Philip Hensher: Shakespeare, Dickens and Palin. Discuss

Michael Palin is a kindly and intelligent soul, but one thing I doubt he would ever claim to be is a pillar of English literature. A few years ago, at the behest of a television company, he travelled from North Pole to South Pole, and produced a spin-off book, with pictures. I'm sure it was very entertaining; now, however, it is being asked to provide an introduction to English literature as a set book for thousands of GCSE students. I wonder whether a telly spin-off can really be expected to do that job.

Researchers in Cambridge have looked at the set texts for English literature over the whole history of public examinations, from the 1870s onwards. As we all know, the place of the illustrious dead has been eroded over the past 30 years, and, apart from Shakespeare, pre-20th century writers hardly ever appear to frighten the children.

This isn't new. I arrived at university never having been asked to read any non-Shakespeare set text written before 1940. Dickens was my personal passionate discovery, and I remember the feeling of passionate rage at school on discovering that Pope and Swift were being kept from me by the syllabuses. In place of a great masterpiece like Our Mutual Friend, we were asked to study and express our views on The Grapes of Wrath, and I still feel irritation at the miniaturisation of expectations represented by that.

Nowadays, to judge by some of the students who I see at university, The Grapes of Wrath would appear to be an impossible stretch for syllabus setters. Quite often, students arrive at university wanting to study English literature without ever having read a novel from beginning to end. And the same names of writers crop up over and over again – Carol Ann Duffy, Simon Armitage, Nick Hornby.

Some of those are, I think, good writers, but I wonder what they think of the process they find themselves in. The determination to study "the contemporary" and "the relevant" has resulted in a weird situation where a writer's work never needs to find a public who actually likes the work. Instead, a bureaucrat approves, a volume is bought by huge numbers by schools, and the question of engagement with a living public never seems to arise.

Quite how bizarre this situation is has been pointed out by a mesmerising article by Susan Hill in the recent Standpoint magazine. She is an author with a genuine, living public; other books of hers are favourites, apparently, with the GCSE setters. Letters and emails from students, beginning "Hi Sue" demand that she write essays on her own work. One she quotes runs "Hi. I've got this essay to do for tomoz, it's about I'm the king of the castle and does the setting play an important part in the story. Can you reply tonight and do it in bullet points so I can copy and paste it straight in. thanks you're a star in advance, cheers ..."

Correspondence like that betrays the fact that the relationship between reader and writer, when modified by a determinedly contemporary-minded exam setter, has become an unnatural one. And the lack of respect evident in many of Ms Hill's correspondents is surely a sign that they aren't quite convinced that posterity has passed judgement on the works they are being asked to study.

I don't say that with any disrespect to authors on these syllabuses; merely that, like all living writers, the value of their work is not remotely established, and the place to establish that value is in the marketplace, not on an exam sheet. A Michael Palin travelogue may not be the place to look to find out what great literature looks like. On the other hand, we are fairly sure that Coleridge is that place.

News is news, and who's the Doctor ... isn't

I very much look forward to seeing what Matt Smith does with the role of Doctor Who. The long-running series has become hugely entertaining since its revival, and Mr Smith is evidently a talented actor. Only one question: did the reincarnation of a fictional character really have to be announced on the television news?

This sort of thing has been on the increase for years. When JR was shot in Dallas, the BBC news announced it as the sort of humour-free joke in which the corporation has always specialised. But since then, anything that happens in the wonderful world of light entertainment has seemed appropriate material to end the programme that began with news of dozens more murdered in Gaza.

I don't say that these things are without interest. But I do think they are quite separate things. If the BBC wants us to be apprised of a new Blue Peter presenter, who's going into the Big Brother House, or who the new Doctor Who will be, then they probably ought to think about putting all this non-news into a gossipy celeb-news format. Preferably fronted by Robert Peston.

What's wrong with a quick knee-trembler?

All over London, signs have gone up, demanding, in huge letters, the answer to this question. "Do You Want Longer Lasting Sex?" Ill-punctuated and hideously ugly, the giant billboards emanate from an Australian institute which offers a nasal solution to short-lasting sex disappointment. The posters are having their own endurance problem, since Londoners everywhere are complaining about their appearance, and they are disappearing from public view as I write.

I wonder about the question, however. Does one want longer-lasting sex? Is it something that one could take a decision about without consultation? Is there not something to be said for shorter-lasting sex, or at the very least, averagely-lengthed sex which enables you to get on with the rest of your life? It might, after all, be mildly irritating that one's gentleman caller had unilaterally decided that he wanted longer-lasting sex when in an hour one had a phone call to make, some German irregular verbs to memorise, or a fence to creosote. Does one really want some Australian quack to cut into these important activities? No, I thought not.

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