Society
Crying and snuffling in public is so American, so Blair, so patronising. But I can't help it
Published 18 March 2002
Each table at the Mirror's "Pride of Britain Awards" was made up of six worthy individuals, one journalist and an A-list celebrity. I put my glass between place cards that read "Doreen Lawrence" and "Simon Weston" - and immediately worried how, in my inimitable fashion, I would manage to put my foot in it with one of them. This wasn't simply a misplaced anxiety. The only person who makes more regular public blunders is George Dubbya. As I laughed at the thought of Bush waving at Stevie Wonder the other week, a close friend unkindly reminded me of the time I waved across a room at David Blunkett.
At the champagne luncheon, the Hilton ballroom jangled with edgy laughter and bubbling excitement, as telly personalities and soap stars struggled to be both sincere and modest. For any starlet who finds being around the general public "a chore", this afternoon is a little bit of hell. Kids run riot, tugging on sleeves and yelling: "Mummy, Mummy, look, it's the one you hate from Corrie . . ." - and all around you, non-celebrity babies wriggle and squawk.
What creates genuine discomfort for the majority, though, is the certain knowledge that, at some point in the afternoon, we will cry in public. Sobbing, snuffling and choking back sobs on telly is so American, it's so Blair, it's so patronising and . . . weak. And I can't help it.
Little House on the Prairie took away my emotional self-control years ago, when, at the tender age of nine, I sat and witnessed the pain and bravery of Mary Ingalls as she went blind. Just hearing the opening music, the jolly "de de de de . . .", still sends me into a paroxysm of grief.
I've been programmed by a generation of cynical, clever producers and advertisers to respond to set pieces and emotional "triggers". You know - black-and-white shots of children with big eyes, "Candle in the Wind", Disney, Sting and new Labour.
Yes, that's right, new Labour, whose film-makers and event organisers are masters in the art of emotional blackmail. The election films used in 1997 and 2001 were classics of this genre. Kiddies looking hopeless wandered around in a black-and-white world to a haunting melody. Nurses struggled grimly with terminally ill patients, and old ladies were seen double-locking their front doors. Then the emotive soundbites would roar forth: "They worked all their life for others. Is this all they deserve?" And: "Little Isabel is afraid of the future. Let's give her a chance for life!" Gulp, sob, puke.
At the "Pride of Britain Awards", I at least managed to get my inevitable Bushism out of the way before the coffee arrived. I was chatting to a smart older gentleman called Roger Bannister whom I thought, for some unknown reason, was a former BBC executive. It took minutes of tricky conversation, as he kept steering me away from telly and towards athletics and sport, before I finally clicked and then blurted to the septuagenarian: "So, do you still run a four-minute mile, then?"
Finally, the lights dimmed - and John Leslie, Richard Branson and Gary Lineker got their hankies out.
This year, it was a Welsh girl called Emma Honey who finally got my mascara flowing. The audience was shown a poignant, tear-jerking account of her battle with heroin addiction at just 16. When she received the award, she said: "This is for my little boy. I did it all for him . . . He's fabulous." Emma now helps others in her position through the Prince's Trust. I met her afterwards, and it was clear that this young woman had no need for soft lighting and a Disney backing track to touch, break or lift hearts.
The "real" Emma, unlike politicians and celebs, moved us to tears - and the heavy-handed, schmaltzy video and effects were shown for what they always are: either for hiding the truth or (in this rare case) for gilding the lily.
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