Are readers aware of the difference between Arab and foreign television programs? Ours have no taste, and theirs have no shame. An old hostility exists between television and me, perhaps because I have a face that is made for radio. This hostility is limited to the medium itself, since I love pretty female announcers and have announcers as friends. Nonetheless, I do not let anyone complete a sentence – I move from station to station and then return to the first one, to begin again, moving through a few hundred stations. The above does not cancel the fact that I respond to requests by colleagues to take part in their programs, to the extent that I can. However, the television is aware of my feelings toward it, and takes its revenge. Once, I went to north London and it took me an hour each way, due to the traffic. I sat in front of the camera and waited, and waited, while the announcer mentioned news of visits, holiday wishes and receptions. The hour ended and I was still waiting, which deprived viewers of my fine opinion of current events. I once sat in front of the camera for a program presented by a dear friend, Rima Shamekh (may she have a speedy recovery), as I waited for the program to begin, in vain. The studio had been reserved for an hour on Greenwich Time, but the director was unaware that there is a one-hour difference between London and GMT between the summer and winter. Rima came out and called me to tell me that she had decided to resign. I asked that she not do this because of me, and she said she was doing it “because of herself”, as the error with me had been repeated just a week earlier. Before all of this, MBC moved from London to Dubai; on the sidelines of a conference I was attending, I took part in a television program moderated by the prominent newscaster Nicole Tannoury, in the garden of the television building next to a lake. Nicole's good looks made me forget that the humidity was 110 percent, and the taping ended with my Italian suit shrinking to fit my body, as if it had been washed. I even found it difficult to take off the suit. Another suit of mine was ruined, without television this time, in Abu Dhabi. I was the guest of Sheikh Sultan bin Zayed in a garden of his home, and it was a French suit, and the humidity was 111 percent. I began to write about my relationship with television while I was angry on Tuesday evening. I wrote down the names of some people, including the person who sent me to a studio in Banks Street, in London. I found the street dug up and closed down on both sides, while the announcer, who was 5,000 kilometers away, insisted that the studio was there, and open. However, I tore up what I wrote, and decided to make readers smile at my expense. On Tuesday evening, the television took its revenge against me once again. I had agreed with a Gulf television station to take part in an hour-long program, beginning at 8pm, on the war in Afghanistan, the American strategy, and the death of Ambassador Richard Holbrooke. However, I clammed up in front of the camera, which is not the right thing to do for an Arab journalist who believes that he knows the truth. I should have imagined what I would face when I discovered the studio was on a boat on the River Thames near Fleet Street, or where journalism outlets are centered, and where I trained and worked. I had not heard that there was a studio on a boat, and was anxious as the taxi took me to the address. I get seasick in a bathroom, and I was afraid that if the boat swayed, I would get dizzy, with viewers thinking that I was swaying to the sound of some enchanting music, and not at sea, I mean river. The studio was in the highest cabin on the boat; I ascended a set of open-air metal steps, covered with snow. If my foot had slipped, I would have gone into the freezing cold and polluted water of the river (all of this is correct and accurate and I have the proof). I do not know what happened, but it became impossible to contact the Arab station. I do not know if the program was in Arabic, because the little that I heard as I waited was in English. In the end, the Englishman who was responsible apologized to me, and said the other side had hung up. What can I say, as revenge against all television? I maintain that some programs make me wish the advertisements were longer. I admit that such programs are so bad that they are useful; I once went home and found my young boy was not watching television, but doing his homework. I used to watch sports, and then I turned to western films, since there is more “scoring” in them than Arab football matches. While a female weathercaster cannot predict yesterday's weather, her beauty and looks are enough to make me want to follow along anyway. Finally, I admit that television is more entertaining than a wife, and less expensive. [email protected]
