(no subject)
Celebrity chefs are a curious breed and, if current TV schedules are to be believed, as much of a national obssession as house prices and the vaguries of the Portuguese justice system. For example, anyone plonked in front of the electric fishtank in the past few weeks will have been treated to Jamie Oliver rustling up some scran in his suspiciously clutter-free shed, Nigella Lawson purring over dishes that can be prepared by busy suburbanites in-between getting home from work and going out to that night's wine-tasting and swingers party, or Marco Pierre White yelling at D-list celebrities dressed as a member of Dire Straits.
Strangely, during this particularly rich seam of programming for his ilk, the don of celebrity chefs is nowhere to be seen on terrestrial sets. I refer of course to Gordon Ramsay- a man so brimming with testosterone he once opened a show by striding through his packed restaurant with a dead deer slung over his shoulder. He despises vegitarians, spends time on 'Kitchen Nightmares' pricking the deluded dream-bubbles of incompetent gastro-pub owners, he has a disconcerting habit of calling other men 'Big Boy' and he can curse with exasperation, desperation, rage, revulsion and joy all at the same time. He is, frankly, mesmeric. You could say he's a cariacature but he gives the distinct impression he's been like that since the age of six.
I have plenty of time for Ramsay and his brethren as I can similarly have no quarrel with the likes of Alan Titchmarsh, David Dickinson and everyone on 'Time-Team'. The simple fact is that when they appear on television they are by-and-large presenting us with their skill and knowledge; all learnt over a period of time with hard-work and dedication. In fact I firmly believe that, as Big Brother has plagued our screens these past few years, Adam Hart-Davis was created in a lab to redress the balance of decent, worthwhile human beings getting screen-time.
I would bet good money that most people who watch cookery shows on T.V. don't actually go on to prepare the dishes they've seen at home in the same way that people don't watch Tony Robinson and co on an excavation then go and dig up half of Shropshire looking for coins. Instead we enjoy simply wallowing in a demonstration of someone else's talent- just as we did as children when we gazed in wonder at the peerless Tony Hart on the BBC or, if we had too many e-numbers, Neil Buchanan over on 'Art Attack'.
Essentially this sort of thing is sport without the stress of competition and the ever present fear of failure. We know as we watch their shows that Nigella's souffle will rise, the Time Team will figure out where William the Conquerer's church was and Alan Titchmarsh won't transform someone's back garden into The Somme. It's why these programmes comfort us with the safe reality of talent being rewarded with an end product, just as sport holds us in suspense with the constant threat of proof that sometime it just isn't.
One particular televisual extravaganza straddles both these emotional camps though. It presents us with masters of their trade effortlessly putting a lifetime of learning to work- all twinned with a constant stream of folk with the haunted look in their eyes that only walking the tightrope of success and failure brings. It's the show that, for centuries it seems, has caused families and friends to come together and point, jeer, shout, laugh and cringe at the box in equal measure. It's TV at it's emotionally engaging best. It's genuine mass communication. It's terrific.
And it's hosted by Michael Aspel.
Watching the Antiques Roadshow is as good as sitting down gets. There's many an actor whose lost out at the Oscars who could learn a thing or two about how to look magnanimous in defeat from posh people who turn up with a terrifyingly ugly family heirloom which turns out to be worth a decent £500 when they thought it shared a value with the Elgin Marbles- it's truly a joy to watch their dreams shattered before your very eyes by a kindly old antiques expert in a cardigan who knows, deep down, just how much he's hurting them and secretly loves it. There's something about these experts that reminds me of Michael Palin in 'Brazil'.
Similarly, the doddery pensioner who's had a painting that his Uncle found during the First World War sat in her attic for a few decades and suddenly finds out it's worth more than the Duke of Westminster is as heartwarming a story as it's possible to find. It could only be made better if Ramsay turned up and called them 'Big Boy'.
And then swore.
Strangely, during this particularly rich seam of programming for his ilk, the don of celebrity chefs is nowhere to be seen on terrestrial sets. I refer of course to Gordon Ramsay- a man so brimming with testosterone he once opened a show by striding through his packed restaurant with a dead deer slung over his shoulder. He despises vegitarians, spends time on 'Kitchen Nightmares' pricking the deluded dream-bubbles of incompetent gastro-pub owners, he has a disconcerting habit of calling other men 'Big Boy' and he can curse with exasperation, desperation, rage, revulsion and joy all at the same time. He is, frankly, mesmeric. You could say he's a cariacature but he gives the distinct impression he's been like that since the age of six.
I have plenty of time for Ramsay and his brethren as I can similarly have no quarrel with the likes of Alan Titchmarsh, David Dickinson and everyone on 'Time-Team'. The simple fact is that when they appear on television they are by-and-large presenting us with their skill and knowledge; all learnt over a period of time with hard-work and dedication. In fact I firmly believe that, as Big Brother has plagued our screens these past few years, Adam Hart-Davis was created in a lab to redress the balance of decent, worthwhile human beings getting screen-time.
I would bet good money that most people who watch cookery shows on T.V. don't actually go on to prepare the dishes they've seen at home in the same way that people don't watch Tony Robinson and co on an excavation then go and dig up half of Shropshire looking for coins. Instead we enjoy simply wallowing in a demonstration of someone else's talent- just as we did as children when we gazed in wonder at the peerless Tony Hart on the BBC or, if we had too many e-numbers, Neil Buchanan over on 'Art Attack'.
Essentially this sort of thing is sport without the stress of competition and the ever present fear of failure. We know as we watch their shows that Nigella's souffle will rise, the Time Team will figure out where William the Conquerer's church was and Alan Titchmarsh won't transform someone's back garden into The Somme. It's why these programmes comfort us with the safe reality of talent being rewarded with an end product, just as sport holds us in suspense with the constant threat of proof that sometime it just isn't.
One particular televisual extravaganza straddles both these emotional camps though. It presents us with masters of their trade effortlessly putting a lifetime of learning to work- all twinned with a constant stream of folk with the haunted look in their eyes that only walking the tightrope of success and failure brings. It's the show that, for centuries it seems, has caused families and friends to come together and point, jeer, shout, laugh and cringe at the box in equal measure. It's TV at it's emotionally engaging best. It's genuine mass communication. It's terrific.
And it's hosted by Michael Aspel.
Watching the Antiques Roadshow is as good as sitting down gets. There's many an actor whose lost out at the Oscars who could learn a thing or two about how to look magnanimous in defeat from posh people who turn up with a terrifyingly ugly family heirloom which turns out to be worth a decent £500 when they thought it shared a value with the Elgin Marbles- it's truly a joy to watch their dreams shattered before your very eyes by a kindly old antiques expert in a cardigan who knows, deep down, just how much he's hurting them and secretly loves it. There's something about these experts that reminds me of Michael Palin in 'Brazil'.
Similarly, the doddery pensioner who's had a painting that his Uncle found during the First World War sat in her attic for a few decades and suddenly finds out it's worth more than the Duke of Westminster is as heartwarming a story as it's possible to find. It could only be made better if Ramsay turned up and called them 'Big Boy'.
And then swore.