For the next four days as I made my way around the island, visiting the Boer War cemetery, swimming in the wild southern Atlantic, chasing tortoises around the gardens of the governorâs mansion, I tried to ignore that thought. I tried to push it aside and to the back of my mind, but like a medieval witch or an unhappy childhood it kept resurfacing. The thought was simple, yet terrible: I wonder what is happening on Big Brother ?
I resisted as long as I could, but like a souse returning to the bottle, one night I switched on. As I sat there in a funk of self-loathing, my neighbour popped round to borrow a cup of sugar. She glanced at the screen. âOh that,â she said, wrinkling her nose. âCan you imagine that anyone would watch it? Eee, we all listen to the radio when that comes on.â
She left, and suddenly I felt bathed in the warm light of St Helena. Outside, folk were chatting over garden fences or washing their cars. No one was watching Big Brother . Oh blessed isle. Suddenly I understood why French emperors would come here to retire.
It takes a lot of money to look this cheap
SUNDAY INDEPENDENT, 18 NOVEMBER 2001
âI THINK THE EYES are the windows of the soul,â said Tammy Faye, âso whenever one of my special friends dies I always ask if I can have their glasses.â It was one more reason not to be a special friend of Tammy Faye Bakker. The thought of her perched at the foot of my deathbed like a shoulder-padded homunculus, just waiting to put the pennies over my eyes and make off with my spectacles, is not one that encourages me to make a happy noise unto the Lord.
The Eyes of Tammy Faye (M-Net, Monday, 10.15pm) was filled with noises unto the Lord. Some happy, others more like a strangled cry. Tammy Faye Bakker was the wife of Jim Bakker, the chipmunk-cheeked televangelist who first popularised religious television programming of the sort that revolves around saying âHosannaâ and asking the viewing public for cash donations.
Big Jim used many of those donations to build Heritage USA, the religious theme park that at one time was the third most popular tourist attraction in America. He also had a one-night stand with a Playboy bunny and was eventually jailed for misuse of subscriber funds.
Jim himself was interviewed, fresh from the penitentiary, posing with his new wife, wearing a Melton blazer and wire-rimmed spectacles and a swish new haircut. Prison does strange things to a man â in Jim Bakkerâs case, it made him resemble Glen Hicks. All the same, you canât hide those cheeks; he still looks as though he is concealing wads of hundred-dollar bills in his mouth.
The real focus was Tammy Faye, a Southern Baptist Zsa Zsa Gabor with facial make-up as thick as she is tall. âTammy Faye was always religious,â said her brother. I think his name was Tommy Faye. âWhen she was little she had a wart on her finger and God told her to dip it in the Communion cup on Sunday. It worked.â
One more reason not to invite Tammy Faye around for drinks. I wouldnât care to lay on a punchbowl only for Tammy Faye to discover she has a carbuncle on her toe.
Jim and Tammy Fayeâs television empire had humble origins. We watched lurid 1970s footage of Tammy Faye operating a finger-puppet. As the Bakkersâ Praise The Lord network expanded, she added another finger-puppet.
While Tammy Fayeâs fingers did the talking, Jimâs principal task was to ask for money. I still canât get over his trademark sign-off. Just before the closing credits, he would look out at the audience and say, quivering with the effort of holding back a guffaw: âJesus loves you, heh heh heh, he really does.â
Today, watching it, you think: âHow did he get away with that?â True, audiences are no less gullible nowadays, but televangelists are thoughtful enough to wait until they are off-camera before they openly laugh at the rubes.
Whatever
I resisted as long as I could, but like a souse returning to the bottle, one night I switched on. As I sat there in a funk of self-loathing, my neighbour popped round to borrow a cup of sugar. She glanced at the screen. âOh that,â she said, wrinkling her nose. âCan you imagine that anyone would watch it? Eee, we all listen to the radio when that comes on.â
She left, and suddenly I felt bathed in the warm light of St Helena. Outside, folk were chatting over garden fences or washing their cars. No one was watching Big Brother . Oh blessed isle. Suddenly I understood why French emperors would come here to retire.
It takes a lot of money to look this cheap
SUNDAY INDEPENDENT, 18 NOVEMBER 2001
âI THINK THE EYES are the windows of the soul,â said Tammy Faye, âso whenever one of my special friends dies I always ask if I can have their glasses.â It was one more reason not to be a special friend of Tammy Faye Bakker. The thought of her perched at the foot of my deathbed like a shoulder-padded homunculus, just waiting to put the pennies over my eyes and make off with my spectacles, is not one that encourages me to make a happy noise unto the Lord.
The Eyes of Tammy Faye (M-Net, Monday, 10.15pm) was filled with noises unto the Lord. Some happy, others more like a strangled cry. Tammy Faye Bakker was the wife of Jim Bakker, the chipmunk-cheeked televangelist who first popularised religious television programming of the sort that revolves around saying âHosannaâ and asking the viewing public for cash donations.
Big Jim used many of those donations to build Heritage USA, the religious theme park that at one time was the third most popular tourist attraction in America. He also had a one-night stand with a Playboy bunny and was eventually jailed for misuse of subscriber funds.
Jim himself was interviewed, fresh from the penitentiary, posing with his new wife, wearing a Melton blazer and wire-rimmed spectacles and a swish new haircut. Prison does strange things to a man â in Jim Bakkerâs case, it made him resemble Glen Hicks. All the same, you canât hide those cheeks; he still looks as though he is concealing wads of hundred-dollar bills in his mouth.
The real focus was Tammy Faye, a Southern Baptist Zsa Zsa Gabor with facial make-up as thick as she is tall. âTammy Faye was always religious,â said her brother. I think his name was Tommy Faye. âWhen she was little she had a wart on her finger and God told her to dip it in the Communion cup on Sunday. It worked.â
One more reason not to invite Tammy Faye around for drinks. I wouldnât care to lay on a punchbowl only for Tammy Faye to discover she has a carbuncle on her toe.
Jim and Tammy Fayeâs television empire had humble origins. We watched lurid 1970s footage of Tammy Faye operating a finger-puppet. As the Bakkersâ Praise The Lord network expanded, she added another finger-puppet.
While Tammy Fayeâs fingers did the talking, Jimâs principal task was to ask for money. I still canât get over his trademark sign-off. Just before the closing credits, he would look out at the audience and say, quivering with the effort of holding back a guffaw: âJesus loves you, heh heh heh, he really does.â
Today, watching it, you think: âHow did he get away with that?â True, audiences are no less gullible nowadays, but televangelists are thoughtful enough to wait until they are off-camera before they openly laugh at the rubes.
Whatever
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