An unimportant whine you don't have to read (and you won't understand if you don't live in Britain)

Anchorwoman Julie Etchingham is one of the most beautiful women in British TV. A few years ago, when she was sent to cover the Oscars, she out-glamoured practically every actress she met. Now ITV has hired her to front their resurrected ten o'clock news program together with Sir Trevor MacDonald. Superficially, this must have looked like the dream team - the Sage and the Valkyrie, shall we say.

This will surely prove one of the resounding disasters of TV history. To begin with, they set out to compete with the BBC's flagship ten o'clock newscast (which, in the old days, was at nine o'clock, so no competition). I despise the BBC news department, but purely as an objective fact, this is like picking a fight with a Tiger tank. The image of BBC newsgathering, however undeserved, is burnished, and anyone who goes up against them is looking for trouble. Also, according to critics who have watched the program more closely than I have, there is no chemistry whatever between Sir Trevor and Julie.

One thing that struck me may be of less import, but it is not without its weight. Have you noticed that, when a TV or movie idea is really badly wrong, then everything, even things that have little to do with the central mistake, tend to go wrong? Julie Etchingham, as I said, is a most beautiful woman; but she has been appearing with a ridiculous outdated sixties eggcup hairdo, which completely plays down her spectacular features and does little for her complexion and eyes. I wonder if she realizes how poor she looks; if I were her, I would have thrown a tantrum at the very least. And after all, if it is beauty that ITV is paying for - and not paying cheaply, you may be sure - beauty is what they should want to show.

And while we are on the subject of tantrums...

I never thought I would say this, but Naomi Campbell has been thoroughly ill-treated by the international news media, and the people she was angry at have got a thoroughly undeserved free pass. She was perfectly right to be angry, and if I were her, I would already be talking to my lawyers.

Ms.Campbell had booked a place on a flight that started from Heathrow's notorious fifth terminal. Yes, the one from which all the horror stories have emanated. This may have been incautious, but the flight, being a business one, was probably booked months in advance; and how was she to know, among the barrage of triumphalist stories being broadcast from the new building every few days, that the opening of the super-modern, super-splendid, super-efficient, super-huge new monster was to turn into the worst and most ludicrous organizational disaster even Britain had seen in years? Sir, she was not. The fashion industry has all the sins in the world except one: when they organize something, it is done in time and to the specifications required. Ms.Campbell could legitimately expect that "the world's favourite airline" would perform no worse than the people she normally worked with.

Punctually, as the plane was waiting to go, a number of bags went missing - including one of Ms.Campbell's, containing a number of expensive dresses she was supposed to model in Los Angeles. This was not personal gear, these were instruments of work, and expensive instruments at that. And the pilot was proposing to go anyway, taking her not around the corner but to another continent, without any news of that expensive and necessary item, without which her very reason to travel was, at least, damaged. Would you have lost your temper? I know I would have.

"Yes, but she spat in a policeman's face." Ah, yes, that policeman. Not many people know that, although the Heathrow police station is legally a part of the Metropolitan Police, it is in fact fully paid for by the airport and the airlines, and pretty much tends to act as their private force. In the past, they have been known to spy upon and harrass journalists and disgruntled customers who were investigating British Airways. I can just imagine what the intrusion of a "policeman" with that kind of mindset must have done for any atmosphere of peace and reasonableness. Come on, it has happened to all of you: some corporate entity does something badly that ends up seriously damaging or incommodating you - and instead of listening to you, they go and call the security guard. I would not have spat in their face, since I never learned how to spit; but you may be sure that the corporate morons involved would have learned a lot of interesting things about their own moral character, sexual habits, and descent.

What happened here is this: Naomi Campbell has a terrible temper - something I know about. In the past, she has repeatedly come to the attention of the law for exaggerated and violent displays of it, and been punished, probably quite deservedly. So, on the occasion when she has a right to be angry at a piece of shoddy and disastrous "service", probably quite expensive too, all that the papers hear is that she has lost her temper - again. Even though it is in a situation where you or I - I certainly - would lose it ourselves, and would have a perfect right to.

The James Bond aesthetic

The Stoic fallacy is said to be the belief that we can always and everywhere achieve the level of morality, intelligence , or insight, that we manage at our best. It occurred to me, watching a James Bond movie (I detest them, but tend to watch the most recent ones for the pleasure of watching Judy Dench), that the whole James Bond genre is based on a bizarre kind of physical version of the Stoic fallacy. I have not read any of the novels and don't intend to, and at any rate the points I intend to make are exclusively to do with the movies. But in the movies, it is an absolute law that everything always works, and works at its highest pitch of efficiency. In real life, anyone who relies on gadgets and guns as Bond does would have been long dead - the first time that his Aston Martin's engine started sputtering, or his Uzi jammed. And the same goes for that other machine that is the human body: Bond may be wounded from time to time, but he is never fatigued, feverish, suffering from indigestion, or just out of sorts. The same goes for his women, and even his enemies. His enemies rely on gadgetry at least as much as he does, and I do not remember a single time when their gadgets failed before he got his hands on them. As for the women, we all know what the James Bond world is like. When he happens to be on a Caribbean beach, it is Ursula Andress who rises from the waves - not the much more likely holiday-maker from Edgbaston or Connecticut. Nobody could possibly imagine him having bad sex, either. And even contraception seems to share the same uncanny magical power of total efficiency: if condoms broke on James Bond as often as they do in real life, he would have enough bastards to staff his own kindergarten branch of MI6.

Along with this goes a peculiarly narrow background. And I do not merely mean that Bond, his friends and his enemies all live in an atmosphere of limitless luxury, but that his luxury, and the apparently limitless free time he has between missions, do not seem to add up to the daily life of a real sophisticate. Bond flaunts his sophistication ("shaken, not stirred"), but real sophisticates know that many of the world's true delights, its best foods and drinks, furniture and accessories, come from places like small French farms or artisan shops in some small by-way of a large town. Bond is never, even by mistake, seen to taste a cottage-made Bavarian cheese or a little-known Sicilian wine. All his goods are branded. And along with this goes a most surprising lack of curiosity. Bond always knows what he likes and what he wants, but he never has to learn at all. Food lovers try new things, or exchange the details of unusual places and products found by chance. They extol their new finds to each other, and sometimes disagree about them. The mere pursuit of pleasure in taste becomes an adventure. We never witness this kind of enthusiasm or of curiosity in Bond. And yet we are meant to take his sophistication quite seriously. Whatever else the films may mock, when it comes to the aristocratic excellence of Bond's tastes, they are in dead earnest. It is, after all, another feature of that way of always functioning at the top of one's ability, that I pointed out as a central feature of the stories.

Shall I tell you where I think all this very peculiar world comes from? I think it is the aesthetics of advertising; and, more specifically, of TV advertising. Advertising had of course long been around, but it was with the onset of TV that it became more than a matter of individual luscious pictures and suggestions. Tv gives it a dimension in time; extends and deepens the sense of space and environment one can already get from well-designed magazine ads; and, above all, makes advertising a daily, ever-present dimension to life. Every three quarters of an hour spent watching the news, a movie, or Strictly come dancing, come with one quarter of an hour of two-minute spots. And it has been so for most if not all of all our lives. It is, after all, no coincidence that the Bond movie phenomenon began in 1962, after a decade in which TV had affirmed itself as the world's one true mass medium, beyond newspapers, magazines, cinema and radio.

The kind of human perfections shown in the Bond heroes, heroines and villains, are the kind of perfections presented in a two-minute ad. It is not only that the product that is advertised always works: it is the whole background that is error-free. The furniture is dustless, the colours bright, the house dog a beautiful Lassie, drink sparkles from cut glass, heat comes from beautiful open fires fed by handsome logs. There is no effort, no strain, but neither is there any curiosity or any of the keen, delighted exchange of experience and suggestions that is the substance of the conversation of people who really like food or drink, dress or cars or overseas travel. A name is mentioned, and that is enough: the guarantee of a finished experience.

Another feature of the James Bond universe is the moral and intellectual timidity of this mass murder fantasy. Bond is often said to be a Cold War fantasy, but if it is, it is a fantasy in which existing conditions suit everybody very well. The only fear it entertains is that the status quo should really be rudely shaken. Bond kills dozens if not hundreds of enemies in every movie, but he has never once dealt with a serious political or ethical problem. He has, as I pointed out, never had a child, bastard or legitimate; he has never fought an enemy who really represented one of the great dangers of the time. Indeed, he often seems on good terms - or at least, on terms of mutual understanding - with Soviet, Chinese or other enemy agents; most ridiculously, in Die Another Day, we see an all but heroic North Korean colonel. In James Bond's world, the existing powers, however much they may dislike each other, will always ultimately agree to collaborate to destroy any upstart, troubing alien growth.

This is only psychologically understandable, within that world of incurious, stable, branded elegance I described. The real escapism in James Bond is an escapism from troubling questions, difficult situations, change. The world suits us just fine as it is.

Subhumanity

Gordon Brown, Britain's current Prime Minister, was apparently caught on movie camera performing an act so revolting (though small) that I cannot bring myself to describe it. (It is however apparently easy to find on YouTube or the like.)

Gordon Brown is insisting, against sanity and decency, to force through Parliament a law that would permit human/animal hybridization for experimental purposes.

Why is it that I see a connection between these two facts?

The reason for a number of things...

A blog can be, of course, anything you want it to be. However, there have been some items on mine that seem to have left some of my friends confused as to what, exactly, I was trying to do or say, and why. The James Bond item, in particular. My point in writing that is that I am interested in culture history and working on a history of modern culture and popular culture. The reflection on James Bond represents my getting straight, at least to my own satisfaction, a phenomenon in modern culture, in the anthropological sense of the word. One day it might become a part of a larger work, a history of popular culture.