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

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Has Arlene Foster saved power-sharing in Northern Ireland?

The DUP leader's decision to attend Martin McGuinness' funeral was much more than symbolic. But is Gerry Adams willing to make a deal?

After some prevarication, DUP leader Arlene Foster chose to attend the funeral of Martin McGuinness in Derry today. Her decision to do so cannot have been an easy one.

A substantial part of her loyalist base has noisily resisted attempts to memorialise the late deputy first minister as anything other than an inveterate killer. Foster herself notes in today’s Belfast Telegraph that the former IRA commander was responsible for the deaths of “many neighbours and friends”. And in 1979 – aged just eight – she bore witness to the bloody aftermath of an IRA attack in her own home: her father, a reservist police officer, was shot in the head by a gunman later eulogised by McGuinness.

Her attendance at today’s funeral is thus noteworthy and has been the subject of due praise. She was twice applauded by the congregation: as she took her seat, and after Bill Clinton singled her out in his eulogy. It is, however, much more than the symbolic gesture it might appear.

Last month’s election, which saw the DUP lose 10 seats and unionist parties lose their Stormont majority for the first time in nearly a century, proved Foster to be damaged goods. She was – and remains – tarnished by the RHI scandal but also by her crass behaviour towards the nationalist community, particularly on Irish language issues.

Her carelessly won reputation as a truculent bigot will therefore not be easily lost. Her departure remains a red line for Sinn Fein. But with just four days until the deadline for a new devolution settlement, Foster’s presence at McGuinness’ funeral is the clearest indication yet of the DUP’s carefully calculated strategy. It isn’t quite a resignation, but is nonetheless indicative of the new manner in which Foster has carried herself since her party’s chastening collapse.

She has demonstrated some contrition and offered tacit acknowledgement that her election shtick was misjudged and incendiary. Her statement on McGuinness’ death was delicately pitched and made only oblique reference to his IRA past. In the absence of a willingness to allow Foster to step down, the decision instead has been taken to detoxify her brand.

The conciliatory Foster the DUP will nominate for First Minister on Monday will as such at least appear to be apart from the dogwhistling Foster who fought the election – and her attendance today is the superlative indication of that careful transition. There has been talk that this increases the chance of a deal on a new executive. This is premature – not least because the onus is now almost entirely on Sinn Fein.

Theirs is just as much a mandate to reject Stormont as we know it as it is to return and right the DUP’s wrongs. Gerry Adams, the last member of the Armalite generation standing, has made this abundantly clear – and has hardened his line just as Foster has made sure to be seen magnanimously softening hers. He said last night that he would not tolerate any extension of power-sharing talks beyond Monday’s deadline, and called on Dublin to prevent the UK government from re-instating direct rule.

Though Adams also maintained a deal was still possible in the coming days, his statement augurs badly. As the former UUP leader Lord Empey told me on the day McGuinness died, the Sinn Fein president – the ideologue to McGuinness’ Stormont pragmatist – is now entirely without equal within his party. Though he has set the transition to a new generation of female leaders in train, he remains in total control.

The demand for Dublin’s involvement is also telling: as the leader of the third-biggest party in the Dail, his is an all-Ireland long game. Enda Kenny will soon depart, offering Fianna Fail – riding high in the polls – a useful pretext to renegotiate or scrap their confidence and supply arrangement with his minority government. Sinn Fein are on course to make gains, but implementing Brexit and austerity as partners in a Stormont executive would undermine their populist anti-austerity platform.

As such, Empey predicted McGuinness’ death would allow Adams to exert a disruptive influence on the talks to come. “I don’t think it’ll be positive because for all his faults, Martin was actually committed to making the institutions work,” he said. “I don’t think Gerry Adams is as committed – and it was obvious from the latter part of last year that Gerry was reinstating his significant influence in the party. For that reason I think it will make matters more difficult.  I hope I’m wrong, but that’s my sense.”

He is not alone. There was, earlier this week, growing confidence in Westminster that some fudge could be reached on the most contentious issues. It isn't impossible - but Adams’ renewed dominance and rejection of the extended timeframe such negotiations would undoubtedly require suggests a new executive is as unlikely a prospect as it has ever been. With Foster quietly reinventing herself, the DUP could be the big winners come the next election (which could come this year and reinstate a unionist majority) – and the resurgent republicans might well rue the day they squandered their big chance.

Patrick Maguire writes about politics and is the 2016 winner of the Anthony Howard Award.