Postcards

Quite by accident, today I came upon some across some of my favourite TV shows of all time. Since I was a little bitty boy, I have been in awe of Clive James. I first got to know who he was on a late night BBC satire show called Up Sunday. I have always loved words and James wrote and spoke them better than anyone else. His ‘Postcards from’ shows were wonderful. But would they be as good today? Would they have dated?

I watched three shows tonight. Postcards from Berlin, Rio and New York. The cities had probably changed a great deal since the shows were made. The brilliant writing and presentation hadn’t dated a day.

In Berlin, James toured around in an ancient, malfunctioning Trabant. At the time, the city was a building site as the grim memories of East Berlin were being demolished. Like no other journalist alive, James captured quite brilliantly the fading glamour, such as there was. Mostly original thought, punctuated by the clever use of stereotypes, like the German sausage diet, by time the show ended, you could feel exactly what it must have been like.

Rio was the collision of extreme wealth and poverty. The rich lived by the sea, the poor lived in the hills in rubbish tips called favelas. James ventured into the hills, visiting a hillside where eight people had died the night before in a gunfight. He captured the place perfectly.

And New York was New York. Slightly more dangerous then than is now, James described the insane speed of the place. The city never slept. It never stopped running. By the end, he was exhausted. If there had been no pictures, James’ words would have been enough to paint the picture.

Rediscovering Clive James and his Postcards reminded me of a simply fact of life: class is permanent. He is clever, well-read and very funny. And he is accessible to non literary intellects like me. He brings a picture to life. He is like the BBC in that he informs, educates and entertains. He is one of the greatest writers of all time.