21June1996

My dear folks,

Friday afternoon. Mavis meditates inscrutably in a patch of sunlight just inside the patio door. Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring weaves its spells, a little late in the year as we’re approaching the end of a fine mid-summer’s day; nearly 17 hours of light, maybe less over mainland Europe where the weatherman has shown us a fierce belt of rain storms. Portugal looks set to stay fine, Jones. The England vs. India test from nearby Lords occupies BBC1. Every so often, the channel cuts away irritatingly to Ascot to show us frock-suited gentlemen & women in funny hats & horses sprinting furiously up the turf. It’s a world so remote from me that it might as well be happening on Mars.

I cannot comprehend the raison d’etre of this niche of society, nor do I seek to. I bear them no ill-will. They may strut around all summer trying to impress each other & the cameras if this is what pleases them. I only wish to heaven that they would do it on another channel so I can watch the cricket. Over the weekend I will have the good fortune of being able to watch a feast of football as the Euro 96 quarter-finalists battle it out. There is still some excellent sport to be seen on terrestrial TV. Sadly, it’s steadily diminishing as the wealthy satellite & cable groups continue to outbid the BBC & ITV for the coverage rights - part of the revolution which is changing the face of television.

I returned from Portugal to a BBC which is coming to terms with its own revolution, a rationalisation which is set to create massive internal mergers & will make many people redundant, particularly among the ranks of middle management. While the rowers are concerned there is palpable fear & trembling among the “suits”, as the BBC gods gather to disburse their fate. Senior people are being shut out of meetings in which their voices would have been loud a few weeks ago. We expect to hear soon whose endeavour is to be rewarded & whose hubris punished. I give thanks that I am not supporting a large mortgage or a family in such a climate. It’s dog eats dog all the way as the BBC prepares, or so we are told, for the challenges of the 21st C.

Meanwhile, my skinned knees are mending (yes Jones, the cropper was right outside the house), my new lenses are a great improvement on the old ones & I have completed 2 overnight shifts. The first was preoccupied with trying to make sense of the machinations around Yeltsin in Moscow & the second with the Florence summit which seems - at last - to have got to grips with the beef crisis.

Earlier in the week, I watched a fascinating documentary programme on the development of BSE in cattle & the subsequent emergence of a new form of CJD in humans. The programme recalled (& replayed) the succession of assurances given by figures in authority as they sought to quell public fears. It also interviewed the bitter relatives of young CJD victims who’d believed those assurances died. One cabinet minister - one of the few I respect - tried to explain the difference between “no conceivable risk” (his words at the time) & “no risk” but I failed to perceive it. The only comfort for the beleaguered government is that the programme demanded serious watching & would have attracted few viewers away from the tit n’bum fare on the tabloid channels.

Cathy, I read with horrified fascination your account of the Jon Bovi concert. I am only too familiar with the worship (symdrome) of young male pop stars. It’s brought home by the hordes of squealing, shrieking teenyboppers who invade the Beeb like a swarm of bees in search of some pimpled youth. I guess we must have had our own icons in our day but I can’t recall it. .........Enough! .........Blessings..............T