HOW DARE YOU CALL ME A RACIST! THE DAY JOAN RIVERS BLEW HER TOP ON AIR
ONE of the most relaxing, jovial presences in any studio is ‘Little’ Jimmy Osmond.
He’s been on Midweek twice: frank and interesting about growing up as a Mormon and helping his family through tricky times, but also so visibly pleased to meet everyone else that before the show he offers to hand round the tea and eagerly asks: ‘What are you gonna talk about? You’ve written a book? Awesome!’
It is amazing how happy this makes people.
Rarest of all are the moments of actual hostility on air, and I suppose I should relate the most famous — the encounter between Joan Rivers and the black activist Darcus Howe.
He had made a programme about tracing a son he didn’t live with as a child but found as a young adult. Joan was increasingly restive about this ‘babyfather’ history and gradually took against his campaigning stance. It proceeded thus:
Joan: ‘I’m so bored with race, I think we should all . . .’
Darcus: ‘You are entitled to be bored by it, I am not.’
Joan: ‘Yes you are, yes you are, let me explain, I think people should intermarry, everyone should be part this, part that and part everything, and race doesn’t mean a damn thing, it’s about people . . . everybody just relax, take the best of their back cultures and move forward.’
Me (emolliently, without effect): ‘That’s a very American approach, a melting-pot approach . . .’
Darcus (loudly): ‘America is one of the most savagely racial places . . . So since “black” offends Joan . . .’
Joan: ‘Wait — no — just stop right now! Black does not offend me — how dare you! How dare you say that! Black offends me? You know nothing about me — you sat down here and . . .! The USE of the term black offends me? — where the hell are you coming from, you have got such a chip on your shoulder, I don’t give a damn if you are black, white, couldn’t care less, it’s what the person is — don’t you dare call me a racist — I don’t know you.’
Me (deciding to calm things down a bit): ‘I don’t think it was personal, Joan.’
Joan: ‘Oh, I think it was! When someone says the term black offends Joan! I will not sit there and have you say that.’
Darcus: ‘I think this is a language problem.’
Joan: ‘No, I don’t. I think this is a problem in your stoopid head. You had a child, you left them, your wife said you weren’t there, you married a woman, you deserted her, now your son comes back and he’s got problems — Don’t you dare call me a racist — don’t you dare. I will not . . .’
Me: ‘I have great sympathy with both sides.’ [Actually, I really did: Darcus was being patronising, but Joan was overreacting.] Joan: ‘Sympathy? Then YOU’RE a racist! ( to Darcus) Don’t you dare call me that! Son of a bitch!’
It quietened down, but Joan was so genuinely angry that — scheduled to do her interview next — she said she would rather be on at the end.
So I looked at the fourth guest, an eminent botanical photographer, who was sitting there frozen in horror.
And I said: ‘OK, let’s turn to talking about plant photography.’ Afterwards, the phones went mad, and I had to go on the PM programme and explain that no, I really didn’t think it was my job to prevent this happening. These were grown people, both genuinely aggrieved, on a grown-up channel. I was not their nanny. They had a right to say what they felt.
Midway through the afternoon Joan Rivers rang me at home in Suffolk and said: ‘Hey, honey. Sorry. Did I call that guy an asshole, on the BBC??’ ‘No, Joan. Sonofabitch.’ ‘Oh, thank Gaaaad!’ Frankly, if we’d had Jimmy Osmond at the table, it would probably never have kicked off so viciously at all. He would have said ‘awesome’ and we’d all have felt thoroughly hygge again. Maybe.