Bbc

Usually when I start listening to a true-life podcast, I don’t know how it ends. That’s not the case with The Smuggler, BBC Radio 4’s new investigation into people smuggling. Across ten episodes, its Orwell Prize-winning presenter, Annabel Deas, tells the story of ‘Nick’, on the face of it an unlikely protagonist. Nick is white, English and a former soldier in the British Army. He’s also a friend of mine. We met in jail in 2021 and have stayed in contact ever since. So I know Nick’s story. I even know how it ends. Despite all this, I found myself absolutely gripped by The Smuggler. This is partly because it’s such a fascinating, and timely, topic. Migration is rarely out of the news. Keir Starmer keeps promising to ‘smash the gangs’ and ‘stop the boats’.

With reluctance – but enticed by its surprisingly starry cast and the fact that it had landed, ironically enough, on Netflix – I recently tuned in to The Hour, the BBC’s 2011 political drama series. It's about a BBC TV news programme being launched in 1956, against the backdrop of the Suez Crisis. And, goodness me, isn’t it good? Better than good, in fact – it’s a high-carat television diamond, and not some lab-grown job either, but the real, romantic, sparkling deal hewn out of the earth and hawked via Antwerp before ending up in the Imperial State Crown.

I’m hiding from something I used to love: the news. It’s a common tendency these days – Loyd Grossman noted it in his Spectator diary recently, calling himself a ‘nonewsnik… unable to deal with a daily diet of misery and despair’. I understand the need to escape the depressing effects of war and economic turmoil. That’s part of my own reasoning too. But my main point is slightly different: it’s not so much that the news is depressing, it’s that the news is boring. We’ve been here before. Whatever the issue, we’ve faced the same old problems and run through the same old arguments. For my 50th birthday, a friend gave me a copy of the front page of the Times from the day I was born.

Nowadays whenever an elderly celebrity dies – consider the death last month of Gene Hackman as a case in point – one of the first things that happens is that a chunky clip of them appearing on a talk show such as Wogan or Parkinson gets shared on social media. Before you know it, you’ve spent three or four minutes listening to them regale television-watchers of the 1970s, 1980s or 1990s with a reflective anecdote or a personal story that reveals something important or even profound about their lives and animating passions or influences.

There was a time when the word ‘toxic’ was applied in only a handful of circumstances. There was the stuff that occasionally oozed out of a power station into the North Sea and made the fish go funny. Or there was the substance that Christopher Lloyd would stick in the gull-wing doored DeLorean to make it go back to 1955. More prosaically there was the category of toxicity that included rat poison, bottles of bleach or those small sachets that drop out of cardboard boxes containing newly purchased electronic goods. They were generally labelled ‘toxic’ and for good reason. But then this all changed. I’m not exactly sure when it happened, but at some point in the space since Britney Spears’ 2003 hit of the same name and about five years ago, the word went bananas.

There is a certain comic archetype that is particularly British. The likes of Pooter, Mainwaring, Hancock, Fawlty and Brent are in a tradition – going back to Falstaff, perhaps further – of hopelessly optimistic yet socially oblivious dreamers. One such character is John Shuttleworth, created and played by Graham Fellows. For the uninitiated, John Shuttleworth is a retired security guard and aspiring singer-songwriter from Sheffield who lives with his dinner lady wife and two children, Darren and Karen. He performs mainly at hospices and drop-in centres, often for no more than his travel money. His career is inexpertly managed by his next-door neighbour with whom John enjoys a generally warm, though occasionally fractious, relationship.