IT IS 25 long years since Orgreave, Rossington and Hatfield dominated the headlines, and in The Miners' Strike a picket-line veteran with an immaculate white moustache called Mick Milligan reckoned that no-one under the age of 35 would understand why
the pitmen downed tools and fought so hard. The following night My Strike began with the words: "Scratch the surface of anyone over 35 and you'll probably find a striker."
The documentaries were part of a BBC4 season marking the anniversary of that long and bitter colliery dispute and I hope the under-35s found the social history interesting. Your goggle-box reviewer, who's over 35, was fascinated by the philosophical recollections in The Miners' Strike because when he was dispatched to the Midlothian pits at Bilston Glen and Monktonhall back in 1984 he encountered a deep suspicion of the press, or at least the press as represented by a snotty-nosed cub reporter yet to grow into his C&A suit. The strike was the making of some miners. "It brought the man out of the boy," said Harry Harle. "It changed my life – for the better," added Will Moore, who set up his own business, overground, with greater life expectancy. But all said they would strike again, even those who ended up losing their families, everything.
The Miners' Strike was actually an old doc but well worth a rerun for the harsh truths and vivid imagery. A policeman on the picket lines spoke of the sky turning black with bricks and other missiles. Moore, who like the others worked at Hatfield Main in South Yorkshire, said: "Before the strike none of us hated anything. That all changed." Through their plastic shields, police fat on overtime waved £10 notes at the hard-up pitmen; one side huddled round braziers to keep warm while the other splashed out on top-of-the-range microwaves and called them "Arthur" after Scargill. And when Margaret Thatcher's hotel was blown up by a terrorist bomb, the miners shouted: "Maggie Maggie Maggie – boom boom boom."
My Strike interviewed notable strike-busters about their days as strikers, among them Eddie Shah, Kelvin MacKenzie, Peter Snow and – hello darkness my old friend – Norman Tebbit. Injured in that Brighton blast, Tebbit was the link between these programmes and proved tremendous value. The Chingford skinhead of popular demonology is allowing what's left of his hair to grow long and wispy. That was remarkable enough, but his pre-trade union bogeyman incarnation as an activist in industrial action by BOAC pilots in the 1960s must have surprised many.
He was "bolshie, in a middle class sort of way". His language was less "Out brothers, out!", more "I'm terribly sorry, old boy, but that's not quite right." The pilots were too posh to picket. Some of them sported perfectly aerodynamic Terry Thomas moustaches (or indeed Mick Milligan ones). Industrial correspondents – when TV still employed them – were keen to know what the politely insurrectionist pilots would do for money. Personal reserves, old boy, or: "One can always pitch hay."
While Shah was the most damning on the subject of strikers ("They were animals, I loathed them," he said after telling how he was sent five coffins, one for each of his family). Viz founder Chris Donald provided the incidental humour. Obliged to have membership of a print union, he got away with signing his cartoons "Noddy Holder, SLADE" (note to anyone under 35: SLADE stood for the Society of Lithographic Artists, Designers, Engravers & Process Workers).
That was pretty funny but, to be honest, I laughed more during MacKenzie's recollections of how he used to noise up striking printers during the Wapping dispute. With a perfectly straight face, the ex-Sun editor said that after "the kiss 'n' tells, 'The three nuns and the King of Siam' and 'My night with the rhino'," a flick of the Vs to the picket line was "the only light relief in the entire day".
Your reviewer was a striker too. In 1987 we hacks hit the cobbles in an ultimately doomed bid to preserve our four-day week. Strictly speaking, we were paid for five days but only worked four, so you can imagine the difficulty we had persuading members of the public to boycott our paper. Next to the miners, we must have come across like hairdressers campaigning for an extra speed-setting on their dryers.
Both My Strike and The Miners' Story ended with the same regret. In the latter, Hatfield pitman Dave Nixon said: "Thatcher succeeded. Individualism rules now and no one gives a damn about anyone else." And this was Greg Dyke, even though he battled with broadcasting unions at ITV: "Collectivism has disappeared in our society and I think that's sad."
Okay, history lesson over. Horne & Corden is very much a programme for the under-35s, being a sketch show where the stars of Gavin & Stacey get to cast aside sweet romantic comedy and reveal their edgy, daring side. The first skit in the first edition exploited James Corden's considerable girth, which was a surprise, because when I interviewed him last year he said his weight had only ever been an issue for others in his profession who, initially at least, didn't think he was funny.
More fat jokes followed. I counted four which depended on his love handles for laughs. Maybe this was his revenge on the doubters. Or maybe he and Mathew Horne were pushed for time on this show, what with their film debut (see page 7), all that shouting and jumping while hosting The Brits and the questionable decision to do more Gavin & Stacey (great first series, not so great second).
There was one brilliant sketch. I'm always up for a joke at Ricky Gervais's expense and Corden had him filming Karate Kid 14 – "Still better than doing a British movie" – where he talked over the other actors when it was their turn. This monster was equal parts David Brent, Andy Millman and Gervais himself, though of course his lack of humility when accepting awards may just be an act. If so, what an absolute hoot.
