Last night on television Jasper Rees Romping through a year of political restlessness
There was a lovely cartoon in The Spectator last year: Two people were looking up Brexit in a dictionary. “Apparently it means Brexit,” says one. By the end of Brexit Means Brexit (BBC Two) I was still scratching my head about its meaning. According to this romp through the past year of political and judicial turbulence, it denotes pantomime: a chance to cheer and clap, and boo and hiss.
The difference with panto slapstick is we can usually agree who the baddies are. Not here. Some will have high-fived Nigel Farage and heckled Anna Soubry, others the other way round. Probably everyone will think film-maker Patrick Forbes, who never appeared on screen, was biased against their own position. Not because he was, but because Brexit can provoke irrational fervour.
Notwithstanding, we can surely all purr at every silky bon mot from Nicholas Soames. “Dear old things, the Brexiteers,” he mused. “Shovel them a bit of red meat and they have an absolute accident on the spot.”
They’re all performers, of course. Boris Johnson blew a kiss at an opponent. Andrew Bridgen, the
MP for North West Leicestershire, celebrated the triggering of Article 50 by singing in a perfectly colourless baritone. Jacob Rees-mogg marked the occasion by playing Latin plainchant on his mobile phone.
The most eager performer was of course Farage, whose CV reads “20 years’ experience jabbing the establishment in the ribs”. “This new chancellor fella,” he said referring to the former Foreign Secretary, “Hammond’s his name: no one knows who he is.” One day the former Pied Piper of Ukip will navigate his way to the end of a pier and discover his actual vocation.
As an insight into Brexit from the inside, this was good insouciant fun with lots of jaunty music. In a very British way it made light of a constitutional earthquake in which the elevation of the DUP is only the latest surreal update. We didn’t learn much that we didn’t already know other than that Soubry really is the only known antidote to Farage. “It’s just a bit s--t, isn’t it?” she said as Article 50 was triggered. I agree.
This could be a misapprehension, but there don’t seem to be as many wall-to-wall gardening programmes these days. About 15 to 20 years ago, you couldn’t move for hydrangea tips and homages to secret gardens. Then the schedules were subjected to a makeover takeover, and all anyone was allowed to watch was other people’s plots being improved out of all recognition at warp speed.
The makeover has long been the Japanese bindweed of the TV schedules and its latest appearance is in Love Your Garden (ITV). The idea is that Alan Titchmarsh finds an absolute beast of a back garden and transforms it with a lot of help from his friends. But there needs to be a human story. This week, it was Mark Ormrod, a Royal Marine who became a triple amputee after he was injured by an IED in Afghanistan.
So threaded through the main sections was some back story about Ormrod’s career, family life and remarkable recovery. Ormrod is not the first such person to say his life is better for the injuries he sustained, but it was beyond the competence of a programme about outdoor decoration to probe his psyche.
Meanwhile, in the foreground, his neglected Plymouth cabbage patch was subjected to Titchmarsh’s magic wand. In order to help Ormrod with his balance, perhaps for the first time ever a gardening programme sanctioned the use of artificial grass. “Sometimes you just have to bend the rules a little,” advised Titchmarsh. For the record, 30-37mm is your optimal height for fake blades.
More of a cheerleader these days, Titchmarsh left the heavy lifting to a team of co-presenters, which somewhat inevitably includes a rugged he-man and two younger women. There were some handy tips on tiny succulents, bulky ferns and upside-down thyme baskets, but, in general, this was less a gardening programme than a moving thank-you note to a wounded serviceman.
As such the expenditure seemed worth it, with all of the voluntary Marine labour thrown in. But it looked like quite an unaffordable reboot. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I did wonder about all those other servicemen and women who leave the forces, some nursing hidden wounds, who must have to make do and mend without such a public tribute.
Brexit Means Brexit Love Your Garden