Collected Columns

by Michael Frayn

  One whole wall of the tomb will be occupied by a scene representing the spiritual core of Joky Man’s life. On one half of the wall – Joky Man appearing on television, saying satirical things in his theatrical agent voice, his Prime Minister voice, and his commentator voice. On the other half of the wall – Joky Man watching the television, mimicking the performers and maintaining a stream of witty observations about them in no less funny voices. The balloons will make it clear that it is the less joky specimens of Joky Man who appear on the screen, and the more joky specimens who watch. Or that at any rate the ones who appear never seem to manage to answer any of those devasting sallies back.

  In one corner of the tomb there will be a small picture illustrating a rather sad aspect of Joky Man’s life. It will show him trying to say something straight, in his own voice. He is red in the face and glassy-eyed with the effort, but, as the archaeologists will see, the balloon that is emerging from his mouth is completely empty. In the last picture Joky Man is being carried off, deceased from an excess of humours. As the headstone movingly records:

  ‘Here lies what we in the trwade call dead funny.’

  (1963)

  And Home’s son’s father is Hume’s father’s son

  What a dynamic start! In the first six days of his ministry Sir Alec Douglas-Home has got rid of an earldom, three lordships, and two baronies; and the new Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster and the New Minister of State at the Board of Trade have acquired a viscountcy and a barony respectively.

  Meanwhile, at the Conservative Central Office Lord Spoon is trying to drop the Barony of Spoon and pick up the Barony of Bosworth, to complete a set of ‘Battle’ class titles he is collecting. ‘If I can send in the full set, together with the backs of three old Burke’s “Peerages”, I shall win an electric blanket,’ he told a Press conference late last night.

  This vigorous programme cannot, of course, be carried through without some hard rethinking of fundamentals.

  At the request of the Garter King-of-Arms, according to the Daily Telegraph, the Queen’s advisers have been ‘urgently’ considering the question of style and precedence of the former Lord Home’s family. A spokesman for the College of Arms told the Telegraph: ‘The question is, for the purpose of precedence, whether the children of peers who have disclaimed are still children of peers.’

  How the College of Arms faced the problem I don’t know, but its rather more venerable rival, the College of Arms and Legges (the name is a corruption of armorum leges, the laws of arms), responded with great promptitude. As soon as the urgency and gravity of the question was fully understood, an emergency meeting was called. Members of the College were rushed to London with police escorts, and a jet airliner was specially diverted to bring the Dexter Lord of Legges back from Southern Rhodesia, where he was inspecting pre-war baronetcies for signs of wear.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the Dexter Lord of Legges, ‘the question is this: Are the children of disclaiming peers still children of peers; and, if not, whose children are they? Would you like to kick off, Rouge Garter Extraordinary?’

  Rouge Garter Extraordinary: Well, let’s put this question another way. Can commoners whose children are peers’ children be in any meaningful sense fathers?

  Morte Puissance: Ex nihilo nihil fit. Vide Tollemache v. Tollemache on the strong presumption of non-paternity in the case of an ox that was cited as putative sire of a pig.

  Swart Beast: Could not the difficulty be very easily surmounted by requiring peers renouncing their peerages to disclaim the paternity of their children?

  Twicester Herald: Then the wife could apply to the courts for a paternity order made out in the name of the extinguished title.

  Rouge Garter Extraordinary: The important thing is that these unfortunate children should not be take away from their homes and put in orphanages unnecessarily.

  Morte Puissance: What we must establish here and now, surely, is whether the son of Lord Home (as he then was) is Lord Dunglass (as he now is) or Mr Douglas-Home junior (as he may well be).

  Vray Halidom: Or indeed whether either of them is the son of Sir Alec Douglas-Home, or the Earl of Home, or Lord Home, or Lord Hume of Berwick, or Baron Hume of Berwick, or Lord Dunglass, or Baron Douglas of Douglas. As he then was. Or as they then were.

  Dexter Lord of Legges: Douglas spelt ‘Douglas’ of Douglas spelt ‘Douglas’?

  Vray Halidom: Precisely so, Legges.

  Dexter Lord of Legges: Dashed funny way for a fellow to spell his name.

  Swart Beast: Anyway, the permutations are endless.

  Rouge Garter Extraordinary: There must be some way of telling. There must be some birthmark or other one of them could produce.

  Dexter Lord of Legges: What we must ensure above all is that this unhappy young man is not deprived of someone to call. ‘Father.’ Or ‘Lord Father,’ or ‘Lord Father of Father,’ or ‘Baron Father of Berwick,’ as the case may be.

  Twicester Herald: But my dear Legges, surely Sir Alec (as he now is) could register the titles as a public company – Home, Home, Hume, Hume, Douglas and Dunglass Ltd. – and appoint himself and his son co-directors of it?

  Morte Puissance: Would it not be an equally satisfactory solution if the young man’s name was spelt ‘Mr Douglas-Home’ and pronounced ‘Lord Dunglass’?

  Rouge Garter Extraordinary: How about a new title altogether? After all, we must move with the times. I suggest ‘Lord Dunglass-Home.’

  Vray Halidom: I like the note of freshness it strikes. And it’s obviously an immensely practical little title for running around in. But – well, frankly, it doesn’t speak to me.

  Dexter of Legges: Beast?

  Swart Beast: Well, for my money I don’t think you can beat ‘Lord Douglas-Dunglass.’ There’s a tremendously rugged integrity about that title. It’s a valid response – a nexus of creative outgoingness – what I might call an essentially dynamic act of awareness. Also the hyphen takes out for cleaning.

  Morte Puissance: I’m prepared to go some way with Beast. But when it comes to sheer, solid craftsmanship, give me a good old-fashioned title like ‘Lord Douglas, or, As You Like It.’

  Rouge Garter Extraordinary: Preferably pronounced ‘Lord Dunglass, or, What You Will.’

  Vray Halidom: Well, I think, you’d have to go a long way to beat Lord Home Number Fifteen, in B Flat Minor.

  Swart Beast: Or the sheer sensual awareness of ‘The Rokeby Douglas.’

  Morte Puissance: May I put in a word for ‘On Hearing the First Dunglass of Spring?’

  Dexter Lord of Legges: Well, there we were, then. The team can’t make up its mind whether former peers’ children are peers’ children or not. But we’re all agreed that a rose by any other name smells just like a rose, a ruse, a rouglas, or a runglass, as the case may be.

  (1963)

  Another little job for the cleaners

  We’re not asking for much (said Miss Modula MacPlastic, secretary of the ‘Clean Up the Bible’ campaign). We simply want the ecclesiastical authorities to agree that an advisory body composed of ordinary young agnostics-in-the-street like myself should have some say in the planning of new scriptures, so that we can help them to avoid giving unnecessary offence.

  Believe me, we have solid backing from the ordinary mass of decent young people in this country, such as the Bishop of Twicester, who writes: ‘I am absolutely horrified and disgusted to discover exactly how much unnecessary and gratuitous sex does go on in the Bible.’

  It’s not even as if readings from the Bible could be confined to Religious Knowledge classes in school. Extracts are deliberately and knowingly read out at church services when there is a strong likelihood that impressionable adults are present. Copies of the Bible are sold openly in back street bookshops, with nothing to prevent highly suggestible men and women of 50 and even 60 from buying them.

  One can only shudder at the effect it must have on them. I know of one case where an ordinary middle-aged man read Leviticus, and next year went
out and committed a serious traffic offence. I am absolutely certain that if research were done among middle-aged people convicted of crimes of violence it would be found that a very high proportion of them had at one time or another in their lives been exposed to the influence of the Bible.

  As soon as our advisory council started reading the book we came across scenes involving nudity in the first few pages. We protested about these to the Archbishop of Canterbury, but he refused to see us. Since then we have come across descriptions of every possible form of sex, including homosexuality, bestiality, incest, and self-abuse. On each occasion we have tried to take them up with the ecclesiastical authorities. But each time the result has been the same; the little men in the Church did not have the courage to meet us and listen to the voice of decency.

  Some people try to argue that this continual harping upon sex is not corrupting. What rubbish! Our whole sexual ethos has been affected by the Old Testament: if Sodom and Onan had never been mentioned, for example, should we ever have heard of sodomy or onanism?

  One cannot but be sickened, too, by the endless violence. With monotonous regularity the characters smite and are smitten, slay and are slain. In one particularly unsavoury incident, a woman is turned into a pillar of salt. Whole cities are wiped out. Violence is made to seem a commonplace part of life.

  And scarcely a page goes by without some mention of sin. Sin, sin, sin – it’s dragged in obsessively. Anybody reading the Bible naturally gets the idea that an obsession with sin is a smart thing to have. Is it a coincidence that the middle-aged generation has got sin on the brain? Or is there nothing less than a gigantic conspiracy at work all over the world to make us sin-conscious?

  Some silly people argue that writers must have ‘freedom’ to express themselves. But could anyone honestly maintain that disgusting incidents such as the mass rape of the concubine by the Gibeonites are artistically necessary? Great storytellers like Agatha Christie and Denise Robins are able to entertain and delight a middle-aged audience without descending to such cheap forms of titillation. Are the faceless men behind the Old Testament frightened of being beaten in the bestseller lists?

  We shall be asking our members to monitor the lessons read in their local churches, and to complete a questionnaire about what they heard. One of the questions will be ‘Was womanhood respected, or was it degraded?’ I think it’s pretty plain what the answer will be for episodes like the presentation of the concubine to the Gibeonites, or the one in which Lot offers his daughters to the Sodomites.

  Another of the questions will be ‘Was authority represented as something worthy of respect, or as something to be feared and hated?’ It seems to be the fashion in many parts of the Bible to make people sneer at divine authority by showing it always as capricious, cruel and unjust. A particularly horrifying instance of this is the episode at Nachon’s threshing floor, when David is bringing back the Ark of the Covenant on an ox-cart. The Ark wobbles, and one of the cart-drivers, Uzzah, puts out his hand to steady it – whereupon God instantly strikes him dead.

  We pointed out to the ecclesiastical authorities that this could only encourage lorry-drivers to break the law regarding the proper securing of loads, and we suggested that the text should be amended to show Uzzah receiving some small award for his contribution to road safety. Again, our views were not taken into account.

  We feel that in general the Bible concentrates far too much on the sordid side of life. Plagues, famines, oppression – all right, we know they happen, but is it really necessary to dwell upon them so insistently? The picture of life that is presented in the Bible is simply not typical of this country today. The great majority of middle-aged people in Britain are not bearded, unkempt tribesmen who go round living with concubines and strumming psalms on the harp. They’re soberly-dressed men and women living in decent two-and three-bedroomed houses, who believe in proper sanitation and life insurance. They should be represented as such in their religious literature.

  Honestly, we’re not asking for much. Just that the scriptures shouldn’t fall too far below the ordinary standards of decency maintained in public life by bodies such as the BBC.

  (1965)

  At bay in Gear Street

  It’s been hardly possible to get up and down Carnaby Street recently for the great crush of American journalists observing the swinging London scene. I was practically knocked down by a stampede of perspiring correspondents as I stepped out of Galt’s toyshop the other day holding a doll I’d bought for the children.

  ‘Holy heaven, it’s Actor Terry Stamp, 26, in mini-wig and PVC spectacles!’ screamed the reporter from Time magazine. ‘And he’s squiring diminutive dolly Cathy McGowan, 22, in an eight-inches-above-the-knee, Campari-red skirtlet, spectre-pale make-up, and kinky wobble-as-you-walk celluloid eyelids! I love you, Terry!’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ shouted the representative of Status magazine. ‘That’s Jean Shrimpton in a trouser-suit, carrying Vidal Sassoon in newly groovy Now-We-Are-Six gear! Swinging, Shrimp, swinging!’

  ‘No, listen!’ cried the Esquire man, reading the label round the dolly’s neck. ‘This is some new couple altogether called Non Toxic and Fully Washable! Hey, these are two totally unknown faces making the scene, boys!’

  At this they all came crowding round, gazing at me and the doll as if they were going to eat us.

  ‘Look at his trousers!’ breathed the Chicago Tribune. ‘Two and a half inches above the shoe!’

  ‘Two and three-quarter inches,’ said Associated Press, getting down on his hands and knees with a pocket rule.

  ‘But only on the right leg!’ pointed out NBC excitedly. ‘The left trouser leg’s practically trailing on the ground! Boys, this is the newest thing since yesterday, if not this morning!’

  ‘And how about this – bags under the knees!’ cried the Daily News. ‘Zowie! Back in New York they’re still wearing their bags under the eyes! I tell you, these kids’ll drive us into the sea!’

  ‘Central button of jacket hanging on three-inch thread!’ noted someone else.

  ‘Two inches of shirt-tail worn outside bellyband of trousers!’

  Well, they all started shouting questions and trying to photograph me up the leg of my trousers. I gazed at them, stupefied.

  ‘The guy can’t understand,’ cried the Wall Street Journal. ‘Where the hell’s the interpreter? Where’s Jonathan Miller?’

  ‘Leave it to me!’ shouted Time magazine. ‘I know these people’s patois.’

  He turned to me and the doll.

  ‘Greetings, British bird and British Beatle!’ he said very slowly, waving his hands about. ‘You – with it, yes? You – making scene, no?’

  ‘I’m not making a scene,’ I replied nervously. ‘I was just suddenly set on by all you lot.’

  ‘He says he’s set-on,’ reported Time magazine to the others. ‘That’s the now-now-now phrase for switched-on,’

  ‘“Set” spelt S-E-T and “on” spelt O-N, Henry?’ they asked him, writing it all carefully down.

  ‘Hey, listen, boys! The dolly’s saying something! What’s she saying, Henry?’

  ‘She’s saying “Mama.”’

  ‘“Mama” spelt M-A-M-A, Henry?’

  ‘Right. What she’s trying to get across is that today she is able to lead a deeply fulfilled life, thanks to the ready availability of artificial eyelashes and the policy of successive British Governments in granting independence to the country’s overseas possessions.’

  They wrote it all down. I took advantage of the pause to explain that unfortunately I had to go.

  ‘“Go”, is short for “go, go, go,” of course,’ explained Time magazine. ‘I think what he’s trying to say is that in this swinging new meritocratic young Britain the handsome young son of a peer can breeze up to the chemmy tables and lose a cool four or five hundred thousand dollars in a night as easily and naturally as the humblest mill-girl in Bolton.’

  ‘Where’s he go-go-going to, Henry?’ asked the St Louis Pos
t-Dispatch. ‘Annabel’s? The Scotch?’

  ‘British Beatle,’ translated Time magazine to me, ‘Where you make the scene along towards?’

  I said I was on my way to Oxford Circus Tube Station. They all looked it up on the map of The Scene in Time.

  ‘It’s not marked, Henry!’ they cried.

  ‘Don’t worry, fellers – I know all about it. It’ll be on the next edition of the map.

  ‘What is it, Henry – a boutique or a discotheque?’

  ‘It’s a Tube station, men – “Tube” meaning “groove”, of course. It’s a sort of groovotheque.’

  ‘What kind of set does he meet down there, Henry? Gamine Leslie Caron, 34? Ace Photographer David Bailey, 27? Or daughter of former Ambassador to the US Lady Jane Ormsby-Gore, 23?’

  I explained that the circle I moved in (though on the whole not in Oxford Circus Underground Station) consisted of Christopher and Lavinia Crumble, Horace and Doris Morris, and people like that. There were gasps of astonishment from the Press corps.

  ‘Suffering saints!’ they cried. ‘This is clearly some inner scene not as yet made by US newsmen, which opens up entirely fresh dimensions of fabness, and brings within the reach of long-suffering mankind the hope of a whole gear universe of prime-quality grooviness!’

  But just at that moment they saw Peter O’Toole coming by in bell-bottomed lederhosen and aluminium Boy Scout hat, and my fashionable career was over.

  The dolly’s been right off her food ever since.

  (1966)

  At the sign of the rupture belt

  There’s the shop with the rupture belt outside! (said Nicolette). Now we’ve driven halfway to Granny’s, haven’t we, Daddy?

  Father: Halfway exactly.

  Nicolette: I always remember we’re halfway when we get to the shop with the rupture belt outside, don’t I, Daddy?