What a British TV show said about race relations

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Just over 60 years ago, a Hungarian emigre by the name of George Mikes published a slim volume, entitled "How To Be An Alien," soon hailed as a model of British satire. Devoted to such intricate subjects as drinking tea, discussing the weather and queuing for buses, the book delivered a tongue-in-cheek survey of England and its foibles.

Older readers may well be familiar with its most famous epigram, which now nestles in the pages of the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations: "Continental people have sex life [sic]; the English have hot-water bottles."

In the chapter entitled "How to Be Rude," Mikes makes this observation: "It is easy to be rude on the Continent. You just shout and call people names of a zoological character . . .

"In England rudeness has quite a different technique. If someone tells you an obviously untrue story on the Continent you would remark 'You are a liar, Sir, and a rather dirty one at that.' In England you just say 'Oh, is that so?' Or 'That's rather an unusual story, isn't it?'

"When some years ago, knowing ten words of English and using them all wrong, I applied for a translator's job, my would-be employer (or would-be-not employer) softly remarked: 'I am afraid your English is somewhat unorthodox.' This translated into any continental language would mean: EMPLOYER (to the commissionaire): 'Jean, kick this gentleman down the steps.'"

Mikes died in 1987, which is probably just as well, since the advent of the reality TV show "Big Brother" would have forced him to embark on a rewrite of virtually every page of his book. In place of the reticent, emotionally inert Briton of his era, television now celebrates loud-mouthed individuals who make the cast of the average "The Jerry Springer Show" seem positively soft-spoken.

Condemned as prime-time voyeurism, the program -- originally imported from Holland -- has become one of the most discussed series on British television, spawning endless tabloid newspaper profiles and turning some of its contestants -- most of whom have no talent beyond a gift for self-publicity -- into miniature Paris Hiltons. Exactly the kind of mindless fare, in other words, that Neil Postman described so vividly in his classic study, "Amusing Ourselves to Death."

This year, however, the entertainment -- in which contestants spend weeks sharing a custom-built house under constant surveillance by cameras and microphones -- turned very sour indeed.

After launching the latest celebrity version of the program (I use "celebrity" in its broadest possible sense; although Michael Jackson's brother, Jermaine, needed no introduction, I am still not entirely sure who one or two of the latest contestants actually are) the program makers found themselves at the center of a surreal dispute that threatened to undermine relations between India and Britain and prompted one of the most impassioned public debates about racism in the last couple of decades. More by bad luck than judgment, bubblegum TV turned into an impromptu lesson in civics.

Aware, perhaps, that the format was beginning to lose its luster, the producers had made the fateful decision to bring back to the house a notorious former contestant, a modern Everywoman called Jade Goody.