Glastonbury on the BBC Radio 1: Better off at home?

Pyramid selling.

Glastonbury
BBC Radio 1

“I’m not just saying this ’cos this is the BBC but I’m genuinely going to be catching up on iPlayer all week.” Huw Stephens is lounging in Nick Grimshaw’s Glastonbury tepee, comparing notes. “I saw someone at the Stones with a baby,” sniffs Grimshaw. “Newborn baby. And I thought, ‘Weird accessory to bring – a newborn.’” Children at festivals are but a heavy and inconvenient Anglo-Saxon affectation. “Who was that?” sympathises Stephens. “Dunno!” shrugs Grimmy, appalled.

Never has Grimshaw been so likeable – sucking his teeth about a day ahead of being professionally and relentlessly upbeat about bands like Noah and the Whale and possibly not being entirely honest about what he did after the headlining act last night. (“Went for a Chinese. Sweet and sour chicken with rice. Then came home.”) It made a pleasant change from Jo Whiley up in the bosom nookery smiling fondly at everyone on the roster, from Kenny Rogers to Bruce Forsyth. For some reason, it has long been the BBC’s unquestioning job to be enthusiastic and humble about everything to do with Glasto but this year the corporation plugged a tone of particularly unceasing middlebrow moral uplift. ] Even Mick was at it, tweeting pics of himself looking excited holding the door of a portable toilet or swaddled in cashmere on the helipad. Jagger – that old miser and icecold businessman – will not be taken for a fool and proved himself on Saturday yet again as a guy never to make mistakes. Only from the mouths of some was it more bearable than others. In between sets on the BBC Introducing Stage, Jen Long and Ally McCrae – both under 25 and easily the busiest and most interesting presenters delivering any radio commentary this year, sweetly cackling and melodramatic to cover their inexperience – confessed innocently that they may have seen the best of things had they stayed at home.

“I could just about catch the edge of the TV screen in front of the Pyramid Stage,” confided McCrae, “so I’m just gonna watch it all back on iPlayer.” Jen nods, feeling for a moment comfortingly together after three days snowblinded by BBC zeal and righteousness. That said, maths clearly isn’t her thing. “I was up in the tower and looking out over the sea of . . . 2,000? Six thousand? I dunno how many people were there. But lots.”

Unhappy campers: BBC iPlayer provides a festival in a box. 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 08 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The world takes sides

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Broken and The Trial: From Sean Bean playing a priest to real life lawyers

A surprisingly involving depiction of a clergyman provides the saintly contrast to the sinner being judged by a real jury.

I was all set to scoff at Broken, Jimmy McGovern’s new series for BBC1 (30 May, 9pm). A drama about a Catholic priest and his impoverished parish in a “major northern city”, it sounded so hilariously McGovern-by-numbers (“Eh, lad, give us the collection bowl – the leccy wants paying”) that on paper it could pass for a spoof. Even funnier, Sean Bean, late of Game of Thrones, was to play the clergyman in question.

Naturally, I adore Bean, who comes from the major northern city that is Sheffield, as I do, and who is so terribly . . . virile (though when I interviewed him in a car park behind King’s Cross Station a few years ago, and a security guard in a high-vis jacket approached us furiously shouting the odds, he ran and hid in his trailer, leaving yours truly to face the music). But let’s face it: he’s not exactly versatile, is he? The idea of him in a cassock, or even just a mud-coloured cardigan, made me laugh out loud.

Settling down to watch the series, however, I soon realised that no scoffing would be taking place. For one thing, Broken is hugely involving, its Dickensian plot (no spoilers here) as plausible as it is macabre. For another, in the present circumstances, its script seems to be rather daring. Not only is Father Michael Kerrigan shown – cover my eyes with the collected works of Richard Dawkins! – to be a good and conscientious priest, but his faith is depicted as a fine and useful thing. If he brings his besieged parishioners solace, he is sure to be carrying vouchers for the food bank as well.

The flashbacks from which he suffers – in which his mammy can be heard calling him a “dirty, filthy beast” and a spiteful old priest is seen applying a cane to his hand – are undoubtedly clichéd. But they are also a device. Forty years on, he is happy to nurse his dying mother, and his love for God is undimmed: two facts that are not, of course, unrelated. How weirdly bold for a television series to set its face against the consensus that denigrates all things Christian as it never would any other faith.

I don’t for a minute buy Anna Friel as Christina, the gobby, broke single mother Kerrigan is determined to help. Even when covered in bruises – a bust-up at the betting shop – Friel manages to look glossy, and she never, ever quits acting (with a capital A), which is a drag. But Bean is such a revelation, I was able to ignore the voice in my head which kept insisting that a Catholic priest as young as he is – in this realm, “young” is a couple of years shy of 60 – would surely be Polish or African (I’m not a Catholic but I am married to one, for which reason I occasionally go to Mass).

He plays Kerrigan, whose overwhelming desire to be kind sometimes makes him cack-handed, with great gentleness, but also with an uninflected ordinariness that is completely convincing. Part of the problem (my problem, at least) with Communion is the lack of rhetorical passion in most priests’ voices, something he captures perfectly. One other thing: Line of Duty fans need to know that Adrian Dunbar – aka Ted Hastings – can also be seen here wearing a dog collar, and that he looks almost as good in it as he does in police uniform.

On Channel 4 The Trial: A Murder in the Family was an experiment in the shape of a murder trial in which the defendant – a university lecturer accused of strangling his estranged wife – and all the witnesses were actors but the lawyers and “jury” were real. Over five consecutive nights (21-25 May, 9pm), I found it pretty tiresome listening to jury members tell the camera what they made of this or that bit of evidence.

Get on with it, I thought, longing again for the return of Peter Moffat’s Silk. But I adored the lawyers, particularly the lead ­defence barrister, John Ryder, QC. What an actor. Sentences left his mouth fully formed, as smooth as they were savage, his charm only just veiling his mighty ruthlessness. Drooling at this performance – which was not, in one sense, a performance at all – I found myself thinking that if more priests came over like barristers, our dying churches might be standing room only.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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