Tony Blair's new faith film competition

The choice of judges confirms that our former prime minister is rather too fond of celebs.

Sometimes it's quite difficult to decide what to make of the Tony Blair Faith Foundation. Its aim to increase understanding across religious and cultural divides is perfectly admirable. Whether our former prime minister is necessarily the man to do it is, however, debatable.

When not busy raking in enormous amounts of cash from speeches and now an autobiography, Blair has managed to make a lot of noise "doing God" (as he didn't when in office), but not all his fellow believers are convinced that this is helpful to the cause.

Anyway: now the TBFF is launching a film competition called Faith Shorts, open to those aged 25 or under. Entrants are asked to pitch a film about how their faith inspires them. Those shortlisted will be provided with video cameras to shoot their shorts, as it were, and the three winners will be given the opportunity to premiere their work at Bafta in July.

All very good. I'm a little perplexed by the judging panel, though. The members include Queen Rania of Jordan, Jonathan Caplan, Amr Khaled, Jet Li, Wendi Murdoch, Natalie Portman, June Sarpong, Nik Powell and Deepak Verma.

Many of these judges are extremely famous (I've even seen posters of Jet Li in longhouses on Borneo), which is doubtless flattering for all the participants. It is also true that several have a great deal of experience in the world of television and film. But the panel does sound a little short on members with strong religious credentials. It is not exactly in danger of being criticised for its highbrow slant, either.

Maybe I'm being uncharitable. But the choice of judges does not do anything to diminish the suspicion that Blair is rather too fond of hobnobbing with celebrities.

We like our ex-prime ministers to come across as dignified. A little less glitz in the life of the last occupant of No 10 would be welcome -- and especially in the context of a faith foundation, which surely should not be in the business of suggesting that worldly fame is something to be valued in itself.

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Sholto Byrnes is a Contributing Editor to the New Statesman
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What happened when a couple accidentally recorded two hours of their life

The cassette tape threw Dan and Fiona into a terrible panic.

If the Transformers series of movies (Transformers; Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen; Transformers: Dark of the Moon; Transformers: Age of Extinction; and Transformers: the Last Knight) teach us anything, it is that you think your life is going along just fine but in a moment, with a single mistake or incident, it can be derailed and you never know from what direction the threat will come. Shia LaBeouf, for example, thinks everything is completely OK in his world – then he discovers his car is a shape-shifting alien.

I once knew a couple called Dan and Fiona who, on an evening in the early 1980s, accidentally recorded two hours of their life. Fiona was an English teacher (in fact we’d met at teacher-training college) and she wished to make a recording of a play that was being broadcast on Radio 4 about an anorexic teenager living on a council estate in Belfast. A lot of the dramas at that time were about anorexic teenagers living on council estates in Belfast, or something very similar – sometimes they had cancer.

Fiona planned to get her class to listen to the play and then they would have a discussion about its themes. In that pre-internet age when there was no iPlayer, the only practical way to hear something after the time it had been transmitted was to record the programme onto a cassette tape.

So Fiona got out their boom box (a portable Sony stereo player), loaded in a C120 tape, switched on the radio part of the machine, tuned it to Radio 4, pushed the record button when the play began, and fastidiously turned the tape over after 60 minutes.

But instead of pushing the button that would have taped the play, she had actually pushed the button that activated the built-in microphone, and the machine captured, not the radio drama, but the sound of 120 minutes of her and Dan’s home life, which consisted solely of: “Want a cup of tea?” “No thanks.” And a muffled fart while she was out of the room. That was all. That was it.

The two of them had, until that moment, thought their life together was perfectly happy, but the tape proved them conclusively wrong. No couple who spent their evenings in such torpidity could possibly be happy. Theirs was clearly a life of grinding tedium.

The evidence of the cassette tape threw Dan and Fiona into a terrible panic: the idea of spending any more of their evenings in such bored silence was intolerable. They feared they might have to split up. Except they didn’t want to.

But what could they do to make their lives more exciting? Should they begin conducting sordid affairs in sleazy nightclubs? Maybe they could take up arcane hobbies such as musketry, baking terrible cakes and entering them in competitions, or building models of Victorian prisons out of balsa wood? Might they become active in some kind of extremist politics?

All that sounded like a tremendous amount of effort. In the end they got themselves a cat and talked about that instead. 

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder