Nancy Banks Smith: The Point of the Guardian

When I first conceived this blog it was very nearly going to be a rant against the falling standards of the Guardian during the time I've been reading it all my adult life.

My ire has always fallen upon those tedious nobodies who got to write in the Guardian purely because of the networking they achieved at Oxford, or who their parents were.

They know nothing, and have the most vapid opinion on anything. Except for Big Brother, which is apparently " brilliant ".

Anyway, my point is that I was on my way to work this morning, despondent; not just over Boris and my city's awaited embarrassment in electing him, but also issues at work and life in general.

But then, within my paper, I turned to the TV review and was heartened to find a rare appearance from Nancy Banks Smith, which I welcome as though in the presence of one of those benificial angels in Wenders' Wings of Desire.

Nancy's considered too old for the review page these days, and only gets to write when the young thrusting attitudinal "post-modernist" ("Yeh, like, Brother Brother's like, really deep on so many levels actually: have you met my uncle, he's in publishing, give him your number, he'll get you a job, Yah!") wankers are on leave.

When I was a young adult, Nancy, along with Michael White (politics) Geoffrey Beattie (social-psychology in Sheffield) and Terry Coleman, (interviewing grown ups) were the reason one read the Guardian. They made you feel smart for reading them.

The current crop make me feel smart for the wrong reason; they are all well-connected half-wits who are beneath my respect.

Anyway, Nancy lifted my mood with the dismissal of a poorly written comedy, a review which included the following:

You would be looking at a dead horse for some time before you thought you were on to a winner. I used to go riding on a horse called Caesar. One day Caesar just lay down and, with an infinitely weary and, I thought, over-operatic sigh, died. It was terrifying. I thought they would make me pay for him and I only got sixpence a week. I was only a child but even I could see Caesar didn't look a good bet for the Cesarewitch.

You see, there's something about someone who can remember the old money that makes Nancy's view valid, experienced and credible. Bless you Nancy; you wrote about TV when no-one cared for it, and you're still they only one who know's that medium's true value.