OPINION: It’s hard to account for the unending fuss over one-time New Zealander Phillip Schofield.
For decades a popular British television presenter, latterly as one of those confected TV breakfast show “couples”, he now stands before numerous firing squads.
For what? His somewhat less cuddly fellow celeb Jeremy Clarkson put it succinctly: “For being what he said he was. Gay.” Ridiculous as this sounds, Clarkson is right. A couple of years ago, when Schofield revealed – to his wife’s surprise as much as anyone’s – that he was gay, everyone cried, “Well done, how brave, we love you!” There was a bit of “poor Mrs Schofield”, but generally Phil was hailed as a hero and social exemplar.
However, we can now infer that the unstated but emphatic covenant on that back-slappery was, “Just don’t actually do gay, okay?”
Because as soon as it emerged earlier this year that Schofield had been in a secret relationship with a much younger staffer on his programme, he became an overnight disgrace. There are obvious caveats on the power imbalance of a workplace liaison between a junior and a star and many people reflexively disapprove of May-December pairings.
But perhaps the telling thing was this was the first time Schofield had confirmed romantic links with anyone since coming out. The public – and perhaps more especially the media – simply could not handle it. The staffer was 20, Schofield in his 50s, but that made their involvement neither illegal nor particularly unusual. Relationships with greater age gaps have outlasted prurient tutting.
Busybodies pounced on the sad fact that the staffer is now pulling pints in the sticks, his TV ambitions shattered. But why assume that’s Schofield’s fault? The staffer received an exit payout, but not from Schofield. TV bosses – seemingly in a lather of paranoia about the optics of a (gasp) gay relationship with a (to them) unsuitably young person – bustled him out with a lump sum.
Yet these were two career-focused adults doubtless capable of getting over a broken affair and carrying on their work if supported by a sensible employer. Neither, ultimately, was given the option.
As for the scandalous secrecy, why should either man have to make his private life anyone else’s business? Ethically, their right to private lives should go without saying.
In reality, the sanctity of a commercial brand is greater than the rights of consenting adults. The inability of human-resources mavens to manage workplace bust-ups of any sort with respect and sympathy to the staff, as opposed to the commercial and risk/benefit interests of the company, means there will always be victims. In this case, first the staffer and now Schofield.
Inquiries are afoot – including at Parliament, for pity’s sake – to establish who knew what, when and why wasn’t Something Done?
Schofield’s amputation was probably inevitable since his brother’s recent conviction for historical sexual assault of a boy. He disavowed his bro, but the great contagion, Brand Damage, was fatally upon him.
Happily, New Zealand has experienced enough salty, non-sweetie-pie TV presenters to no longer expect Mr and Mrs Lovely. We’ve relished – or loved to hate – the Paul Henrys, Mike Hoskings and Sir Paul Holmeses for being larger than life, and even a bit bloody rude, rather than cookie-cutter pleasant.
We got over our “mother of the nation” crush on Judy Bailey to see TV presenters as agreeable vessels, not exemplars or oracles.
But is it just foreign media bosses who are convinced their audiences remain infantilely invested in airbrushed characters on the telly, or are audiences actually that gullible? Must soft-news audiences really be shielded from the knowledge that a presenter has a libido? Depressingly, the ratings will have the final say.
