How Question Time became a festival of bile

In ye olden days of Question Time, the BBC’s flagship political debate programme, the set-up was pretty staid. Politicians sporting a fetching array of combovers would be lined up to answer questions put to them by a studio audience. It was generally illuminating, and fulfilled the Reithian pledge to inform and educate, if not quite entertain. As the big political stories were discussed and disagreements hashed out, the vibe was serious but rarely belligerent. At worst, you might have accused it of being a bit boring.

Oh, how we long for boring now. Where once the programme, which turned 40 last year, was underpinned by a basic civility and the assumption that, when the cameras stopped rolling, jousting participants would shake hands and maybe even go out for a pint; now you would be more concerned about them glassing one another. Even Fiona Bruce, who last year took over hosting duties from David Dimbleby, was moved to remark during a particularly snippy exchange: “We are better than this.” Apparently, we are not.

It is hard to pinpoint the moment that Question Time started to lose it. It might have been when the then BNP leader Nick Griffin was invited on in 2009, a situation that should have seen viewers switching off in disgust but instead saw its numbers almost triple. (Clearly, we have ourselves to blame.) Or it could have been the early 2010s when, along with a sprinkle of far-right wingnuts, the series’ bookers decided to zhuzh things up with comedians, singers, actors and TV stars. Where once an author or an academic might bring some gravitas in the fifth chair (a spot formerly occupied by, among others, Edna O’Brien, Antonia Fraser and John Mortimer), in came Will Young, Hugh Grant, Charlotte Church, John Lydon and Kirstie Allsopp, popular figures whose wisdom on the Middle East was apparently a matter of national interest. We can partly blame the series for Russell Brand’s fleeting reinvention as a Serious Political Commentator, as opposed to raging narcissist, who would go on to tell his gazillions of fans not to bother voting.

Last week’s programme, which hosted a sour debate on the press treatment of Harry and Meghan, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, heralded the actor Laurence Fox’s unexpected metamorphosis from sleuthing sidekick on ITV’s Lewis to self-appointed race-relations adviser and all-round voice of the people (his people being white, wealthy, whiny public school-educated members of acting dynasties whose surnames automatically open doors).

But it is Brexit that has really done for Question Time. While, outside the studio, all vestige of political nuance has been thrown out in favour of a “Tory wanker”/“lefty snowflake” level of debate, so the show has become a festival of fractiousness and self-regarding inanity. At a time of entrenched tribalism, experts remain thin on the ground while showboating “characters” reign supreme. As contrarian columnists spew bile on one side, terrified junior ministers trot out pre-rehearsed platitudes on the other. Meanwhile, viewers roar in fury on social media – in 2018, Question Time was second only to Love Island as the most tweeted-about TV programme in the UK.

To watch the show is to gape in bewilderment at the state of our political discourse. When Hilary O’Neill was appointed editor two-and-a-half years ago, she promised “adrenaline-packed Thursday nights”, though it is doubtful she intended to give us all an aneurysm. For the sake of our health, it’s time for a rethink.