Panorama, Question Time and The Thick of It

Bristol's pre-teen racists cast their first stones while Nick Griffin squirms the house down

As a mere 30 minutes of telly, Panorama's Undercover: Hate on the Doorstep (BBC1) raised a lot of questions it couldn't really begin to answer. In no particular order:

During her eight weeks living on Bristol's Southmead estate, why was undercover reporter Tamanna Rahman seemingly the focus of more "abuse, intimidation and attacks" (her description) than her undercover "husband" Amil Khan?

Why is seeing a repugnant twentysomething white male hurling stones and shouting "Paki!" somehow more predictable and therefore, depressingly, less shocking than seeing, for example a 17-year-old girl doing the same?

And why is watching a slip of a lad of 11 years old doing all that and worse even more shocking and depressing?

And I'll answer that one: because we are conditioned to assume that a sweet-faced kid (and he was, until that face became twisted in anger and loathing) is the personification of innocence rather than merely a child en route to becoming a teenage racist moron. More fool us.

And how intensely brave was Tamanna Rahman (and to a lesser degree Amil Khan, if only because we saw and heard less from him)? The question is rhetorical, obviously.

Finally, could it be time for Trevor Phillips, boss of the of the Equality and Human Rights Commission, to step down, on the grounds that the urbane, metropolitan, middle-class and irredeemably mediatastic Phillips is, with his Order of the British Empire, entirely out of step with what it is like to be, say, a 25-year-old Muslim woman walking the streets of a predominantly white working class estate on the outskirts of Bristol while wearing a hijab? He declined to appear on Panorama but Phillips response to two Mori polls claiming to show that a majority of British people are "increasingly comfortable with racial diversity", was that "having neighbours of a different ethnic background is no longer an issue in modern Britain when compared to other countries".

Oh, and has Anton Du Beke been sacked from Strictly and Brucie been made to wash his mouth out with Tess Daly? Sorry, I should probably know but I've been too distracted by the alleged homophobia on X Factor to keep up with the alleged racists of Strictly, never mind monitoring the outbreak of Moirphobia. Just as well we live in such a tolerant country, no?

For my money, I suspect that if Tamanna hadn't been wearing a hijab she would have received less abuse, because among the idiot underclass – though it is by no means confined to them – wearing a funny veil or little hat means you're inevitably Osama's BF. Indeed, I recall a few years ago hearing that a male friend who was wearing a yarmulke while on the way to shul was called a "towel head". His shouted response? "Yeah, whatever, mate, but at least I'm not a half-witted c***!"

Never mind the racism angle, in this case I think that fighting fire with a turbocharged rocket launcher is an appropriate way for a clever person to deal with a stupid one. Though had I been in his shoes I would have been tempted to embellish it with a gesture involving a cocked-and-waggled little finger and a patronising smile, albeit shortly before climbing into something very fast, preferably driven by the Stig. Which is probably just one of the many reasons why I'm never going to be head-hunted by the EHRC.

If reports of his inability to exit Television Centre due to the possibility of being captured and sat atop a large bonfire by a mob of angry protesters are to be believed, Nick Griffin could have done with the Stig after his laughable TV debut.

And I say laughable because, aside from inciting all right-thinking (not to be confused with Right-thinking, obviously) viewers to collectively cock-and-waggle from the comfort of their own sofas, the furore surrounding Griffin's appearance on Dimbleby Time (aka Question Time) called to mind my mother's advice to me as a young teenager, when, if I should ever be confronted by what used to be known as "a flasher" but which are now almost certainly known as "sicko-paedos", I was told to "just look him in the eye and laugh, and say "Is that it?!' and he'll soon disappear!" As I later discovered on three or four occasions, this was absolutely brilliant advice. My only regret is that the cocked-finger-waggle was not yet in fashion.

However my point, albeit arrived at somewhat circuitously, is that we live in hysterical and overreactive times which in turn means that many things (eg flashers and Nick Griffin) are perceived to be deeply damaging to young and/or impressionable psyches when in fact they leave nowhere near as large or lasting an impression if they are dealt with sensibly rather than hysterically.

Personally, I am delighted that, via the BBC, Griffin finally had the chance to demonstrate to a larger and wider audience than he has ever previously managed to reach not only what an odious slippery little slug of a man he is, but that all his attempts to polish his despicable opinions into something approaching acceptable Middle Englandese were received with the dismissive derision they deserved. Ultimately, and most potently, his big TV talent contest moment in the spotlight has exposed him not merely as the bigoted racist we knew him to be but, arguably more importantly in the long-term, as a political and intellectual lightweight.

Interestingly, however, while David Dimbleby (who, I'm afraid, is to be ticked off for using the word "coloured" – unacceptable since the 1980s), Chris Huhne and an incandescent Jack Straw, visibly quivered and/or recoiled in Griffin's presence, only the female panellists, Sayeeda Warsi and Bonnie Greer, had the true measure of the man. They didn't need to cock-and-waggle, but it was implied – while I can't help feeling that Greer, in particular, whose calm, far from unkind but never less than relentlessly patronising "Is that it?!" tone when talking to Griffin not only had him almost begging for more but made me suspect that Greer's mother once dished out sensible advice on how to deal with very small men and their great big delusions.

Which brings me neatly to The Thick of It, which returned to our screens having been promoted from BBC4 to BBC2, which, obviously, in no way mirrored the promotion of Nicola Murray (Rebecca Front) who has moved from absolutely nowhere to secretary of state at the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship. Of course we don't know how long Murray will last, but should she go it's a job that has Trevor Phillips's name all over it. But could Trevor ever cope with the evil genius that is spinmaster Malcolm *ucker (* aka Tucker, aka Peter Capaldi)?

Thus far, Nicola is holding her own despite being denied the extraordinarily amusing (yea verily, swearing can be both funny and clever, but don't tell the kids) lexicon of foul-mouthed invective habitually gifted to *ucker, while already participating in the visual gag of the year (decade? millennium?) so far.

Meanwhile, Jesus H f***ing Corbett (as Malcolm would, and indeed does, say), I dearly wish I could share some of last night's magisterial *uckerisms but, thrillingly, every single one is such unquotable uberfilth that, fingers crossed, we'll soon see Malcolm on Question Time.

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