07 August 2005
Sunday Herald
Muriel Gray reckons that while the wisdom of broadcasting the latest sexual antics in Big Brother may be questionable, at least today’s teenagers have the moral sense to vote the most repulsive housemates off sharpish
This is so embarrassing I can hardly bear to tell you. Still, better out than in. Lucky enough to have been in Shetland last week, recording interviews for an absorbing BBC radio show about dialect, Alice, the producer, and I had the most splendid time. So girlishly excited were we to be let loose among such beauty that we drove everywhere we could to see as much as possible in a short time, including taking the ferry to Whalsay, driving round the island in 20 minutes and taking the ferry straight back again.
This enjoyment of our location culminated in the pleasant lounge bar in Lerwick, sipping drinks happily while we and the dozen or so mainly male occupants of the bar watched the Celtic game on a 50-inch, widescreen plasma TV. What bliss. The game ended, the barman turned the volume down, activated the subtitle function and everyone got back to chatting. Then came the grave error. It was nomination night on Big Brother. Who, I wondered, was for the chop? I asked the barman if he would switch to Channel 4 and we settled down to watch the show on this huge public screen emblazoned with 50-inch long subtitles.
By now you may be ahead of me. Yes, that was the night that the now infamous incident of housemate Kinga performing a sex act with a wine bottle occurred. As we sat in stunned silence, a few Shetland eyes began to stray up to the repulsive yet unavoidable sight above the bar, gigantic words spelling out exactly what was happening, lest anyone be in any doubt, and then those same eyes strayed over to the woman who had requested this entertainment … Taxi for Gray.
But the reason my cheeks reddened was not that I was offended by the programme, since I wasn’t, but because I had unwittingly introduced this unforeseen depravity into a public space where some pleasant, hard-working men had come just to have a few pints and watch some football. So if I felt culpable for polluting Lerwick, how then, one wonders, did Endemol, the makers of the show, feel?
Channel 4 received more than 200 complaints, but the response from a number of quarters has been to point out that those who complained must have been viewing with the knowledge of what Big Brother contains, and should have expected such behaviour. This is a tough one. Clearly the innocent drinkers of Lerwick had it thrust upon them, thanks to me, and so it’s safe to assume that many children staying up for the Celtic game and while channel-hopping after the final whistle might also have witnessed it. The questions arising then are not just whether the channel was irresponsible for broadcasting it, since it was edited footage and not live, but also whether this particular genie of reality TV, that of exhibitionist sexual indignity, can ever go back into the bottle.
In a difficult cultural period for us all, when Western “values” are being hotly contested by alternative ideologies, it’s not surprising that Big Brother is frequently held up as the benchmark of all that is decadent, hopeless and worthless. It’s an easy target, but to heap the West’s moral decline on one usually amusing show is simplistic and slightly ridiculous. You’ll have worked out from the above confession that I’m a loyal BB fan, but this is not because I wish to witness young women sexually abasing themselves.
The value of BB is in its elements of farce and tragedy. The incidents in this series, when unattractive couples had sex under duvets and in swimming pools, have not been the moments that have captured the audience’s attention.
It’s the more complicated human relationships that enthral, such as the unrequited love affair between a gay man and a straight man; the unravelling revelation that a black, middle-aged Tory speech writer, who thinks himself clever, is in fact considerably less self-aware than those he holds in contempt, who believe him to be an Uncle Tom to his rich white friends; and the social blossoming of an outrageously awkward and shy man, who possesses the type of personality which has fuelled traditional British comedy for years.
This is all terrific. What’s not so terrific is that the history of stupidity, self-abuse and humiliation resulting in massive financial gain outside the house, as in the case of ex-housemate Jade Goody who is a millionaire largely because she believed East Anglia to be abroad, has led to desperate individuals trying to push the boundaries of taste even further in order to reap the same rewards. This is where Endemol has a duty of care to its participants, to save them from themselves, and in this series perhaps that duty and responsibility has slipped.
Big Brother, curiously, reflects some values, in its audience at least, that give rise to hope rather than despair concerning moral decline. Those housemates who display a mean, nasty or duplicitous nature are quickly dispatched by the largely teenage voting public, and the suspected racist undertones displayed by one particular housemate led directly to his removal. There’s not much wrong with young British people who side with the underdog, despise racism and bullying, forgive ignorance and celebrate kindness, innocence and honesty.
The sexual aspects are not shocking to this teen audience since the average teenager thinks largely about sex and little else, and so the outrage is felt most keenly by the middle-aged and the media. But just as Endemol has rightly edited out overtly racist remarks to protect those who made them, as well as the producers and broadcasters, it should now also consider editing out humiliating, attention-grabbing, degrading excess. This is not about our offence, or imagined moral decline, but simply about the protection of vulnerable participants. The reason I never wish to see anything like that again is not because I was offended, but because I worry about the future and the dignity of the person being encouraged to do it. But sorry to all in Kirkwall. Next time I’ll demand to watch Gardeners’ World.
