, was an opportunity to prise out a major media organisation's role in promoting an ideology very much in its own, while presenting it as being, primarily in the public, interest. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe not. But the opportunity has been squandered. Sure, Sam Smyth, a respected columnist, has since been on radio to defend the Irish Independent's controversial, eve of election day editorial. But columnists are not responsible for editorials. The public had a right to expect Indo editor, Vinnie Doyle or, at least, a leaderwriter to explain the paper's stance.
It's not that RTE can order people to go on its programmes. But the impression of timidity, which has characterised current affairs for a decade or so, is bolstered by not getting the most powerful people to defend their action publicly.
For RTE, the graphics were good (though too many constituencies were virtually ignored); the studio backdrop was irritating; the sense of an unfolding national drama was not strong, despite the thriller music and the portentous choreography and because the election itself was desperately dull. It was generally competent but uninspiring - quite like the vote, management, which was so crucial to the elections outcome.
FINALLY, The Heart Of The Matter tried, among other things, to distinguish between a religion and a cult. Length of establishment, number of adherents, methods of propaganda and recruitment were identified as criteria. The debate was lively, but ultimately unsatisfactory as people will believe, not just what they want to believe, but what they want to believe they believe and so on.
Had Joan Bakewell's guests, who included a sociologist, a psychiatrist, a Protestant minister and various religion/sect/cult devotees been watching the Irish election, they might have found an answer. Clearly, Fianna Fail and Fine Gael are religions; the Pee Dees are just a cult.