The trouble with Louis Theroux

We’re woefully resigned to the strange situation whereby if an alien landed, they’d believe that being famous was hereditary, like being royal. But when I looked at the Wikipedia page of Louis Theroux, I almost fell out of my wheelchair chuckling. Not only is he the son of the ‘noted travel writer and novelist’ Paul Theroux, ‘he is the nephew of novelist Alexander Theroux and writer Peter Theroux. His older brother, Marcel, is a writer and television presenter. His cousin, Justin, is an actor and screenwriter.’

Kind of like the Beckhams without the beauty; imagine the family get-togethers! What if someone’s offspring decides to get a regular job, doing something useful? Are there envious looks? Who’s-gone-and-let-the-side-down looks? Or does this golden tribe have the ability to ‘rub along’ with ordinary mortals, perchance?

Whatever. Louis will surely feel justified in bitterly holding the floor after a few drinks this ‘holiday season’ given that the apparent mass-hypnosis regarding his mediocrity has been finally broken. British Airways has pulled the sponsorship plug on his podcast after an interview with the execrable ‘Bob Vylan’ – or, to use his real name, Pascal Robinson-Foster.

Vylan, of course, hit the headlines over the summer after he pandered to a bunch of gap-yah inbreds at Glastonbury by leading chants of ‘death, death to the IDF (Israel Defense Forces)’. Vylan told Theroux he would ‘do it again tomorrow. Twice on Sundays’.

A photograph of Theroux with the alleged ‘singer’, which was taken during their podcast recording, absolutely screams to me: ‘Hey, take a picture of me with my cool urban friend!’ It’s all so desperate.

Is anyone surprised that Theroux is such an embarrassment? The warning signs have been there for a while. Theroux – educated at Westminster and Magdalen College, Oxford, naturally – is said to be a ‘massive hip hop head’. In 2022, he humiliated himself by releasing a ‘rap’ called My Money Don’t Jiggle Jiggle, It Folds. Sample lyrics: ‘My money don’t jiggle jiggle. It folds. I like to see you wiggle wiggle for sure’. Theroux makes Tim Westwood sound like Fela Kuti. Coldplay did a version – no doubt in a ‘playful’ manner – at Wembley, which added to the whole public-school ickiness of the ‘jape’. It really makes one want some sink-comp punk kid from 1977 to travel through time and puke over the lot of them.

Tragic dad rapping isn’t the worst thing about Theroux, however. Why does Louis keep picking on Israeli settlers, Jonathan Sacerdoti asked in The Spectator earlier this year. He’s got a point. Like a pooch revisiting its pavement pizza, Theroux prefers to poke at Israel, a country the size of Wales.

Theroux has the sneaky look of the Bully’s Best Friend about him, the weaselly little guy who, though never to be found dishing out recreational beatings himself, was always to be found in the vicinity, keeping an eye out for Teacher. He made a 2011 BBC documentary called The Ultra Zionists, about diaspora Jewish ‘settlers’ in Israel; I always find this word a bit of a stretch considering that earlier this year a silver coin dating from the 6th to 5th centuries BC was found in what was then the Kingdom of Judah; on the other hand, the ‘Palestinian’ flag was adopted by the Palestine Liberation Organisation in 1964, becoming the official flag of ‘Palestine’ in 1988.

Still, the Guardian predictably slobbered over it. Its review ended by saying: ‘The weirdest encounter was with a group of American Christians who had volunteered to pick grapes at a West Bank vineyard. “It’s a labour of love for the nation of Israel,” said one. In general, when Theroux goes on one of his adventures one is forced to admire his daft, naive courage. In this case I was left admiring his patience.’

Yes, just imagine: Gentiles exist who dare not to be blind-faith British Arabists, coming over all dizzy at the whiff of a dish-dash. Aren’t we trying!

Theroux was back to have another bash earlier this year with his latest BBC documentary, The Settlers. Naturally, the Guardian was there drooling in the front row: ‘I’ve been watching Theroux’s films for more than three decades, since his days on Michael Moore’s TV Nation, and watching him be this forthright feels like a true watershed moment in his career. This level of stridently editorialising just hasn’t been in his toolbox until now…it looks very much like we’ve got Louis Theroux back, and not a moment too soon.’ (Get that unconscious ‘we’ve’.)

This is a man who thinks he’s such a rebel making snarky films about Israel for the BBC which the Guardian subsequently wet themselves over. The truth is that it’s about as rebellious and unpredictable as a dog barking. I’ve never been a fan, but at least when he was pulling the baffled-Englishman-abroad act with Scientologists and survivalists it could be dismissed as a lightweight mind finding its level. This feels very different. When is Louis Theroux going to make a documentary where he embeds himself with Hamas in Gaza? Or Palestinian Islamic Jihad in Jenin, Nablus, Tulkarm, or Qalqilya? In the words of Jonathan Sacerdoti ‘probably never, because he’d most likely come to a sticky end.’

What with all the posh Israel-obsessives around nowadays, I’ve started to recall the original one: Vanessa Redgrave. In her 1978 Oscar acceptance speech, she referred to a group of ‘Zionist hoodlums’. At the time, she was considered a right weirdo, but she’d seem quite normal now. Banging on about Israel has gone mainstream. But it does make you wonder, of course, why all these over-privileged ponces are so focused on the Jewish State. Haven’t the Jews suffered enough? They surely deserve to be left alone by Theroux and his camera crew. Unfortunately for them, there’s no guarantee he won’t be back in a few years to take on the ‘Settlers’ again.

The truth is that Theroux is an embarrassment. The BBC has foisted this mediocre little man on us as though he was one of the great commentators of our age for too long. Thank goodness that British Airways has seen sense. Theroux and Vylan deserve each other.