Tanning Tales and Arthur in the Underworld on BBC Radio 4

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Tanning Tales; Arthur in the Underworld

BBC Radio 4

“I’m rubbing extraordinary butter into my kneecaps,” preens the presenter Kit Hesketh- Harvey, preparing his body for a spray tan. “I’m exfoliating. Yes, listeners, I am trimming.” Tanning Tales, a documentary about the immense UK tanning industry (1 July, 11am), burlesqued the subject enough for even the conveyor belt of the usual gender studies professors to laugh it up. One confessed that a daughter had chosen a university purely on the basis of how tanned the other students had looked on open day. I think she ended up in Nottingham. A landlord despaired over the state of his mattresses: “We thought it was from bodily fluids . . . but then we realised the orangey colour followed more or less a body shape.”

Any bounce that the programme had was slaughtered by Hesketh-Harvey – formerly of Kit and the Widow – who suffers from the same compulsion as Nicholas Parsons to peddle that unctuously camp tone that Radio 4 doggedly believes is humorous and stylish but comes over as the default setting of a peppery tyrant hauling a freight of indescribable mocking and violence. The “charming” this, the “wonderful” that. “How gorgeous!” “How terribly glamorous!” “Oh, you are splendid, you adorable redhead.”

Other standard male tones celebrated on the station include the “rapturous murmur” to which even David Attenborough has been known to resort. But it can be compelling. The writer Horatio Clare, in Arthur in the Underworld (4 July, 11.30am), a spooky and meaningful documentary about the great author of the supernatural Arthur Machen, travelled to Wales to see if he could spy an elf or a sprite in a forest. “Unfocus your eyes,” recommended Machen grimly, when committing to search for such surely malign but alluring creatures. (“You do just want the ground to open up and something to come out from underneath.”)

Squatting in the unnatural conifer gloom, Clare confessed to having fallen into a mass grave for sheep when he was a child lost in a forest like this. Speaking in the dreamy rat-tat-tat of someone perpetually tottering on the edge of a properly crazed monologue, he was suddenly distracted by the call of a nightjar hunting for beetles and off Clare went again, his chatter unstoppable, low and melodious, like a sports car purling madly into the unknown.

Tanning Tales is a Radio 4 documentary about the UK tanning industry. 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 15 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The New Machiavelli

NANCY JO IACOI/GALLERY STOCK
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There are only two rules for an evening drink: it must be bitter, and it must be cold

A Negroni is the aperitif of choice in bars everywhere from London to Palermo - and no wonder.

The aperitif has the odd distinction of being the only alcohol that can always rely on a sober audience: it is the opener, the stimulant, a spur to the appetite for good food and good conversation. This preparatory beverage is considered the height of sophistication, and certainly nobody labouring in field or factory ever required a pep to their evening appetite. Still, to take a drink before one starts drinking is hardly clever behaviour. So why do it?

One reason is surely the wish to separate the working day from the evening’s leisure, an increasingly pressing matter as we lose the ability to switch off. This may change the nature of the aperitif, which was generally supposed to be light, in alcohol and character. Once, one was expected to quaff a pre-dinner drink and go in to dine with faculties and taste buds intact; now, it might be more important for those who want an uninterrupted meal to get preprandially plastered. That way, your colleagues may contact you but they won’t get much sense out of you, and pretty soon they’ll give up and bother someone else.

The nicest thing about the aperitif, and the most dangerous, is that it doesn’t follow rules. It’s meant to be low in alcohol, but nobody ever accused a gin and tonic or a Negroni (Campari, gin and vermouth in equal portions) of that failing; and sherry, which is a fabulous aperitif (not least because you can keep drinking it until the meal or the bottle ends), has more degrees of alcohol than most wines. An aperitif should not be heavily perfumed or flavoured, for fear of spoiling your palate, yet some people love pastis, the French aniseed drink that goes cloudy in water, and that you can practically smell across the Channel. They say the scent actually enhances appetite.

Really only two rules apply. An aperitif should be bitter – or, at any rate, it shouldn’t be sweet, whatever the fans of red vermouth may tell you. And it must be cold. Warm drinks such as Cognac and port are for after dinner. Not for nothing did Édith Piaf warble, in “Mon apéro”, about drowning her amorous disappointments in aperitifs: fail to cool your passions before sharing a table, and you belong with the barbarians.

On the other hand, conversing with your nearest over a small snack and an appropriate beverage, beyond the office and before the courtesies and complications of the dinner table, is the essence of cultured behaviour. If, as is sometimes thought, civilisation has a pinnacle, surely it has a chilled apéro carefully balanced on top.

The received wisdom is that the French and Italians, with their apéritifs and aperitivos, are the experts in these kinds of drinks. Certainly the latter are partial to their Aperol spritzes, and the former to such horrid, wine-based tipples as Lillet and Dubonnet. But the English are good at gin and the Americans invented the Martini. As for Spain, tapas were originally snacks atop a covering that kept the flies out of one’s pre-dinner drink: tapa means lid.

Everywhere, it seems, as evening approaches, people crave a drink that in turn will make them salivate: bitterness, the experts tell us, prepares the mouth to welcome food. The word “bitter” may come from “bite”, in which case the aperitif’s place before dinner is assured.

I like to think that a good one enables the drinker to drown all sour feelings, and go in to dinner cleansed and purified. Fanciful, perhaps. But what better lure to fancy than a beverage that exists only to bring on the evening’s pleasures?

Nina Caplan is the Louis Roederer Pio Cesare Food and Wine Writer of the Year

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times