Tanning Tales and Arthur in the Underworld on BBC Radio 4

You know when you've been Tango'd.

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

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How that deleted lesbian scene in Love Actually should have gone

If the film was made in a more utopian 2003, this is what it would have looked like.

Here are some things that “haven’t” made me cry in recent days: “She’s The One” by Robbie Williams coming on the radio in a 3am Uber; my cat farting on my boob; the deleted lesbian storyline in Love Actually. No, the recently unearthed segment of the schmaltziest film of an entire decade in which the resplendent Frances de la Tour plays the terminally ill partner of a “stern headmistress” with a marshmallow interior (Anne Reid) most definitely did not make me sob like someone’s recently divorced uncle spending Christmas Day in a Wetherspoons.

The posh older lesbian archetype, it turns out, is something I find quite affecting. Reid and de la Tour play one of those couples who have (probably…) overcome so many obstacles in order to be lesbians together. Poshness. Being at an all-girls boarding school in which lesbianism was simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. More poshness. Section 28. Gazing longingly at each other while one tinkles Chopin’s Nocturnes on a dilapidated piano, in a crumbling stately home, and the other sips brandy from a chipped crystal tumbler; both daring not taste the forbidden fruit of the poetess Sappho, etc, etc. Radclyffe Hall. Horses. Poor hygiene.

Unfortunately, seeing as Love Actually was released in 2003 – roughly a decade before people began pretending to care about lesbians – Richard Curtis was forced to cut the one genuinely moving plotline (which actually contains none of the above, but I think heavily implies it) from his cinematic ode to bollocks. But perhaps, had the only non-hetero, non-fucking annoying couple been less of an afterthought and more, say, utterly crucial to the narrative, things could’ve been different. Here’s how, in a more utopian 2003, that might have been achieved:

Maggie Smith and Judi Dench (seriously, how did these women get away with not being in Love Actually in the first place?) are militant communists. Judi Dench is a sculptor who used to drink schnapps with Ulrike Meinhof. In the 1980s, she moved to Cuba and became a professional recluse. Maggie Smith, on the other hand, is someone’s spinster great aunt. It doesn’t really matter whose but, for the sake of argument, let’s say that ginger guy who used to be in My Family and those BT ads. (Just a reminder, his actual character in Love Actually is the one whose entire personality is being a bit of a sexist virgin and having an English accent which eventually gets him laid by several American women.)

Anyway, Maggie Smith’s character, let’s call her Edith, has spent her whole life being both a secret lesbian and a secret communist. On holiday in Cuba, she bumps into Judi Dench’s character, let’s call her Annie, and they hook up. Graphically and repeatedly. And, before I’m accused of deus ex machina laziness, please be reminded that this is Love freaking Actually.

Edith and Annie decide that because they’re quite old and don’t care any more, they’re going to go back to London and assassinate the terrible Hugh Grant prime minister. Through yet more hilarious deus ex machina, they manage to sneak into No 10 late at night, with handguns. Hugh Grant is all, “Blimey, who are you.” Edith is all, “your worst nightmare, bitch”. Bear in mind the audience is now shitting itself laughing because an old posh lady just talked all gangster. Then Annie pistol whips him and he passes out in the most Hugh Grant way possible ie he says, “oh dear,” then hits the floor like an untalented, floppy haired douche. When he comes to, he’s tied to a chair in his office. At this point he remembers that he was supposed to turn up at Tiffany from EastEnders’s house and declare his love for her. He begs Annie and Edith to let him phone her. “As it’s Christmas”, they decide to let the fucker do one last really corny thing before he dies. There are no bodyguards or anything, by the way. Remember, this is a film in which – post-9/11 – a child (albeit a white one) runs through airport security and isn’t shot 17 times in the head.

So, the PM phones up Tiffany from EastEnders and says, “Look. I… there’s something I wanted to tell you. And I was planning on doing it in person but …gosh this is all so terribly inconvenient… I’m being held hostage by lesbian communists. I do hope you can forgive me.”

After some more “frightfully English” bumbling crap, Edith puts her gun to Hugh Grant’s head and pulls the trigger. Her and Annie then make out for like seven minutes. Eventually, a cockney policeman played by Timothy Spall shows up and decides to let the two women off, again, “as it’s Christmas.” Also, he mentions, “No one liked that tosser anyway.”

“She’s the One” by Robbie Willams begins to play.

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.