When did we become so boring?

Spectator

11-06-2025

Recently, I found myself trying to explain to a much younger colleague who Oliver Reed was. We'd got on to the subject of the hell-raising actor because I was bemoaning the fact – perhaps rashly – that today's world is completely anodyne.
Fear of offending others means it's better to keep your thoughts to yourself; after all, who needs the police investigating them for a non-crime hate incident? Brave is the person who brings their whole self to work, as many of us are encouraged to do. The government's Employment Rights Bill, which some are calling the 'banter ban', may mean we're even more reluctant to speak our minds.
This prohibition against saying anything even vaguely controversial extends to all walks of life – including television. So, I cited Reed's legendary appearance on the late-night Channel 4 discussion programme After Dark as an example of a time when we didn't have to weigh every word before uttering it.
During an episode on men, Reed got hammered on the free booze, became argumentative and gave horrified feminist author Kate Millett an unsolicited peck on the cheek. Eventually, after being told off by Helena Kennedy, he was asked to leave. Some may think he confirmed masculine stereotypes with his boorish behaviour, but it was one of the funniest things ever broadcast and went down in the annals of television history.
From today's vantage point, it seems almost unthinkable that an unscripted debate – where guests were plied with free booze – could ever be broadcast on terrestrial television. Instead, we're fed a diet of inoffensive pap featuring vacuous individuals with perfect hair, unblemished skin and 'Turkey teeth'. Intellectually challenging television is a thing of the past. Now, we have to endure endless crime dramas and cookery programmes, which are little more than chewing gum for the mind. God forbid we be allowed to view anything that jolts us from our collective stupor.
I hanker after moments like 1985's Live Aid when Bob Geldof jabbed the table and said: 'Fuck the address, let's get the numbers!' when emphasising the urgency of getting donations by phone rather than giving out postal addresses. Interviewed on Sky News in 2014 about critical reactions to the re-recording of Do They Know It's Christmas, he said: 'I think they're talking bollocks.' Asked not to repeat the word, he responded to another of the presenter's assertions with: 'Complete load of bollocks.' The interview ended abruptly. Absolute comedy gold.
I, for one, am sick of today's bland entertainment. We need TV programmes fronted by louche characters with several days' beard growth who look like they've come straight from a nightclub. Their rasping voices should suggest a 40-a-day habit. And the news would be far more interesting if presented by people who'd clearly enjoyed a good lunch on expenses. Broadcaster and journalist Reginald 'Reggie' Bosanquet often appeared worse for wear while fronting the News at Ten. One of his co-presenters, Anna Ford, recalled: 'Reggie was a dear. I mean, you wouldn't have chosen a man who had epilepsy, was an alcoholic, had had a stroke and wore a toupée to read the news, but the combination was absolute magic.'
Just imagine how ratings would soar for any channel brave enough to put a modern-day Bosanquet in front of the camera. It would be compulsive viewing. Forget the daily diet of doom – you'd tune in to see how pissed they were.
And if we must suffer never-ending food programmes, at least let the chef have a fag planted in the corner of their mouth (Marco Pierre White is the only living cook I know to have done this). Then we could watch transfixed as the inch of ash hanging precariously from the tip threatened to drop into whatever they were preparing. It would be even more compelling if they were helping themselves to liberal amounts of alcohol like the late Keith Floyd.
Sadly, because everything's now so carefully choreographed, there's no danger of anything spontaneous and, therefore, interesting happening. Gone is the era when a group of young musicians like the Sex Pistols could appear on live TV and turn the air blue. When challenged to say something outrageous by host Bill Grundy, guitarist Steve Jones responded by calling him a 'Dirty bastard' and a 'fucker'. It caused outrage, but the nine-year-old me was delighted. It just couldn't happen now. Neither the producers nor the band's management would allow it.
We need TV programmes fronted by louche characters with several days' beard growth who look like they've come straight from a nightclub
I like to imagine that, in the unlikely event I'm ever invited on to Today, I'd say something that would have the punters choking on their cornflakes: 'Sorry, Emma… [prolonged sniffing] Feeling a bit liverish. I'm afraid I had a couple of grams of Bolivia's finest washed down with a bottle of Jack D. Never a good idea on a school night.' Raffish laughter. But in reality, I'd be utterly craven. Anyway, I've switched to Radio 3.
As for comedy, fuhgeddaboudit! I recently watched the first episode of Tina Fey's Four Seasons and nearly wept at the banality. Anything from yesteryear seems to have to carry a health warning. Can you imagine a new series of Little Britain making it past the morality police? Neither can I. Comedy from the 1970s and 1980s? Don't even go there.
There is some hope: The White Lotus – a satire about the entitled rich – has produced some sublime moments. But it's a drama. We need more real-life characters in the media: rakish individuals and loose cannons, preferably those with charm, intellect and wit. Give John Lydon, aka Johnny Rotten, his own show. He may have mellowed with age, but he could be relied on to ignore the script.
This isn't a rallying cry for bad behaviour for its own sake – or an argument against common courtesy, which is already in decline – but rather a call to loosen the fetters that mean, in today's world, it's easier and safer to say nothing at all. Our fear of opprobrium means public debate is the poorest quality I can ever remember. Rather than reasoned discourse, we have facile comments or pure vitriol.
So come on, commissioning editors, instead of rendering us insensible with unmitigated twaddle, bring back cerebral discussion programmes whose participants aren't censored. Invite bon viveurs, intellectuals, raconteurs and wits. Mix it up occasionally with a disreputable character or two, supply the guests with a heavily laden drinks trolley and something contentious to debate, and you'd have an explosive cocktail – as well as the makings of brilliant television.
Sadly, Oliver Reed died while filming Gladiator. He met some off-duty sailors in a bar and challenged them to a drinking match but fell ill and collapsed with a heart attack. My God, what an epic way to go. Of course, I could never say that to my younger colleague because the age of giants is over, and the unexceptionable are now in charge.