17 April 1997 Edition
Television: A Frosty reception for war heroes
By Michael Kennedy
Like so many of the great television journalists, David Frost has become a clumsy parody of himself. Breakfast With Frost (BBC1 8.30am Sundays) begins with evocative footage of the British houses of parliament, the US Capitol building, the Eiffel Tower, and musty, leather-bound books.
Then up pops Frost. He squints over the top of his spectacles at the viewer, claps his hands together in joy at being up ``bright and early this morning'', and immediately starts slurring his words.
Some of the words: British war-hero, mercenaries, helicopter gun-ship.
Memo to John Birt: Must we wait for a tragedy to occur before the BBC finally introduces random testing of the talent for narcotics abuse?
Few real people can be up at 8.00am to witness this stuff. As a service to normal readers, I shall press on, deeper and deeper into the seedy world viewed only by social misfits, parents of young children, and paid TV columnists.
Straight to the news, where there have been ``sectarian clashes'' in Belfast. A clash, observant readers will know, is when Catholics have to flee their homes from violent loyalist mobs.
Back from the news, and who is sitting on David's couch, languid and clearly bored, only Max Hastings, editor of the Evening Standard, and the lawyer Helena Kennedy.
I reach for the zapper.
They begin a long and ponderous rummage through the English Sunday newspapers, gibbering endlessly about how there's nothing of any interest in them. David Frost interjects to recount how workers in Walsall erected a £600 bus shelter on a street along which a bus had not passed in three years.
The zapper is in my hand, I must score from this distance, the crowd is on its feet.
David mentions the Falklands war hero-turned-mercenary.
A fatal hesitation.
Max and Helena have been kidnapped by aliens; in their place on the sofa is a medium-sized stoat. David Frost peers over his spectacles at the teleprompter: ``Tim Spicer, the recently-retired British colonel who led a band of mercenaries to Papua New Guinea, is safely back in this country.''
The stoat smiles. David recounts how he didn't get to kill anyone at all over there, but managed to get arrested by the local defence forces - the same ones whose government had paid the mercenaries £22 million to put down a rebellion.
``Are you going to continue with this business of yours?''
``I think we've got a number of lessons to learn from this particular, em, episode,'' says the stoat. ``I think we will continue to try and develop our business.''
He hastens to add that his is a very moral band of mercenaries: ``We'll only work for legitimate governments, preferably democratically elected.''
And here, for a brief few moments, David shows why even as an aged puppet he is better than anything RTE has to offer.
``Zaire?'' he asks. No, says the talking stoat. Nigeria? The stoat says maybe.
``What about Northern Ireland?'' presses David.
Confused, the businessman furrows his little stoat brow: ``What exactly do you mean by that?''
``Would you help the British forces in Northern Ireland, if you were asked?''
``I doubt we'd be asked, but of course we would,'' he replies.
Ah yes, you have to get up early to hear an implicit comparison between African despots and John Major.
Like so many of the great television journalists, David Frost has become a clumsy parody of himself. Breakfast With Frost (BBC1 8.30am Sundays) begins with evocative footage of the British houses of parliament, the US Capitol building, the Eiffel Tower, and musty, leather-bound books.
Then up pops Frost. He squints over the top of his spectacles at the viewer, claps his hands together in joy at being up ``bright and early this morning'', and immediately starts slurring his words.
Some of the words: British war-hero, mercenaries, helicopter gun-ship.
Memo to John Birt: Must we wait for a tragedy to occur before the BBC finally introduces random testing of the talent for narcotics abuse?
Few real people can be up at 8.00am to witness this stuff. As a service to normal readers, I shall press on, deeper and deeper into the seedy world viewed only by social misfits, parents of young children, and paid TV columnists.
Straight to the news, where there have been ``sectarian clashes'' in Belfast. A clash, observant readers will know, is when Catholics have to flee their homes from violent loyalist mobs.
Back from the news, and who is sitting on David's couch, languid and clearly bored, only Max Hastings, editor of the Evening Standard, and the lawyer Helena Kennedy.
I reach for the zapper.
They begin a long and ponderous rummage through the English Sunday newspapers, gibbering endlessly about how there's nothing of any interest in them. David Frost interjects to recount how workers in Walsall erected a £600 bus shelter on a street along which a bus had not passed in three years.
The zapper is in my hand, I must score from this distance, the crowd is on its feet.
David mentions the Falklands war hero-turned-mercenary.
A fatal hesitation.
Max and Helena have been kidnapped by aliens; in their place on the sofa is a medium-sized stoat. David Frost peers over his spectacles at the teleprompter: ``Tim Spicer, the recently-retired British colonel who led a band of mercenaries to Papua New Guinea, is safely back in this country.''
The stoat smiles. David recounts how he didn't get to kill anyone at all over there, but managed to get arrested by the local defence forces - the same ones whose government had paid the mercenaries £22 million to put down a rebellion.
``Are you going to continue with this business of yours?''
``I think we've got a number of lessons to learn from this particular, em, episode,'' says the stoat. ``I think we will continue to try and develop our business.''
He hastens to add that his is a very moral band of mercenaries: ``We'll only work for legitimate governments, preferably democratically elected.''
And here, for a brief few moments, David shows why even as an aged puppet he is better than anything RTE has to offer.
``Zaire?'' he asks. No, says the talking stoat. Nigeria? The stoat says maybe.
``What about Northern Ireland?'' presses David.
Confused, the businessman furrows his little stoat brow: ``What exactly do you mean by that?''
``Would you help the British forces in Northern Ireland, if you were asked?''
``I doubt we'd be asked, but of course we would,'' he replies.
Ah yes, you have to get up early to hear an implicit comparison between African despots and John Major.