Trials and tribulations

TELEVISION

OJ, WITH a circle under each eye, awaiting his fate. His vehement ally, Johnnie Cochran, awaiting his. The jury, after taking four hours to consider nine months of evidence, has made its decision, and the forewoman stumbles through the name Orenthal. A drama, and a hero in the making. As The Trial of OJ Simpson (BBC2) showed, all the lawyers hate each other, and the nation is divided over racial issues, but OJ has come off looking good. It's his most notable achievement so far.

A great day for wife-beaters, and for the people of LA (who were probably spared a riot), but a sad one surely for the many American TV companies which have devoted the year to OJ. What will they do now - go back to filming imaginary murders and car chases in the studio? And what about their audience, addicted to its daily dose of jurisprudence? They may be scratching at this very moment for another juicy trial. But they won't find it over here.

Tuesday's Nine O'Clock News (BBC1) slipped quietly out of Judge Ito's courtroom, leaving them to their bacchanalian rejoicing, their wan thank- yous, their public weeping, and turned instead to the start of Rosemary West's trial in Winchester. No cameras, no emotion, no sense of involvement - only a pastel drawing of men wearing wigs, and the succulent paraphrases of reporters. The OJ coverage may have been beyond belief, but the British approach is antiquated and patronising. This is what comes of having no constitution. On Wednesday, Geoff Knights was let off because his case had been over-reported by an unfriendly press - yet OJ proved that any publicity is good publicity. Information technology will eventually force British courts to open up. Then they will finally have to face up to how ludicrous they look in those wigs.

"I do think that you should talk to me, Mr Darcy, as we dance" (shuffle, shuffle; violins). "That is not a simple proposition, Miss Bennet. The dance steps in this scene have disrupted the dialogue entirely."

They think they're so special. They think their solicitor jobs are special, they think their bare-walled house in Putney is special, they think their poor blank-faced baby is special, in fact they think they're perfect, and that any nanny would feel honoured to work for them. It was difficult to quell a sense of satisfaction, therefore, when this smug pair in Cutting Edge's Nannies (C4) failed to find a nanny at all.

Single mothers may be having babies in order to jump the housing queue, but middle-class parents are having them as status symbols. And they're very concerned about the status symbol's mental development. These parents were clued up. They'd bought the Best Nanny Guide and thought it was just a matter of doing their research, like choosing a restaurant, and then voila: the right nanny would be handed to them on a plate, ready to provide eye contact and nappy changes to order. With exactly four months' experience of childcare between them, they proceeded to grill a succession of prospective nannies on their ability to "stimulate" an infant.

One was rejected because she'd cared for a seven-month-old before, and not a four-monther. Another had too definite a character. They finally settled on a dull woman who, they said, "seemed very similar to us". It was quite a shock when she turned them down in favour of a family that could give her a car. How were they ever going to compete against people with country estates and en suite bathrooms? Their disillusionment was severe. As for the baby, sleeping soundly on his changing mat, he'd be better off with anyone but his unstimulating parents.

It's boring, exploitative work, and that's when it's going well. One nanny had been thrown out without notice, for complaining about having to wash windows and remove carpet stains. Nannies in the know avoid live- in jobs. But the real horror stories were about bad nannies, not bad employers. One had spent all day on the phone to the Samaritans, and stolen jewellery. Another had mistreated her charge so often that he cringed whenever anyone raised a hand. But these are extreme cases. Most people leave their children in the care of someone who is only mildly awful.

"Shall we speak of Mr Collins, Mr Darcy? He is a terrible disappointment, is not he?" (Tramp, tramp of feet; flute.)

Politicians have recently fetished on an object familiar to nannies. "I love my potty," said Tony Blair this week, "I just hate it being in opposition." There was a general clamouring for potty reform. "We'd expect any potty leader to be looking towards the future", said one delegate. "It shows the strength of feeling and the unity that there is in the potty", declared another. "The thing that separates the Labour potty from the other potties is the moral dimension", summarised someone in the audience on Question Time (BBC1).

But there were also doubters. "I didn't think there was enough there to reassure the traditional members that this potty was theirs as well", commented one, and Scargill warned: "A lot of people in the Labour potty, including me, will be reviewing their position." Potty-training is so important.

What has the Labour party, newly pledged to capitalism and banning the poor from the streets, got in mind for us all? Its leader looks very determined (though this may be the effect of a dominant lower lip), but what's he so determined about? As it turned out, it's lap-top computers and cable TV. None the less, eager clapping followed his every subordinate clause. And there was Cherie Blair, looking miserable. Of course no one would like to have to listen to their husband's every speech, but even Liz Davies smiled more than Cherie. Perhaps Tony does the smiling for the whole family.

Time for a change, they decided. After years of reduced public expenditure, Labour thinks it's time to treat ourselves to decent schools and a workable free health system. Two or three terms in office. And then what? This is the sort of diet/binge pattern that millions of women are trying to escape from.

"You do not reply, Mr Darcy. Perhaps you are tiring of Meryton with its high-altitude breasts and dubious abdomens ..." (Jiggling ringlets; three steps to the right, two skips to the left.)

According to Sean O'Casey's play, The Shadow of a Gunman (BBC2), "A man should always be drunk when he talks politics". Well, a woman should always have an espresso before she watches a stage-play adapted for telly. Despite taking place in a tenement building in 1920s Dublin, under constant threat of bombings and army raids, this Branagh vehicle had a static quality conducive to slumber. The lighting was dim, and everybody seemed to be in bed most of the time; they were trying to sleep, I was trying not to.

Donal (Kenneth Branagh) is a struggling poet but his neighbours have decided he's actually a Republican gunman in hiding. He goes along with this idea, since a pretty girl upstairs (Bronagh Gallagher) is entranced by her heroic image of him, and he's vaguely entranced by her. Unfortunately, he's soon burdened with civic and military duties, as well as romantic ones. No noble outcome of this deception offers itself and despite his disgust for the subjugation of women and for the insoluble political situation, he ends up exploiting the girl upstairs to save his own skin when the British army invades the house. Only the girl is willing to die for love and patriotism - the rest are hypocrites.

Despite all that, there were funny moments. Donal claims not to fear death - he's supported in this by his study of philosophy. His room-mate (Stephen Rea) is supported by religion. But they both die trembling under a bed when firing starts outside. Earlier, Donal is just about to kiss the girl from upstairs when in springs a would-be IRA volunteer (Paul Ronan). It's now he who is two inches from Donal's face, singing a battle song to demonstrate his loyalty. But one comic turn flops, when a couple of neighbours come in spouting malapropisms which are embarrassingly bad. Branagh looked suitably perplexed. A bit like Cherie Blair.