I may never forgive the BBC.
I forgave them for all those reality shows. I forgave them for 'Elderado'. I even forgave them for waiting until after Douglas Adams died before commissioning a third series of the radio incarnation of The Hitch Hikers Guide To The Galaxy.
I cannot, however, ever forgive them for making me think "Hmmm, Michael Portillo? He's actually not a bad bloke, you know"
I cheered with the rest of the nation when he lost his seat in Parliament back in 1997. I booed when he slipped into the seat sadly vacated by Alan Clark. I found him a repugnent politician through and through.
And tonight I happened to be watching a repeat of a TV show he did for the BBC last year (after he 'retired' from political life) where he spent a week in the place of a single mother with 4 children in a deprived area of Liverpool. Of course it was manipulative television, and of course I felt that same guilty pleasure inherent in all car-crash TV. But I found myself warming to the chap as he struggled to make ends meet, deal with the kids and work in the local supermarket.
Damn you, BBC. I need to put my eyes out with hot pokers before you do something like persuading me that Margaret Thatcher is actually a bit tasty.
