By James Whale with Shaun Hutson
2007 Michael O’Mara Books Ltd
In the land of the free, James Whale would be known as a Shock Jock. Over here, in the land of the hemmed-in, he’s more of a Mock-Shock Jock.
Thus he interleaves his autobiography with angry essays on the pet hates of choice. Starting with Political Correctness. Originality is not the watchword here. The best of his intermissions posits the idea of sterilising all males at birth and only reversing the procedure when they have proved themselves not to be drug-crazed rioters. Thing is, tempting though this suggestion is, I sense Mr Whale doesn’t believe in its implementation nearly as much as I do.
The fact is, he’s really no more gimlet-eyed than the average disenchanted, middle-aged, solid citizen.
Mr Whale’s life story is more interesting than most. In the early stages of his career he goes off to Sweden to DJ in a mysterious club that seems to be a front for the KGB, or perhaps SMERSH. We never learn the full truth. Later, back in London, he’s instrumental in starting the career of Gary Glitter. There is much more to follow.
The main theme of his own career is restlessness. One memorable early sideways move was to Metro Radio in Newcastle, which, at first, was little more than a building site that stood opposite a coal-pit slag heap. However, he sticks at it and turns the job around. That, of course, signals that it’s time for a change. He lands a position with the BBC.
From other autobiographies of broadcasters I’ve read in the past, when they find a home in BBC then that is the exact point at which their story starts to get dull. By instinct, Mr Whale loathes working for the BBC, where even the mildest scepticism about political correctness would brand you as a dreadful bore. Luckily for him, he had the nous to get out.
By the early nineteen nineties he’s doing a late-night television show, The James Whale Radio Show, courting as much controversy as the airwaves could bear at the time. Take The Fuck and Cunt Edition, for an instance. Strange, to my friends and I none of it never seemed particularly controversial or shocking. The parade of human frailties was forgotten by the morning.
Mr Whale returned later to the non-visual format. And now here he is in the paper-and-type format. Like many who talk well, his forte is not the written word. Still, he (and Shaun Hutson) movingly describe his brush with cancer. Now here’s an original twist. Unlike the majority of the human race, his cure is not felt to be an unalloyed cause for celebration. Mr Whale has made a career out of being full of piss and vinegar and being filled with the joy of life instead is something of a set-back.
Happily, he recovers from his recovery and gets back to mildly hating the wicked old world as much as ever. Indeed, he demonstrates that he has retained his youthful restlessness. This time, he contemplates taking on the mayoral office of the Smoke itself. Circumstances just at present are not favourable, but one day . . .
