Sir Trevor "grilling" Cameron?? He couldn't grill a frozen burger . . .

And don't forget the broadcaster's John Major interview.

The dumbing down of British politics continues apace. Hot on the heels of Piers Morgan's cringe-inducing "interview" with Gordon "Plonker" Brown comes ITV1's next headline-grabbing contribution to enlightening the non-voters of this nation: Trevor McDonald Meets David Cameron.

(Full disclaimer: I worked on ITV1's Jonathan Dimbleby programme, which many would argue was the last genuine attempt by the broadcaster to give attention and airtime to domestic political coverage.)

The Cashcroft-owned PoliticsHome headline for this story is:

Cameron faces McDonald grilling

"Grilling"? Sir Trevor McDonald, knight of the realm and ex-anchor of News at Ten, couldn't grill a frozen beefburger that had been left to defrost on his kitchen counter for several hours. Ronald McDonald, of Golden Arches fame, could probably do a better job of examining the Tory leader's policies forensically.

In the original Telegraph story, it says Cameron was asked to appear on Morgan's show but declined, explaining that he preferred to do "something a bit more substantial".

"Bit more" are the key words.

Let me remind those of you with short memories (ie, much of the Westminster village) that in 1996 News at Ten was reprimanded by the ITC (the predecessor to Ofcom) over its seven-minute interview with the then Tory premier, John Major. The ITC chairman, Sir George Russell, described Sir Trevor's questions as "a little too friendly and relaxed", and even "inappropriate".

At one point, Sir Trev, whom critics accused of grovelling, said to Major:

I have been reading some of the interviews you have been giving to newspapers recently and what comes over is the extraordinary dedication you have for this job.

Bring on Dave!


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Mehdi Hasan is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and the co-author of Ed: The Milibands and the Making of a Labour Leader. He was the New Statesman's senior editor (politics) from 2009-12.

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood