Reviewed: Our Lady of Paris on Radio 3

Beale's about.

Our Lady of Paris
Radio 3

“It’s a small kind of miracle, a building reaching into the clouds taking advantage of technological innovations to express the glory of God in new ways.” Simon Russell Beale is standing outside Notre Dame – 850 years old and in the midst of anniversary celebrations – and doing one of the many things he does so unusually well: making a script sound improvised without a hint of the faux casual (23 March, 12.15pm). Behind him a wintry Seine fiercely laps against stone and tourists chunter and hustle, but SRB maintains his usual quiet focus, a skill he transports directly into conversations with experts and historians that doesn’t dissolve even when he’s splurging out things like, “Oh, they’re singing in a boat! On the Seine! How sweet!” when looking at an 11th-century painting of musicians on the water.

Later, in this tender programme about the musical history of the cathedral, he quoted from bawdy medieval songs (“find here in Paris great joy/fine jewels/and honourable ladies/and others among them of the cheaper sort . . .”) without remotely changing the tone or emphasis of his voice and yet making it perfectly clear he was quoting. How does he do this? It’s as mysterious as the way he manages to appear on programmes on Radio 3 in which he is required to talk about himself personally (Summer Selection, Essential Classics, In Tune . . . Radio 3 would fall to bits without SRB, as would BBC4) and never, not once, sounding like an asshole. You try it. It’s impossible. Yet here comes SRB: not precious, not self-regarding, not nervous about his knowledge, just noticeably, always, great.

Actors moonlighting as presenters are usually required to be either twinkly and reassuring, or cynical and mysterious. With the lone exception of SRB they helplessly give off an air of (a) being barely able to wait to tell the next dirty limerick in the lunch truck, or (b) that they are only presenting this documentary because they want their life to come across as a sequence of unlikely but successful throws on a roulette wheel. And yet here is SRB talking about single-line plain chant and “exciting new worlds of sound” like the perfect presenter: a guy on whom absolutely nothing is wasted. Not just whole programmes but whole stations happily adjust around him.

Photograph: Getty Images

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 01 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Easter Special Issue

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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