The resulting programme that your columnist did not appear in. Photo: BBC/Wingspan Productions/Richard Ranken
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Why I was edited out of Victoria Coren Mitchell’s BBC4 show about “bohemians”

This programme and I have a history.

I am standing in the second-hand bookshop, waiting. The man in front of me has brought along a pile of issues of The Face that I recognise from the 1980s and 1990s. One, with Transvision Vamp’s Wendy James on the cover, I remember fondly. (If you do not consider their 1989 hit “Baby I Don’t Care” a glorious song, you are dead to me.) The buyer at the counter does a sum in his head. “Sixty pounds cash, £120 exchange,” he says.

This is excellent news. Dire financial necessity has brought me to this shop, as well as the encroaching upon my Lebensraum of several weeks’ worth of review copies. The two situations mesh nicely and the ex-wife has agreed to give me and the eight boxes of books a lift into Notting Hill. It is important that I get a good price for them and if they’re going to give away 60 big ones for a pile of ancient Faces, they’re going to go crazy over my review copies, each of which has been a wrench to part with and is a significant contribution to the literary consciousness of our time.

“Fifty-three cash, £106 exchange,” says the buyer.

“Oh, come on,” I feel like saying. I have taken an old Penguin collection of G K Chesterton’s essays from the shop’s shelves, priced at two quid, and am wondering whether to put it back. “Cash,” I say, wearily.

The man, young enough to be my son, looks at me with something approaching pity. “Call it £55,” he says. I wave my Chesterton at him. (This sounds naughty but isn’t.) He tilts his head to indicate that he’ll chuck that in for free, too. Well, £55. That helps the finances considerably and also allows me to nip over the road to the Uxbridge and say hello to a few people over a pint.

This recent incident came back to me vividly as I watched, on my manky laptop, Victoria Coren Mitchell’s BBC4 show How to Be Bohemian. This programme and I have a history. Because I was once rash enough to write here that the Hovel represented one of London’s last surviving examples of true bohemia, someone thought it would be a good idea to interview me for the show and emailed me. I replied that, in my experience, involvement with TV production companies means that they come round and pinch my best ideas and two hours of my time for no money and I do not appear on television. They said, “How does £150 sound?” I said we had a deal.

Things got a bit sticky when two 12-year-olds from the production company came round and picked my brains for two hours and, at the end of it, asked me if I had any questions. “Yes,” I said. “Where’s my money?” (Not my exact words. I give you the gist.) “Ah,” they said, “what we have just undergone was not actually an interview.” At which point the atmosphere, hitherto congenial, curdled and I sent them off, with imprecations, back to their lairs. I mentioned this to my compañero Will Self and not only did he say that he had been collared for the programme (at, I suspect, a somewhat higher rate than mine) but he told me to write to them instantly and tell them that if they did not pay up, he wouldn’t appear on their show. This was writerly solidarity of a high order and I protested but he insisted.

So even though, in the end, Victoria Coren Mitchell came round to interview me and I got my £150, the filming process was fraught. I was grumpy and hung-over and said that anyone who called themselves a bohemian probably wasn’t and the idea of being considered bohemian, or wanting to be so considered, was silly in the extreme and that if you go back to the source, Henri Murger’s Scènes de la vie de bohème, you’ll see that the defining condition of bohemianism is poverty and if we say, for the sake of argument, that bohemianism is a definable, non-ridiculous condition, if you’re able to afford a holiday abroad in a hotel, then, honey, you ain’t bohemian.

Victoria asked me why I didn’t “find a nice lady off the internet” or, in order to combat penury, drive a minicab in the evenings. Having never been asked such questions before in my life, I could only reply with a startled silence. Hence the return to my home in TV land: the cutting room floor.

I could only manage 15 minutes of the second episode in the series before giving up on it. This is not Ms C M’s fault: she is an experienced broadcaster who delivers what the format demands. At least I got to see Will making the point about rich bohemians being frauds. As for me? Baby, I don’t care. 

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 June 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Bush v Clinton 2

Screengrab from Telegraph video
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The Telegraph’s bizarre list of 100 reasons to be happy about Brexit

“Old-fashioned light bulbs”, “crooked cucumbers”, and “new vocabulary”.

As the economy teeters on the verge of oblivion, and the Prime Minister grapples with steering the UK around a black hole of political turmoil, the Telegraph is making the best of a bad situation.

The paper has posted a video labelled “100 reasons to embrace Brexit”. Obviously the precise number is “zero”, but that didn’t stop it filling the blanks with some rather bizarre reasons, floating before the viewer to an inevitable Jerusalem soundtrack:

Cheap tennis balls

At last. Tennis balls are no longer reserved for the gilded eurocrat elite.

Keep paper licences

I can’t trust it unless I can get it wet so it disintegrates, or I can throw it in the bin by mistake, or lose it when I’m clearing out my filing cabinet. It’s only authentic that way.

New hangover cures

What?

Stronger vacuums

An end to the miserable years of desperately trying to hoover up dust by inhaling close to the carpet.

Old-fashioned light bulbs

I like my electricals filled with mercury and coated in lead paint, ideally.

No more EU elections

Because the democratic aspect of the European Union was something we never obsessed over in the run-up to the referendum.

End working time directive

At last, I don’t even have to go to the trouble of opting out of over-working! I will automatically be exploited!

Drop green targets

Most people don’t have time to worry about the future of our planet. Some don’t even know where their next tennis ball will come from.

No more wind farms

Renewable energy sources, infrastructure and investment – what a bore.

Blue passports

I like my personal identification how I like my rinse.

UK passport lane

Oh good, an unadulterated queue of British tourists. Just mind the vomit, beer spillage and flakes of sunburnt skin while you wait.

No fridge red tape

Free the fridge!

Pounds and ounces

Units of measurement are definitely top of voters’ priorities. Way above the economy, health service, and even a smidgen higher than equality of tennis ball access.

Straight bananas

Wait, what kind of bananas do Brexiteers want? Didn’t they want to protect bendy ones? Either way, this is as persistent a myth as the slapstick banana skin trope.

Crooked cucumbers

I don’t understand.

Small kiwi fruits

Fair enough. They were getting a bit above their station, weren’t they.

No EU flags in UK

They are a disgusting colour and design. An eyesore everywhere you look…in the uh zero places that fly them here.

Kent champagne

To celebrate Ukip cleaning up the east coast, right?

No olive oil bans

Finally, we can put our reliable, Mediterranean weather and multiple olive groves to proper use.

No clinical trials red tape

What is there to regulate?

No Turkey EU worries

True, we don’t have to worry. Because there is NO WAY AND NEVER WAS.

No kettle restrictions

Free the kettle! All kitchen appliances’ lives matter!

Less EU X-factor

What is this?

Ditto with BGT

I really don’t get this.

New vocabulary

Mainly racist slurs, right?

Keep our UN seat

Until that in/out UN referendum, of course.

No EU human rights laws

Yeah, got a bit fed up with my human rights tbh.

Herbal remedy boost

At last, a chance to be treated with medicine that doesn’t work.

Others will follow [picture of dominos]

Hooray! The economic collapse of countries surrounding us upon whose trade and labour we rely, one by one!

Better English team

Ah, because we can replace them with more qualified players under an Australian-style points-based system, you mean?

High-powered hairdryers

An end to the miserable years of desperately trying to dry my hair by yawning on it.

She would’ve wanted it [picture of Margaret Thatcher]

Well, I’m convinced.

I'm a mole, innit.