Interview: Kate Adie, BBC correspondent (Evening Standard)
By David Rowan
FIRST, a few corrections. Kate Adie did not, as previously reported, criticise BBC bosses for favouring women presenters "with cute faces and cute bottoms and nothing else in between"; her remark was "taken out of context". Nor did she criticise "macho" coverage of the Iraq war ("bad reporting"), have soldiers in the Gulf War hunt for her pearl earrings in the sand (a "ridiculous fiction"), or threaten to sue Downing Street after a spokesman blamed her for disclosing the Prime Minister's travel plans.
She certainly did not tell Irish radio recently that the Pentagon considered firing on independent journalists in Iraq ("rubbish, badly transcribed"), and has "no recollection" of a reported £125,000 libel win after a Sunday newspaper questioned her reputation. And despite the reports, she did not leave the BBC because she had been "sidelined". Is that clear? An interview with Kate Adie, until recently the BBC's chief news correspondent, is rather like an oral examination in which digressions from the set text meet a reprimand or a stern pause.
Her recently published autobiography is a lively, witty account of how her determined professionalism brought her extraordinary scoops and popular acclaim (as well as four stray bullets). The publisher had explained that she did not want the interview to focus on the BBC, which was fine; having admired her principled interventions in journalistic debates, and her courage under fire, I was hoping that Adie's new-found freedom would let her address whatever issues mattered to her now.
It soon becomes clear that she wants to stick to bland generalisations - the older profile of US broadcasters, the unreliable internet. Whenever prompted to discuss more specific journalistic issues that clearly bother her - round-the-clock war reporting, or news-as-entertainment - she chooses to deflect and criticise the questions rather than engage with them. It is a
belittling experience, considering my genuine curiosity and a deliberate avoidance of her well-guarded private life.
What, for instance, does she make of recent war coverage? "I'm not going to judge these things," she says coldly. "It's far too early to call." What, then, of the practice of "embedding" reporters among troops? "I think it's not an issue. It's been done so many times before." She did, though, make a speech in which she suggested that coverage was quite "macho"... "No, that was bad reporting. I was actually talking in a much more generalised sense about the language and images used to describe women connected with war. Somebody omitted that."
She writes in the book of her concerns that news is "increasingly selected not for its significance, but for its interest". So does she worry that foreign stories are slipping down the broadcasting agenda? "You really ought to go and talk to the editors about that," she says impatiently. "I have nothing to do with the selection of stories. I'm the reporter." And so on. Had I unwittingly offended?
"I just stick to the facts," she writes at the end of the book, which takes us from her comfortable Sunderland childhood to her early days at Radio Durham, and then from her big break, happening to be on duty during the 1980 Iranian Embassy siege, to the series of foreign wars that have made her "the squaddies' favourite". Adie has chosen to reveal little about herself. Her most emotive recollection concerns a "next-ofkin" form she had to complete before the first Gulf War. "I realised, for the first time, that I had no close relatives," she writes. She left the form blank.
Adie, 57, now freelances for the BBC, presenting programmes such as From Our Own Correspondent, as well as lecturing and completing a second book about women in uniform. She is sharp, energetic, and has a wonderfully infections laugh. Today she is wearing an elegant sleeveless blue dress and a thin veneer of patience.
DID it upset her, I ask, that some reviewers had suggested that she had little hinterland beyond the BBC? "I wrote in the book very specifically what I wanted to write about, period, and left it at that," she says. "If you don't think it's sufficient, that's that. It's what I wanted to say." I try again. Had she expected the rather personalised responses to the book? "I didn't know what to expect," she says, followed by a nine-second pause. Understandably, I suggest, she wanted to guard her privacy from tabloids that have long seen her as a target - in one case, sending a correspondent simply to report on Adie's battlefield movements. There is another six second pause. "I ... I don't sit there and speculate. I'm not that sort of person. It wastes time, actually." She breaks into a sudden laugh.
She realises that she was part of a "lucky generation" at BBC News. "It wasn't glamorous in my day. In the regions, reporters were seen as such low life that they didn't merit their name in the Radio Times. Now people are interested in being famous. I never gave it a thought."
What does she feel about the growing tendency to portray reporters - most recently, Rageh Omaar - as stars? She sighs. "Ask the BBC."
Adie rejects newspaper speculation that she left the BBC because she was pushed aside. The reason she made so few reports in her last three years, she says, is "because I've been doing so many other things". Besides, television was changing. "You don't see BBC World, do you?" she asks witheringly. "I wanted to do a bigger range of stuff. It suited me to change, and I am very happy. There's no point sitting like a hedgehog squeaking in front of an enormous steamroller." What of her reported remarks that the BBC bosses were favouring younger faces? "Ask them." Another eight-second pause.
Later, Adie sheds some light on her reluctance to engage with the interview. Evidently deeply suspicious of British newspapers, she seems to misinterpret innocent questions as a ruse to stitch her up.
"You don't give hostages to fortune," she says. Because she deals with "real conflicts", she does not want to find herself portrayed as being vindictive or confrontational towards other journalists. "I see too much of the real thing," she says, "serious things, where life's at stake. I don't want to be involved in endless media gossip."
She then confides an opinion. It concerns the current Iraqi occupation. "People haven't made enough fuss about Baghdad TV not being back on air yet," she says. "You'd have thought it would have been a priority. Interesting times."
(Evening Standard, June 4 2003)
FIRST, a few corrections. Kate Adie did not, as previously reported, criticise BBC bosses for favouring women presenters "with cute faces and cute bottoms and nothing else in between"; her remark was "taken out of context". Nor did she criticise "macho" coverage of the Iraq war ("bad reporting"), have soldiers in the Gulf War hunt for her pearl earrings in the sand (a "ridiculous fiction"), or threaten to sue Downing Street after a spokesman blamed her for disclosing the Prime Minister's travel plans.
She certainly did not tell Irish radio recently that the Pentagon considered firing on independent journalists in Iraq ("rubbish, badly transcribed"), and has "no recollection" of a reported £125,000 libel win after a Sunday newspaper questioned her reputation. And despite the reports, she did not leave the BBC because she had been "sidelined". Is that clear? An interview with Kate Adie, until recently the BBC's chief news correspondent, is rather like an oral examination in which digressions from the set text meet a reprimand or a stern pause.
Her recently published autobiography is a lively, witty account of how her determined professionalism brought her extraordinary scoops and popular acclaim (as well as four stray bullets). The publisher had explained that she did not want the interview to focus on the BBC, which was fine; having admired her principled interventions in journalistic debates, and her courage under fire, I was hoping that Adie's new-found freedom would let her address whatever issues mattered to her now.
It soon becomes clear that she wants to stick to bland generalisations - the older profile of US broadcasters, the unreliable internet. Whenever prompted to discuss more specific journalistic issues that clearly bother her - round-the-clock war reporting, or news-as-entertainment - she chooses to deflect and criticise the questions rather than engage with them. It is a
belittling experience, considering my genuine curiosity and a deliberate avoidance of her well-guarded private life.
What, for instance, does she make of recent war coverage? "I'm not going to judge these things," she says coldly. "It's far too early to call." What, then, of the practice of "embedding" reporters among troops? "I think it's not an issue. It's been done so many times before." She did, though, make a speech in which she suggested that coverage was quite "macho"... "No, that was bad reporting. I was actually talking in a much more generalised sense about the language and images used to describe women connected with war. Somebody omitted that."
She writes in the book of her concerns that news is "increasingly selected not for its significance, but for its interest". So does she worry that foreign stories are slipping down the broadcasting agenda? "You really ought to go and talk to the editors about that," she says impatiently. "I have nothing to do with the selection of stories. I'm the reporter." And so on. Had I unwittingly offended?
"I just stick to the facts," she writes at the end of the book, which takes us from her comfortable Sunderland childhood to her early days at Radio Durham, and then from her big break, happening to be on duty during the 1980 Iranian Embassy siege, to the series of foreign wars that have made her "the squaddies' favourite". Adie has chosen to reveal little about herself. Her most emotive recollection concerns a "next-ofkin" form she had to complete before the first Gulf War. "I realised, for the first time, that I had no close relatives," she writes. She left the form blank.
Adie, 57, now freelances for the BBC, presenting programmes such as From Our Own Correspondent, as well as lecturing and completing a second book about women in uniform. She is sharp, energetic, and has a wonderfully infections laugh. Today she is wearing an elegant sleeveless blue dress and a thin veneer of patience.
DID it upset her, I ask, that some reviewers had suggested that she had little hinterland beyond the BBC? "I wrote in the book very specifically what I wanted to write about, period, and left it at that," she says. "If you don't think it's sufficient, that's that. It's what I wanted to say." I try again. Had she expected the rather personalised responses to the book? "I didn't know what to expect," she says, followed by a nine-second pause. Understandably, I suggest, she wanted to guard her privacy from tabloids that have long seen her as a target - in one case, sending a correspondent simply to report on Adie's battlefield movements. There is another six second pause. "I ... I don't sit there and speculate. I'm not that sort of person. It wastes time, actually." She breaks into a sudden laugh.
She realises that she was part of a "lucky generation" at BBC News. "It wasn't glamorous in my day. In the regions, reporters were seen as such low life that they didn't merit their name in the Radio Times. Now people are interested in being famous. I never gave it a thought."
What does she feel about the growing tendency to portray reporters - most recently, Rageh Omaar - as stars? She sighs. "Ask the BBC."
Adie rejects newspaper speculation that she left the BBC because she was pushed aside. The reason she made so few reports in her last three years, she says, is "because I've been doing so many other things". Besides, television was changing. "You don't see BBC World, do you?" she asks witheringly. "I wanted to do a bigger range of stuff. It suited me to change, and I am very happy. There's no point sitting like a hedgehog squeaking in front of an enormous steamroller." What of her reported remarks that the BBC bosses were favouring younger faces? "Ask them." Another eight-second pause.
Later, Adie sheds some light on her reluctance to engage with the interview. Evidently deeply suspicious of British newspapers, she seems to misinterpret innocent questions as a ruse to stitch her up.
"You don't give hostages to fortune," she says. Because she deals with "real conflicts", she does not want to find herself portrayed as being vindictive or confrontational towards other journalists. "I see too much of the real thing," she says, "serious things, where life's at stake. I don't want to be involved in endless media gossip."
She then confides an opinion. It concerns the current Iraqi occupation. "People haven't made enough fuss about Baghdad TV not being back on air yet," she says. "You'd have thought it would have been a priority. Interesting times."
(Evening Standard, June 4 2003)
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