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Diary

Emily Maitlis

Wednesday, 12th December 2007

Emily Maitlis on the Christmas Party circuit

The night after, I found myself dining barefoot with the editor of the Independent for an interview with GQ magazine. The restaurant was Japanese so culturally I suppose it made sense, though all those feet were still a little unnerving. ‘Barefoot dining’, it strikes me, could be one of those slightly strangled recreations people list in weighty tomes, just after their gentleman’s clubs. I seem to be getting a lot of stick for not putting my own hobbies in Who’s Who. Believe me, I tried. First I put the things I genuinely spend my time doing, and I came across as the most boring woman in the world. Then I decided to think up something alliterative, witty or curious. And it sounded painful (cf. ‘barefoot dining’ above). Then I went for something with an air of mystery, and it sounded like I had neither hobbies nor, quite frankly, friends. So yes, I have left the space blank, sounding, in the words of my dearest sister, like ‘a sad git’. Sometimes silence speaks volumes.

One of the new songs from the Duran album is called ‘Falling Down’, all about, they explained, ‘f***ing up in public’. I have started humming it to myself — the aural equivalent of the rosary bead — on air. Is it just me or does everyone in broadcasting suffer a media version of Tourette’s syndrome? There is something about the live microphone and the shining red light on a rolling camera that makes you want to say deeply inappropriate things. Ad libs on News 24 are the worst. Particularly if the previous reports have been about say, puppies, canoeists or Dolly Parton. And you have to grasp the desk firmly with both hands and constrict your jaw until you can just mouth ‘And now for the weather’ without anything appalling slipping out along the way.

Occasionally, though, you have no choice but to be forthright. ‘Shoot me’, I once declared a little rashly, ‘if I ever do reality TV.’ Since then I have been invited to participate on Strictly Come Dancing, Strictly Dog Training, Strictly Weeding and Strictly Show Jumping. And my personal favourite, Strictly Spearmint Rhino, where they teach you to pole dance. I have dutifully declined them all but — here’s the rub — I admit I have sequin envy. I sigh at a samba, caress the buckles on sparkly shoes when I think no one’s looking. My preferred skin tone is now orange. Mark warns me it is divorce if I ever try it. He helpfully points out that there is no ‘core Newsnight audience vote there’. But I think he’s being short-sighted. Newsnight viewers love a phone-in. The ‘Choose your favourite post-Kyoto emissions target’ vote-off got a rousing reception.

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