A Day Like Today: Memoirs. John Humphrys

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on all sides, nor a swimming pool in a beautifully tended garden shaded by a magnificent jacaranda tree and shielded from the obligatory servants’ quarters by shrubs that seemed to flower all year round. It was, in short, a small paradise – but available only to those with white skin.

      In our absurdly naive idealism my wife and I had agreed that when we moved to Johannesburg we would have no black servants. We were not going to turn into those ghastly whites whose lawns were immaculate thanks to the gardeners (black, obviously) who were paid a pittance to crawl over them all day plucking out every weed by hand or whose house servants called their employers ‘master’ or ‘madam’. I recall with a shudder the first time we had dinner with a white couple, and on the table was a little silver bell. Our hostess would ring it imperiously to summon the next course or when she spotted something of which she disapproved. Not that they were all like her.

      ‘Let me do that boss … you must not do that!’ And so I did. They desperately needed work and to deny it to them just to parade my liberal credentials and indulge in a bit of virtue-signalling would have been both selfish and stupid.

      The couple who ended up working for us and living with us were delightful and intelligent (they spoke three languages fluently) but I never did persuade them to call me John. It was always ‘master’. It became almost a joke:

      Me: ‘Victor, my name is John so please stop calling me master.’

      Victor: ‘OK master.’

      They were the children of apartheid and were permanently scarred by it in ways people like me struggled to understand.

      For the whites of the northern suburbs, though, life was good – if you were able to accept that you, as a white person, were the superior race and black people existed to do your bidding. My wife could not. She hated having to send our children to posh private schools. We tried the local state school and pulled them out after one term. Like everything else in that disfigured country, the education system was racist to the core. At least the private schools did not teach history from a purely white supremacist standpoint.

      She hated having to stand in the very short ‘Whites/Blankes’ queue at the post office while the ‘Blacks/Swartes’ queue stretched into the distance. She hated the way black people automatically stepped off the pavement to make way for whites. She hated the high walls, topped with spikes, of our neighbours’ houses and the armed guards whom some of the more fearful residents kept in little huts outside their fortified gates.

      I discovered it when I heard a gang banging on our gate one night demanding to see Victor about some unpaid debt and threatening to do him serious damage if he didn’t pay up. I dragged Titus to the gate and he barked ferociously, straining on the leash. The men cleared off pretty sharply. They need not have. What they didn’t realise was that he was not threatening them: he was straining to run away.

      A few months later, when Titus and I were returning from our regular morning run around Zoo Lake I saw some black men standing at our gate. So did Titus. I tried to grab his collar but too late. He was running hell for leather in the opposite direction. Not for nothing are ridgebacks known as lion dogs. When their ancestors were used for hunting lions they were capable of running all day and all night – which is exactly what Titus did. We searched everywhere, put up ‘missing dog’ posters, even contacted the police (fat chance there) but after two days we’d begun to give up. Then the phone rang. It was a very elderly lady.

      ‘Have you got a dog called Titus?’

      ‘Well,’ I said, ‘we used to have but he’s run away.’

      ‘He’s with me and his feet are all torn and bloody. You must come and get him.’ Titus had run clear across the city and Joburg is a very big city. Thank heaven we’d put a disc on his collar with his name and our phone number.

      ‘Well put it this way,’ he told me, ‘as the representative of Her Majesty’s Government I tend to find myself going everywhere with my fists half raised.’ For the most part, though, they left me alone to get on with my job. There was the occasional visit from policemen calling at my home with spurious claims that I had been seen driving dangerously or committing some other low-level offence, but it was pretty half-hearted stuff – presumably just to remind me that they knew who I was and where I lived. Potentially more serious was when the South African government demanded that the BBC recall me to London. They ordered their ambassador to make representations to the head of news at the BBC, Alan Protheroe, and a meeting was duly arranged.

      Alan listened politely. The case was, on one level, unanswerable. Mr Humphrys, said His Excellency, was opposed to the South African government and its policy of apartheid. Difficult to argue with that, but was I getting it wrong? As Alan pointed out, the BBC would need hard evidence that I was failing to report accurately what was actually happening in South Africa before it would consider replacing me.

      ‘Ha!’ said the ambassador (as reported to me later by Alan). ‘I shall give you one very concrete example of his inaccuracies. When he reported on the rugby match between the Lions and the Springboks in Durban just the other day he said the first try was scored by Grobelaar and it wasn’t: it was scored by Geldenhuys. The man cannot be trusted!’

      The ambassador was dead right when he said I had not been reporting from his country with the impartiality that the BBC demands from its journalists. Normally that might indeed be a sackable offence. Frederick Forsyth was sacked by the BBC in the late 1960s (or, if you prefer, allowed to resign) because he was sympathetic to the Biafrans when he was reporting on the civil war there. He had the last laugh. He tried his hand at writing a novel and the rest, as they say, is history. Day of the Jackal became a massive international bestseller and a blockbuster film, and there were many more where that came from.

      But the principle stands. BBC correspondents are reporters, not commentators. We report the views of others, not our own. The BBC is, above all else, impartial. And yet … there is one exception that overrides even that iron law. It was pronounced by the man whose shadow has hung over the BBC since

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