Quiet, please
RADIO holds within itself its own particular form of magic. At its best, the spoken- word version has the power to foster imagination, intimacy, and trust. The recent (in my view, crass) decision by many podcasters to add visuals to their programmes is a reminder of how readily the aural is marred. If God were a broadcaster, she would favour the wireless.
Such musings were much in my mind during a recent visit to Pemberley, Mr Darcy’s fine estate in Derbyshire, as I prepared to record a special edition of Radio 4’s Sunday Worship to coincide with the 250th anniversary of Jane Austen’s birth. I say “Pemberley”, but I mean Lyme Park, its stand-in for the 1995 classic BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice.
Outside broadcasting or recording is always fraught. Barking dogs, aircraft flight paths, and people simply being people are the OB sound-recordist’s nemesis. It took me half a dozen tries to get a clean take of my effort to mimic Lizzie Bennet’s “Magnificent!” as I took in a “fair prospect”. She did not need to compete with cars roaring up the drive. A 30-second “drop colour intro” to a section about the part played by Lyme’s famous lake in the 1995 adaptation took ten minutes. Who knew that the shoes of punters enjoying the wonderful festive displays in the grounds could generate so much noise?
If there is laughter in heaven — and one wonders what is its point if there isn’t — Austen must have split her sides at my feeble attempts, as a child ran loudly through Lyme’s orangery, to retain the hushed, focused dignity of what my family call my “Radio 4 voice”.
Cogito ergo sum?
WHAT do prominent politicians, wealthy celebrities, and I have in common? I wish this were a set-up for a joke. Rather, it turns out our personal details are all treated with high-security protocols by His Majesty’s Civil Service — in my case, for no other reason than that I’m a trans woman. A regular civil servant can no more look up my details than they can Kier Starmer’s or Olivia Colman’s. Most of the time, I’m glad.
Back in October, however, one of my nurses persuaded me to try to apply for the Personal Independence Payment (PIP), to help me to negotiate my new health complications. The initial step should be simple: ring up the helpline and tell an agent all about your ailments. Leaving aside the slightly ominous implications of “agent”, it is meant to take no more than 15 minutes: give them your National Insurance number, and the questions begin. If your health needs are complex enough, you will then be emailed the official application form. Simple, yes? Well, not if your NI details are held securely, like mine.
I have ended up in a ludicrous situation in which — like a second-rank character in a Kafka novel — I have been pushed from one agent to the next. “I can’t help you, but I’ll put you in touch with someone who can,” says one. “Oh, I can help you, but I need permission to do so. Just wait a minute,” says another, before adding: “Actually, I can’t help you right now, but I’ll call you back later.” Inevitably, this “agent” did not call back.
I have lost several days of annual leave in this labyrinth. I have written twice to request paper assessment forms. Nearly three months later, I have heard nothing. My favourite (by which I mean bleakest) moment came when I rang up to complain and was told that I couldn’t, as I didn’t yet exist on the system. It has been a harsh lesson in how rapidly one can lose privilege and discover that one’s voice does not reach very far. You are a nobody if no one can access your official details.
Selective hearing
SPEAKING of voice, it is a truth universally acknowledged that “successful” preaching in the broad middle of the C of E (where most of us live) has very little to do with erudition or wisdom, cleverness or biblical knowledge, but simply amounts to “We could hear you at the back.”
Sunday by Sunday, especially during the wild scenes that December so often generates, I have found confirmation of this truth. One thing unites the blur of carol services, Advent eucharists, Christmas services, and, of course, midnight mass: the regulars — good and faithful Anglicans all — like to arrive early to bag the pews at the rear. I suspect that it may be a token of spiritual failure if a regular needs to sit more than halfway up the aisle.
Indeed, I have grown to pity the festive latecomers, usually ingénues who come to church at most once a year. They have not figured out the cheat codes to good Anglican practice: if you sit at the back, not only are you less likely to be picked on by the preacher, but you get get to deliver the best compliment known in the C of E: “Good sermon, Vicar: I could hear every word.”
While naturally thrilled to receive this compliment on several occasions during Advent and Christmas, I was tempted to respond with “Excellent. Which words did you especially admire?”
Divine comedy
CONFIRMATION that I have a great face for radio came yet again during a recent appearance on Christmas University Challenge. TV is an exacting, exposing medium at the best of times; and trying to keep your dignity during one of its most challenging quizzes is on another level.
The brilliant make-up artists did their best with me, but, to misquote the dramatist John Ford, “Alas, she looked not like the ruins of her youth, but the ruins of those ruins.” Still, who could resist an invitation to take part? Indeed, my vanity knew no bounds, since I had been asked to appear for the second year running, this time representing a different Alma Mater.
Leaving aside the thrill of competition (I love this show so much that I’m tempted to do a degree at yet another university, just to see if I can make the alumni team), it is fascinating to witness how players — often with decades of TV and film experience — respond to its intense environment.
Last year, there was a contestant touting for TV work, and another who seemed intent on flirting with the host, Amol Rajan. This year, I was surprised how readily some forgot the basic rules, even after Amol’s repeated reminders. Nerves really are extraordinary things, and it is reassuring to be reminded that even — perhaps, especially — those whom one has admired from afar are simply ordinary, fallible creatures like the rest of us.
Deep biblical truths revealed by a TV show, then? For all my vanity and self-importance, and my love of showing off (whether on TV or radio), the good God humbles us. I experienced the nightmare of every quizzing cleric: I got a biblical-adjacent question wrong.
To return to Jane Austen, I often wonder what she would make of me if she were writing now. My vanity hopes that she would add me to that detailed list of pretentious, self-regarding clergy whom she happily skewered. My nightmare: that she would treat me as just another commonplace, boring cleric produced by the media age, unworthy of comment. Jane might laugh mischievously. God would laugh harder still.
The Ven. Dr Rachel Mann is the Archdeacon of Bolton and Salford, in the diocese of Manchester.
