Fox News puts Jon Stewart on the spot

The Daily Show host had a tougher time than normal when he appeared on Fox News on Sunday.

The host of the Daily Show, Jon Stewart, went onto Fox News Sunday last night. This, in itself, isn't really big news. Stewart regularly appears on the network and exchanges matey banter with the sometimes insane Bill O'Reilly. The formula is pretty standard whenever Stewart goes into enemy territory. The Fox News host accuses him of being the doyen of mainstream liberal bias, before Stewart declares: "Hey, I'm a comedian! Don't take me seriously."

This time, however, was a little different. Jon Stewart reeled out the same lines as usual (he's a comedian working on a comedy show, not a news anchor on a news show, etc. etc.) but Wallace was ready for them, pointing to a Baltimore Sun critic who recently wrote: "When [Stewart] is wrong, he goes into the tap dance of saying he's only a comedian and shouldn't be taken seriously."

This stumped Stewart momentarily. A raw nerve touched, Wallace dug his finger in a little deeper. "Honestly, I think you want to be a political player," said Wallace with a smirk.

Rather than laugh it off - like a comedian - Stewart seemed riled. "You're wrong. You are wrong," he replied sternly. Wallace then continued to poke, arguing that Fox was simply an antidote to mainstream liberal bias. This seemed to get to Stewart, who shot back, rather too forcefully: "Who are the most consistently misinformed media viewers? The most consistently misinformed? Fox, Fox viewers. Consistently, every poll."

Wallace then ruined what threatened to be an interesting debate by pointing to a clip of a "comedy roast" skit broadcast elsewhere on Stewart's network and a joke involving Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee's penis, which rather let the Daily Show host off the hook. "It's not exactly masterpiece theatre," argued Wallace. "You're the counterbalance to that. I'm suggesting that there is bias and you only tell part of the story." (Presumably because the joke focussed only on their sex video, rather than the break-up of their ill-fated marriage.)

Before this, however, the interview highlighted Stewart's awkward, and rather unique, position in the US media. Stewart might not want to be seen as a politcal player or a news anchor, but his comedy makes him so. His comedy is ideological and political - and that is why it's good. But the form it takes - a mock news show, that reacts to current affairs - blurs the lines between journalism and comedy. Likewise, events such as last year's "Rally for Sanity" cloud the issue further. The "I'm a comedian" defence is getting old. He is a part of US news culture, whether he wants to be or not. The Daily Show is infotainment with great jokes. The sooner Stewart accepts that, and stops relying on the comedian defence, the better.

UPDATE: I refine my views on Stewart and this interview in this piece here. Feel free to continue the kicking on a new thread.

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She knew every trick to get a home visit – but this time I had come prepared

 Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone.

I first came across Verenice a couple of years ago when I was on duty at the out-of-hours service.

“I’m a diabetic,” she told me, “and I’m feeling really poorly.” She detailed a litany of symptoms. I said I’d be round straight away.

What sounded worrying on the phone proved very different in Verenice’s smoke-fugged sitting room. She was comfortable and chatty, she had no fever or sign of illness, and her blood sugar was well controlled. In fact, she looked remarkably well. As I tried to draw the visit to a close, she began to regale me with complaints about her own GP: how he neglected her needs, dismissed her symptoms, refused to take her calls.

It sounded unlikely, but I listened sympathetically and with an open mind. Bit by bit, other professionals were brought into the frame: persecutory social workers, vindictive housing officers, corrupt policemen, and a particularly odious psychiatrist who’d had her locked up in hospital for months and had recently discharged her to live in this new, hateful bungalow.

By the time she had told me about her sit-in at the local newspaper’s offices – to try to force reporters to cover her story – and described her attempts to get arrested so that she could go to court and tell a judge about the whole saga, it was clear Verenice wasn’t interacting with the world in quite the same way as the rest of us.

It’s a delicate path to tread, extricating oneself from such a situation. The mental health issues could safely be left to her usual daytime team to follow up, so my task was to get out of the door without further inflaming the perceptions of neglect and maltreatment. It didn’t go too well to start with. Her voice got louder and louder: was I, too, going to do nothing to help? Couldn’t I see she was really ill? I’d be sorry when she didn’t wake up the next morning.

What worked fantastically was asking her what she actually wanted me to do. Her first stab – to get her rehoused to her old area as an emergency that evening – was so beyond the plausible that even she seemed able to accept my protestations of impotence. When I asked her again, suddenly all the heat went out of her voice. She said she didn’t think she had any food; could I get her something to eat? A swift check revealed a fridge and cupboards stocked with the basics. I gave her some menu suggestions, but drew the line at preparing the meal myself. By then, she seemed meekly willing to allow me to go.

We’ve had many out-of-hours conversations since. For all her strangeness, she is wily, and knows the medical gambits to play in order to trigger a home visit. Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone. It usually revolves around food. Could I bring some bread and milk? She’s got no phone credit left; could I call the Chinese and order her a home delivery?

She came up on the screen again recently. I rang, and she spoke of excruciating ear pain, discharge and fever. I sighed, accepting defeat: with that story I’d no choice but to go round. Acting on an inkling, though, I popped to the drug cupboard first.

Predictably enough, when I arrived at Verenice’s I found her smiling away and puffing on a Benson, with a normal temperature, pristine ears and perfect blood glucose.

“Well,” I said, “whatever’s causing your ear to hurt is a medical mystery. Take some paracetamol and I’m sure it’ll be fine in the morning.”

There was a flash of triumph in her eyes. “Ah, but doctor, I haven’t got any. Could you –”

Before she could finish, I produced a pack of paracetamol from my pocket and dropped it on her lap. She looked at me with surprise and admiration. She may have suckered me round again, but I’d managed to second-guess her. I was back out of the door in under five minutes. A score-draw. 

Phil Whitaker is a GP and an award-winning author. His fifth novel, “Sister Sebastian’s Library”, will be published by Salt in September

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain