Max Hastings

An evening of virulent anti-American propaganda at Covent Garden, or rather a terrific Madame Butterfly, brilliantly lit as well as sung. The evening was marred only by the distraction of a madwoman waving her arms at the edge of the stage. This was bootlicking by the Opera House to the Department for Culture. In order to get money from New Labour, every arts institution must prove itself ‘accessible’, apparently to all 60 million people in this island. ‘Sign-language-interpreted performances are part of the ROH’s commitment to enabling as many sections of the community as possible to appreciate and enjoy its productions,’ said the Butterfly programme.

Two or three times a week, some radio or television programme telephones, usually in search of a soundbite. That I should be so lucky, you may say. How flattering. Yes, but nobody ever mentions money. The ability to turn a phrase is the only marketable skill a journalist possesses. No newspaper would ask a professional writer to produce even a couple of hundred words without mentioning a fee, however modest. Yet broadcast producers do this to hundreds of us every day. The assumption is that we will perform for the mere thrill of gaining access to the airwaves. Politicians, of course, are always up for it. Why should the rest of us be? Factual broadcasting is at a low ebb partly because it is pitifully underfunded.