Robert Webb vs Russell Brand: why comedians are the last interesting people left

Comedians, uniquely, have nothing to sell but their opinions, and the way they package those opinions. They don’t say attention-grabbing things to publicise their other work: saying attention-grabbing things is their work.

When I first started at the New Statesman, we used to have a weekly interview slot, which I gratefully volunteered for on the basis a) it’s always nice to get out; b) I was excited to meet people off the telly.

Very quickly, I realised that celebrity interviews are, largely, less like a sexy tango - all blushing feints and cheekily taken liberties - and more like trying to excavate a diamond mine with a teaspoon. Occasionally, you might get lucky and hit a rich seam of anecdotal nuggets; more often you’d return home with nothing more than “some quotes of roughly the correct length”. Once, in a 20-minute slot in a hotel room, the actress I was interviewing calmly informed me the person before me had asked exactly the same question I had, in virtually the same words. From that moment on, I knew we were unlikely to recreate “Fifteen Years of the Salto Mortale”.

I feel sorry for actors, in particular. It sounds phenomenally reductive to say that acting largely involves standing on the right spot and saying the right words, because clearly some people can turn that into pure poetry and others just sound like, well, me in the school play. But try to explain that, and it goes a bit …

"I pretend to be the person I’m portraying in the film or play… Sir Ian, Sir Ian, Sir Ian … YOU SHALL NOT PASS … Sir Ian, Sir Ian"

 

Under these circumstances, no wonder journalists ask celebrities so much about their private lives.

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Actors also suffer the same problem that politicians do: why be interesting, when you can interesting yourself right into a whole heap of trouble? Or even - like Godfrey Bloom - right out of a job? A high-profile political interview is now often as controlled and negotiated as one with a celebrity. First, the publication is chosen with care to reflect the audience that they want to talk to, with reach vs likely meanness carefully weighed against each other.

Outlets deemed insufficiently sympathetic won’t even get a look in: don’t hold your breath for David Cameron to give an interview to the Mirror, or Harriet Harman to sit down with the Daily Mail. In fact, print journalists have long grumbled that Number 10 press conferences often see them overlooked altogether: Cameron knows that the broadcasters’ commitment to impartiality means they have to tread carefully. (Remember how Eddie Mair turned Boris Johnson over when he filled in on the Marr show? And how did that work out for Eddie Mair’s career?)

This caution is one half of a vicious circle: the other half is the increasing appetite of a hungry news-beast. My colleague Raf once compared the effect of Twitter and 24-hour rolling news on politics with that of high-frequency trading on the economy. There is increased volatility, sure, but that’s mostly increased noise: it’s now possible to pop out for lunch and entirely miss a political “scandal”. No -gate has been left unturned.

So politicians deploy boredom as a defence mechanism. Danny Alexander is the master of this: you can send him out on any talk show you like, without having to worry that he will accidentally commit news. I bet it would impossible to get him to admit his calf was attached to his thigh if he suspected you were leading him into a trap about how legs have suffered under the coalition.

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Into this void strides the one type of interviewee that I have found consistently entertaining, informative and willing to plunge their hand into the fire of public debate.

Comedians.

I remember interviewing Reginald D Hunter, and asking him why he thought there were fewer female stand-ups than male. In my head, I winced as I thought how reluctant I would be to answer such a question. The pitfalls are obvious. The Internet Hordes (TM) would be swift and merciless. I was inviting him to walk into a trap.

And then he did something miraculous. He just answered the goddamn question.

Or take another memory: an ice-cold balcony outside a London restaurant where a celebrity packed party was being held a few years ago, when I still worked at the Daily Mail. Opposite me at the table, a little-known comedian I’d seen a couple of times on telly. Someone passed him an ingenious little bottle, which I was assured was full of the kind of powder that mysteriously makes you much chattier and more interesting, at least to yourself.

When I tentatively averred that maybe this wasn’t the best thing to ingest in front of a Mail journalist, he replied. “Please write about me. I need a good scandal. Look at Jason fucking Manford. His tour’s sold out.” (Mr Manford had recently been caught exchanging racy chat with a lady who was not Mrs Manford.)

I don’t think he was joking - like I said, he was not a terribly successful comedian - but it did make me think that comedians are perhaps the most free of anyone who enjoys a big platform. It used to be that rock stars could get away with being hellraisers: now, a singer or band is just the tiny cog in a vast machine, and you’d have to be selling a hell of a lot of records to make your management team happy that you were a loose cannon.

Look at Miley Cyrus, supposedly the current “wild child of pop”. Boggle as she poses for sexy photos that will drive huge amounts of media attention to her records - how rebellious! Marvel as she wears small shorts while turning up on time for performances and turns out impeccably produced videos where she licks ironmongery!

Sorry, everyone. Someone decided that this is what sexy is now.

 

Contrast the constraints on the utterances of the singer, the actor and the politician with the unique position of the comedian. The Daily Mail's editor, Paul Dacre, is fond of saying that he is kept in check because he “faces an election every day”. Well, Russell Brand faces an election every night, as he sells out another date on his tour. Dara O Briain faces an election every week as he fronts his latest show. They need to be interesting to survive.

With many comedians making a decent chunk of their revenue from tours, they are far less easily dented by a media-stoked scandal. In some cases, it might even help: do you think the fans who buy tickets to see Frankie Boyle perform live care what the Mail thinks of his jokes? If they do, it’s only to pride themselves on liking something that’s anathema to what they no doubt see as the curtain-twitching moral majority. And that means that even if they cock up - as Boyle undoubtedly did with his jokes about Katie Price’s son - their sheer popularity demands their rehabilitation. Even after Boyle became too hot for Channel 4, he had a Sun column.

Comedians, uniquely, have nothing to sell but their opinions, and the way they package those opinions. They don’t say attention-grabbing things to publicise their other work: saying attention-grabbing things is their work. They are, too, less afraid of Twitterstorms and media bunfights than mere mortals: they are used to their words having an effect. Once you’ve faced down a hail of piss-filled bottles, the ire of the feminist blogosphere probably loses much of its terror. They’re also used to failing, whether it’s the joke that dies or the one that provokes thumb-sucking comment pieces in the Guardian.

In fact, the only comparable occupation to the comedian in our media landscape is that of the columnist. No wonder columnists are generally so resistant to comedians encroaching on their pontificating turf. Worse, comedians have a couple of notable advantages: for one, they are funny. That might sound like a statement of the bleedin’ obvious, but when you’re trying to engage people with politics, a few laughs don’t half help the medicine (read: opinions on disability benefits) go down.

Secondly, comedians are the ultimate freelancers: they might sell out by doing voiceovers for Money Supermarket or corporate gigs for UBS Warburg, but otherwise they are answerable to no one except their audiences. Quite a lot of them get paid very handsomely by the BBC. “Aha, so you’re in the pay of Big Licence Fee Payer, are you?” is not a killer line. That kind of freedom is invaluable should you need to mount a high horse: with great power comes great openness to charges of hypocrisy over that compromise you made to get your power in the first place.

Finally, comedians have a ready-made audience. We were once told that social media would democratise the dissemination of opinion: in fact, with Twitter at least, what mostly seems to have happened is that Big Beasts elsewhere have converted those fanbases into followers.

That’s worked hugely in comedians’ favour, particularly as topical panel shows are not only cheaper than other kinds of comedy, but they’re faster. That means they have become one of the prime forums for news to be digested and debated in a way that’s accessible to a mass audience. As a journalist, you know your story has really broken through when they’re taking the piss out of it on Mock the Week or Have I Got News for You. That translates to vast numbers of fans, and to a vast potential audience for anything else they might like to say. A couple of examples: Dara O Briain has 1.5 million Twitter followers; Russell Brand more than 7 million; David Mitchell 1.2 million. (For comparison, Ed Miliband has about 250,000 and David Cameron nearly 500,000.)

In the wake of Russell Brand’s New Statesman essay, and Robert Webb’s response to it - not to mention David Mitchell and Steve Coogan squaring off over press regulation - I’ve seen a lot of wry tweets along the lines of “ho ho ho, is our entire political discourse going to be dominated by comedians?”.

Well, wake up and smell the laugh track: it’s already happened.

Russell Brand, whose essay in the NS elicited a reply from Robert Webb.

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad