A Curious Career by Lynn Barber

words coming out of his mouth, so much so that I am genuinely confused about how to react. Eventually when I protest that these are my colleagues he’s abusing, he says, all innocent amazement, ‘But I’m just telling you what happened.’ HE seems surprised that I should object; I am surprised that anyone of any intelligence would decide to vent his hatred of journalists to a journalist. And his anger is all the more chilling for being expressed with a smile.
    So why does he give interviews, if he finds them so bruising? ‘Publicity,’ he says flatly. ‘You have to do it for the DVD [series five of Doc Martin ], it’s in your contract.’ Would he prefer not to be mentioned in the press at all? ‘No I have to be, for what I do. They’re complementary industries, aren’t they, entertainment and journalism?’ Really? How so? ‘We go on telly and then you can write about us. And then we’re accused of having courted the press.’ Right. This is what one might call the Hugh Grant, as opposed to the Marie Colvin, view of journalists – that they exist to serve as minor vassals of the entertainment industry. Unfortunately this belief seems to have become more widespread post-Leveson.
    ‘Well, I’m sorry you’ve had such a bad time from the press,’ I tell him stiffly, gathering up my things to leave. ‘It doesn’t take up any time in my day,’ he assures me. We go into the kitchen while he calls me a taxi, but Philippa appears almost immediately and offers to give me a lift to the station. ‘Yes please!’ I say eagerly, but he says, ‘No, no, the taxi’s on its way.’ So there is an awkward fifteen minutes when I am stuck in the kitchen with him, longing for my taxi, when he suddenly turns all chummy again, sunshine after rain, and starts raving about Doc Martin . ‘Eileen is such a hoot,’ he says. ‘She’s absolutely brilliant. And – it sounds a silly thing to say – but so grown-up. Sometimes you wonder what world actors live in, but she mucked in with all the cast and the crew in Port Isaac. All you want is enthusiasm,’ he beams. Absolutely, yes, I agree, relieved to see my taxi arriving. I came with absolutely limitless enthusiasm for Martin Clunes and Doc Martin . I hope the latter survives.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Ethics
    I interviewed Martin Clunes when the phone-hacking scandal had just exploded and we journalists were very much on the back foot. He, like Hugh Grant, Steve Coogan and a host of other actors, obviously felt the time was right to clobber the press, even to the point of abolishing its centuries-old freedom. But what shocked me was how many of my friends suddenly started fulminating against journalists. I hadn’t realised we were so generally loathed.
    Of course, my friends added, ‘We don’t mean you, Lynn,’ but the truth is I am deeply wedded to my profession. I am, and remain, proud to be a journalist, especially in Britain where we have the most varied and lively newspapers in the world (have you ever tried reading the Australian press?) and would be heartbroken if press freedom were abolished. Of course there were abuses, and probably will be again, but they can be curtailed by specific legislation. Most of the outrages that were committed were already illegal anyway.
    I have never hacked a phone, or doorstepped a celebrity, but I don’t want to sound pi about it because the simple explanation is that I’ve never worked for the tabloids. And I can’t be as disapproving as most of my non-journalist friends seem to be because the fact is: I like reading those stories. I do love a big tabloid scandal. I still remember the pleasure I got from Hugh Grant’s encounter with a Los Angeles tart, or the Duchess of York’s with a fake sheikh. I was really glad to learn that Clint Eastwood’s idea of foreplay (according to an ex-girlfriend) was asking, ‘Did you floss?’ and that Boris Becker managed to father a child in a broom cupboard in Nobu. These sorts of details are the