SO COUNTER-CULTURAL a phenomenon is worth celebrating: last
week, BBC2 broadcast a drama in which a Church of England priest
was portrayed as a figure of sanity and humour. Has the tide
finally turned? Or is it the flaring of the last spark from a dying
fire, our sacred profession now to be treated not with satire or
ridicule, just completely ignored. Let us savour the moment while
it lasts.
The Wipers Times (Wednesday of last week) was based on
historical fact, the production of an unofficial newspaper by
Sherwood Foresters fighting in the trenches of the First World War,
prompted by their discovery of an abandoned printing press. Two
officers discover a gift for journalism - or, at least, facetious
commentary on the ghastliness of their predicament - and colleagues
deliver a stream of material that enables them to churn out issue
after issue of "something like Punch - but with
jokes".
The main butt of their humour was the cushy lives of the General
Staff, directing the war while safely behind the lines. They, in
turn, wished to close down this hotbed of sedition, but the paper
was protected by a senior officer (Michael Palin), who realised
that this might be the safety valve necessary to avoid despair.
The film was a celebration of what we like to think of as a
particularly British trait: when confronted by hell, the best
response is to write a few sketches, and get up a concert party. It
raised the matter of the profound value of humour in the face of
horror, and the supreme importance of the unimportant. And the
Padre? He had a small but vital walk-on part, invoking the Almighty
to obstruct the Staff's attempt to shut down an impromptu pub
opened by the same gang of jokers.
This was not the greatest play -slack at times, not perfectly
judged - but it was by turns hilarious and poignant, and
beautifully acted.
In somewhat different vein, Robert Preston Goes
Shopping (BBC2, Mondays) is a documentary series about
something else we are rather good at: the British obsession with
retail. Last week's episode chronicled the consumer boom of the
1980s and '90s - the glory days of Tesco, Topshop, and Ikea, and
the rise of cheap credit.
The Tesco Clubcard not only gave better gifts than Green Shield
stamps: it enabled the company to know exactly what you bought, and
when, enabling it to decide what stock to have available, and
therefore offer the lowest price.
It was not all good. The ruthless forcing down of supply price
destroyed British manufacture; small shops were no longer viable;
British farmers had to accept prices lower than their husbandry
costs; clothing became so cheap as to be disposable; and the
foreign factories making the goods were death-traps, scarcely
paying living wages. Credit-card debt rose, encouraged by the
comforting new morality of consumption.
We might be surprised by the extent to which Preston, as an
economist, is telling essentially a tale of ethics, and he
emphasises one key moment: Sunday opening - the point when the
desire to shop overcame any restraint in the pursuit of Mammon,
ending all residual sense that England might be a Christian
country.