Opium of the Masses

in 1843 the social revolutionary Karl Marx observed that religion was the opium of the masses. Now that society is increasingly secular, it is not so much faith that distracts humanity from its perpetually unresolved condition, but television.

In 1968 the concept of 15 minutes of fame became associated with Andy Warhol (1928–87). ‘In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes’ has become an increasingly prophetic remark though nobody in the pre-digital age could ever have imagined social media would fit the prophesy like a glove.

If everybody has had a quarter of an hour of fame, then mine – just a tad longer – owes almost everything to the iconic BBC television programme, The Antiques Roadshow.

Running since 1979, it regularly attracts more than 8 million viewers nationally; and, add to that viewers from broadcasts in the USA, Japan, Australia, Canada and a good proportion of Europe, the figure rises well into the billions. So, it seems my childhood fantasy that our television set had a supernatural life all of its own is not too far from the truth. The medium is all-pervasive, slipping invisibly through the ether and allowing the faces, the voices of individual personalities, of contributors to imprint themselves on the memories of a good chunk of all mankind. This phenomenon is called celebrity and, glamorous as it sounds, it has absolutely no consistent relationship with merit. Joanna Lumley once said that television, and only television, has the ability to elevate perfectly ordinary people to a new and previously unimaginable status.

In 1989, I, as one of those perfectly ordinary persons, with only a narrow knowledge of Fabergé and antique jewellery, was invited to join the team of The Antiques Roadshow. In those days the industry was rather more relaxed and, consequently, I was offered next to no guidance on how to make my burgeoning secondary career a success. I was simply plonked in front of the cameras without even the assurance that every inconsistency, including coughs, stutters and noises-off could be edited out in the interests of a thoroughly chamfered and polished production.

One of my earliest shows, in 1990, was in Brighton, where a charming woman had brought me a gilt metal tiara in the form of a wreath of corn, each ripe grain represented with a yellow citrine. After both she and I had been plastered with the mandatory theatrical make-up, we positioned ourselves at the table and were immediately corralled by tripods and cameras with telescopic lenses. I don’t know who was the more nervous. Indeed, I was quite literally trembling with fright but managed to steady my hands on the table-top. Happily, thanks to the skilful editors, the sequence turned out to be more than alright on the night.

During the next few episodes, the scales dropped from my eyes as I realised this famous programme was less about the object, and more about the owner and, certainly, precious little about me. I was simply a catalyst, and my job was to engage with the visitor and discover in a light conversational manner exactly what their piece of jewellery meant to them. I needed to discover if it was a purchase, an heirloom, an emissary of love or, most moving of all, a souvenir of love beyond the grave. Faced with the unblinking eye of the television cameras, emotions inevitably run high and some owners betray theirs as never before in private, never mind to millions of viewers throughout the world. Very occasionally they are brought to tears.

The cornerstone of the programme’s foundation is to provide a valuation and it has to be said this is sometimes a false barometer. Some rare and fascinating objects are very modestly priced, and some deeply unworthy works of art are worth a fortune. Part of my challenge on the Roadshow was to point out this contradiction. Once again, I relied on the advice of my English teacher, Pamela James, from many years before. She told me if you want to be heard never use a cliché. In my written work I always kept this advice in the forefront of my mind, and I believe it has served me well in my recordings.

Over the course of three decades on the show, one or two sequences stand out not only in my memory but in that of the viewing public. In 2012, at Houghton Hall in Norfolk I was required to stay late to film a collection of jet that, frankly, was not the most exciting prospect of my television career. However, in the lengthening shadows of an exhausting day, a hesitant man had been waiting patiently to see me. Once the jet was in the bag – in both senses of the word – he advanced and opened the palm of his hand to reveal a massive ring made from a plait of three strands of gold, gleaming buttercup-yellow in the afterglow. He had found it in the ground, exactly where it had had lain for the best part of 1,000 years. The miracle of this beautiful piece was that it was made of pure gold and being completely incorruptible it had emerged from darkness into light as if it had been made yesterday. Furthermore, it was an object full of emotional contradictions. The present owner’s surprise and joy in finding it must have been equal and opposite to the deep sense of loss, of anguish, experienced by his nameless predecessor, more than likely his ancestor, a millennium before.

The population of East Anglia in the 9th century was a tiny fraction of what it is today and, since the ring was made of a hefty chunk of gold, I suggested it had fallen from the hand of a high-ranking individual, even a King. Suddenly the mists of time parted and gave a brief glimpse of his ghost in dun-coloured clothes and furs, hurtling on horseback through the misty fens when the ring dropped from his frozen fingers. This was a faceless ancestor with whom we share every human emotion but next to nothing of our dazzling modern world. Remarkable as it is that the ring has survived untarnished, the greater miracle is the continuing survival of the flickering flame of human life itself. Against all odds through plague, famine, fire and war, it continues from one generation to another, bright as pure gold in the sunshine.

The Saxon ring was a lucky find indeed and it has earned a welldeserved place in the heritage of The Antiques Roadshow. I pitched it at £10,000 but this is the merest fraction of its emotional value to the owner and the millions, nay, billions of viewers who share the indelible memory of that special day.

I have had many, many magical discoveries on the Roadshow but very few of them can compete with the ancient mystery of the Saxon ring. Another of my more exciting finds was, in contrast, comparatively modern; in fact, it had been made in the age of the motorcar and the telephone. Its fame was indisputable and, consequently, its value was not only enormous but record breaking.

As you will already know, Fabergé has had far more than a walk-on part in my life; in fact, it has always been centre stage in my day-to-day career. When writing about my subject over many years, I have often tried, and seldom succeeded, in articulating the essence of Fabergé’s flower studies. These completely charming and utterly useless objects are made from some of the rarest materials found on this – our equally improbable – earth. Usually of gold, cast and engraved to simulate a bract or opening bud, the stems and twigs are supported in specimen vases of the purest waterwhite rock crystal; not glass but a natural stone. In these tiny transparent

In another showcase was a battered tobacco tin containing tufts of pubic hair that the murderer John Christie (1899–1953) had collected from at least eight of his women victims before he was caught, convicted and hanged in 1953.

These were truly horrifying souvenirs but some of the other objects on show had been confiscated by police simply on the grounds that they had offended public decency. One such were earrings incorporating human embryos made by the sculptor, artist and jeweller Rick Gibson (b.1951). He had shown them at an exhibition at the Young Unknowns Gallery in London in 1987 but almost immediately the earrings were seized by the police and Gibson and the gallery owner were charged with committing a public nuisance. They were fined £500 and £300 respectively.

One of the final exhibits was a silver-mounted skull cup of the type made to Lord Byron’s order. There was little or no provenance on the label but it seemed quite at home with the 500 grisly exhibits surrounding it.

My visit to the Black Museum was terrifying and repulsive in equal measure. Indeed, I felt shocked, sullied, even contaminated by the ghastly things I had seen but this was not the end of it. Just in front of the exit from this virtual charnel house was the final showcase within which was placed an innocent looking fountain pen. My imagination raced as I tried to guess what hideous crime it might have implemented. Perhaps it had once contained a fatal dose of cyanide or even a lethal pellet of uranium, but no. The label informed, in the Museum’s own dispassionate curatorial style, that this was the very pen used by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother when she signed the visitors’ book in her 83rd year!