I will finish by leaving you with a word that I would like to see totally expunged from the English language. Ladies and gentlemen, may I suggest you let fun out of your lives? For it is, brothers and sisters, a mongrel word, an ersatz word, a fast-food bucket of a word! What does it mean? Consider the shameful usage: “I was doing it for a bit of fun,” or “I thought it would be fun,” or “I was only having fun” and, worst of all, the little bit of white on the top of this chicken dropping, “Are we having fun yet?”
Why have fun when you could have enjoyment, amusement, entertainment, diversion, relaxation, sport, a bit of a lark, and satisfaction and probably contentment.
Fun pretends to be about enjoyment, but is merely about the attempt. In search of fun, people pull themselves towards places that advertise fun, but they are probably to be avoided, since, in my recollection, fun means trudging around a soaking wet seaside town wearing plastic raincoats that, no matter what you do, always smell of fish. All right, maybe I’m only having fun with you? But these islands of ours have the richest language in the world, mostly because we stole useful words from everybody else, besides frantically inventing new ones ourselves.
So let’s have fun with it; you never know, it might be fun!
Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.
SATURDAYS
“Britain in a Day: Terry Pratchett describes his typical Saturday,” Radio Times, 12 November 2011
Wake up. This is essential. It’s a Saturday, traditionally a day of rest for many people, but for me there are only two types of day: the days when my PA, Rob Wilkins, is in; and those when he isn’t.
Generally speaking, I write every day of the week, subject to family considerations, and today I am writing a first draft of a new book, which is fun, and so I lie in bed, cheered by the click of the kettle and ready for the first cup of tea of the day. Then into the bathroom, shower, trim moustache, and sort out the morning pills, mostly concerned with blood pressure, now quite under control.
Of the other three, one copes with the occasional bout of sciatica and the other two stand between me and the inexorable progress of Alzheimer’s.
And since I am a man in his sixties, some of the mental space at this time of day is directing venom against the drug companies that hermetically package their wares in plastic and metal laminations, which require weight-lifter strengths and a safety net to disgorge them, instead of the little pillboxes that everybody could open without resorting to scissors.
I discuss plans for the day with Lyn, my wife, then attack The Times while finishing a bowl of the bowel-scouring muesli that, I am assured, must be doing me some good. Then out to feed the chickens and other creatures on a beautiful late autumn day.
Apart from the vegetable garden, which is sacrosanct, we run the property for the wildlife, by and large, which means we get hedgehogs and, in our barn, barn owls. Everything’s a bit scruffy, but it’s such a wonderful day that you have to be glad to be born and don’t even mind other people having been born either.
And then, as P. G. Wodehouse might have said, it’s Ho! for the chapel, the grandiose name for the building that combines my study and library where the computers will get fired up and some writing will ensue.
Oddly enough, Saturdays and Sundays are good days for a writer like me; weekdays are so often punctuated with phone calls it’s easy to forget that you are supposed to be working on a book, and even though Snuff, my latest book, is out there and in the public domain, there is still some PR activity that I must attend to in the strange, postnatal world that an author slides into when the latest baby is snatched away.
Of course, the cure for this is to start writing something else, but for the sake of my health, and my eyesight, I periodically put on something warm and go outside to chop logs, which is very satisfying, with a nice little curry at lunchtime.
A walk in the afternoon, which is never predictable because here in the countryside you are bound to meet people you know, and the etiquette of the countryside means you should stop and chat.
After that, feed the chickens for the second time, do a bit of gardening while the light allows, possibly back up to the chapel to read the e-mails (and ignore them! This is the weekend, for heavens sake!) and, eventually, back to the house for the rest of the evening.
We have a vast repository of old DVDs, so, if we’re not going out or have other plans, we pick one we haven’t played for some time. The absolute rule, however, is that I must always catch the news at ten p.m. I was a journalist once and the stain never leaves you.
The last act of the day is a kitchen full of cats clamouring to be fed and then upstairs, shower, then bed—a four-poster, sufficiently big that we both have room to stretch out. Wonderful. A quiet day this, with time to think and enjoy life. Nothing much has happened, and sometimes that’s a really good thing. I’m glad that there are days like this.
DAYS OF RAGE
On Alzheimer’s, orangutans, campaigns, controversies, dignified endings, and trying to make a lot of things a little better
ON EXCELLENCE IN SCHOOLS. EDUCATION: WHAT IT MEANS TO YOU
Department for Education and Employment, July 1997
[Alongside this piece by Terry were contributions from a dozen other figures—including Trevor McDonald, Keith Waterhouse, Carol Vorderman, Arthur C. Clarke, and Stephen Hawking]
Much I learned at school didn’t do me any good. They did it in the wrong way—imagine, for example, giving Pride and Prejudice to teenage boys! There were so many other things they could have done.
First, you build a library, then build the school round it. You make sure that the kids can read adequately, write coherently if simply, and at least have a good enough grasp of simple maths to know when a pocket calculator is lying. Then you show them how to use the library, and you don’t let them loose on the Net until they can read and write and have grown up enough not to confuse data with information, otherwise they’re just monkeys in a banana plantation.
And don’t forget workshops and studios. I met a skilled draughtswoman who never had the chance to find out what she was good at until, on a no-hope work experience placement, she ended up making the tea in a drawing office where, one day, she took an interest.… There must be many like her out there. Tens of thousands of people never find out what their talent is. Where else are they going to find out but at school?
THE ORANGUTANS ARE DYING
Mail on Sunday Review, 20 February 2000
This was written a few years ago. How have things changed? There have been small victories achieved by patience and careful negotiation, and my hat—all my hats—are off to the people who have engineered them.
Even so, the central facts don’t change. The orangutan needs the forest. A lot of forest. And humans want it, too, both for what it can make and what’s left when it’s been felled. You don’t have to be much of a pessimist to wonder about the likely life of the species as a truly wild creature. A field here, a plantation there … and eventually, the apes will have nowhere to retreat to except the reserves. That’s around the time we’ll need a miracle.
Maybe half of them went in the last ten years. In another ten, unless there’s a miracle, look for them only in zoos and a few parks. And this is one of our relatives I’m talking about here. There may be as few as fifteen thousand of them left. That’s the fan base for a third-rate football club.
Forget all that stuff about how much DNA we share. It does not mean a lot; we share quite a lot of DNA with rats, and more with goldfish than you may think. Orangutans are like us. They are intelligent. They use their imagination. They think and solve complex problems. They have personalities. They know how to lie. It’s simply that their ancestors stayed in the trees while ours climbed down to tough it out on the plains.
We’re going back to the trees now. We’re going back with chain saws. A few years ago all I knew about orangutans was that they were the sad ones sitting with a piece of cardboard on their heads down at the duller end of the p
rimate house. Then, in one of the early books of the Discworld series, I created a librarian who was an orangutan. I did it because I thought it would be mildly amusing. As a piece of creativity it took me all of fifteen seconds. Sorry, but it really did. There was no lifelong fascination, no point to make. It was just a joke. On a different day, the Librarian would have been an aardvark.
The series became inexplicably popular, the Librarian caught the imagination of the readers, one librarian praised me for “raising the status of the profession,” and various organizations started paying me money to go and talk to them. This embarrassed me somewhat, until I heard about the Orangutan Foundation.
I rang them up. I said, “I seem to be getting all this money, would you like it?” A cautious voice said, “Yes?”
Then it got serious. I became a Trustee. I sit in at meetings in London in a state either of despair or anger. Sometimes what I hear makes me want to slit my wrists, but often it makes me long to slit someone else’s.
The foundation is a support organization for the work of Dr. Biruté Galdikas at Camp Leakey in Tanjung Puting. She has spent thirty years studying orangutans in the wild, but increasingly she has had to work to ensure that there are any left to study. When I visited her at the camp six years ago, to do a short film, there was still some optimism, some feeling of bridges built, contacts made, some hope that with goodwill all round there was a way that apes and men could coexist.
I have an affliction peculiar to lifelong journalists. In some circumstances I get detached and go into a sort of “Record” mode. Then I go and write things down, and the mental film is developed, as if writing things down makes them real.
I remember every detail of my visit like a jewel. I’m damn sure I wouldn’t have felt the same about aardvarks. I remember that the eyes of orangutans are the eyes of people, in a way that the eyes of dogs and cats are not, and how the orangutans would pinch the soap and go and wash themselves in the river, and how the camp’s motorboat had to be anchored in midstream because one young male was taking too intelligent an interest in how to start the engine. I remember the gentle feel of a hand that could have crushed every bone in mine.
And I remember that when I left Borneo there were also long, long rafts of logs floating down the Sekonyer River, and a smell of smoke in the air.
Things have got worse, not better. The orangutans are dying out because the rain forests of Indonesia are being killed.
More than half the timber coming out of Borneo and Sumatra is illegally logged. Even national parks are not safe. A few weeks ago illegal loggers trashed the headquarters at Tanjung Puting National Park. When you’re big enough, and powerful enough, and pay the right people, you can do what you like. Greed and corruption are calling the shots.
As they say in Borneo: “It’s illegal—but it’s official.”
Oh, there have been successes. They have been achieved by careful and patient negotiation, like tap-dancing on quicksand, and I take off my hat to the people who have done it.
But since my visit and despite all the efforts, the orangutans are still losing. It was hoped that the new Indonesian government could reverse the trend, but nothing in Indonesia is ever straightforward. People like me, who aren’t patient, wonder what good a national park is as a refuge when it is just another source of timber.
The foundation is even sponsoring additional patrols of local people to support the understaffed park rangers. It is the sort of initiative that was never envisaged when it was set up. It has taken some very delicate negotiation. They cannot be seen to be interfering with the internal affairs of a sovereign country. So no weapons will be involved. In truth, the park is not as uncivilized as, say, some parts of Los Angeles, so not even the bad guys are using guns. But the illegal loggers have quite big machetes and a certain insouciance. The rangers have … er … well, they have right on their side. Presumably, in a tight corner, they can use harsh language.
This is hardly ideal, but it may help impress on local people that the orangutans are themselves a resource. It is the “ecotourism” argument. How much would you pay to see orangutans in the wild, especially if you knew the money was helping to preserve their forest? Currently it’s about 12p, the cost of a day ticket into the park, and they throw in the birds and trees for free. There’s a bit of scope there, I think.
Unfortunately, what looms is something worse than logging. There has always been logging, legal and illegal. Loggers come and go. The forest can heal, in time.
It’s plantations that are now the big and growing problem. Vast tracts of former forest are taken over for agribusiness with the help of foreign investment. They grow palms for palm oil, and a species of acacia to feed new wood pulp mills. This is a profitable business, but it means that the forest can’t return. There is nothing for the apes in these barren tree factories.
We benefit, even if we don’t realize it. The pulp makes paper, the trees make everything from chipboard to your nice hardwood doors. We can try to shop conscientiously, but that is getting harder to do.
We live in a global economy now and, increasingly, the apes don’t. They are being pushed to the edges, and they’re running out of edges. I can’t crack a joke about that.
We made a big fuss over the possibility of microbes on Mars. If orangutans were Martians we’d cherish them, we’d be so amazed at how they’re like us but not like us, they’d be invited to tea and cigars at the White House.
But they’re apes, sad in zoos, funny in movies, useful in advertisements and in fantasy books, I’m almost ashamed to say, but at least the Discworld’s Librarian has done his bit for the species and caused more than a few bob to flow their way. But the problem, unfortunately, is not money. The problem is lots of money.
A million years ago the orangutans watched Java man walk into Indonesia. Perhaps there are only a few years left now before we watch the last orangutans ushered into their domes or cages or enclosed parks to live out their lives in a simulacrum of the real world. They will be ghosts, because an orangutan needs the forest like a fish needs the sea.
All this for cheap paper and exotic doors.
Unless, of course, you believe in miracles.
THE NHS IS SERIOUSLY INJURED
News of the World, 17 August 2008, headlined “I’m disgusted. I can get Viagra on NHS, but not a drug to help my Alzheimer’s”
Initially, my GP told me I didn’t have Alzheimer’s, but I knew something was going wrong, so I spoke to her again and she sent me to a specialist. Then, after I was diagnosed, it turned out there was something I could take to help, but I was too young to be given it on the NHS—so that was why I first started kicking around, and I spoke about what was happening.
The NHS is seriously injured.
Alzheimer’s is a particularly unpleasant and feared disease. I don’t know anyone who’s got better from Alzheimer’s.
It strips away our humanity a little bit at a time so you hardly notice and until you end up a vegetable.
But a drug called Aricept can slow the progress of the disease, and the good news is it costs just £2.50 a day.
The bad news is there are 400,000 Alzheimer’s sufferers in the U.K. so Aricept has been ruled out for NHS use in the mild stages of the disease everywhere except Scotland.
In Scotland Alzheimer’s sufferers with the mild form of the disease can actually get the drugs and I think that’s a lovely way to run a health service. There is a two-tier NHS, in fact—the Scottish one and the English one. More on that later.
I’m a millionaire so I have no trouble paying, but there are people who can’t.
I think it’s a sufficiently unpleasant disease to be worth the £2.50 a day Aricept costs.
My wife and PA both noticed real changes in me after two or three months on it. I used to fumble with buttons and needed help with seat belts. Now, I get dressed normally and seat belts slide in first time. Mentally, it’s the difference between a sunny day and an overcast day. Ye gods, that’s worth it!
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I was diagnosed nine months ago. I’m still some way from sixty-five, which makes me “early onset.”
There are much younger early onset patients than me, and I’m particularly angry on their behalf because, while getting Alzheimer’s feels like an insult anyway, the younger you are the more insulting it is. It hits people who may have dependants both younger and older than them, and who are also trying to hold down a job.
I can still work at home and control my environment, and my rare variant of the disease is not yet a real burden. The novels turn up as they always have—only the typing is hard. There will now be a moment when the letter A, say, vanishes. It’s as if the keyboard closes up and the letter A is not there anymore. Then I’ll blink a few times and concentrate and it comes back.
I’ve handed in my driving licence—if my brain won’t let me see that A, it might not let me see the child on the pedestrian crossing. Unlikely, at this stage, but who would risk it?
I know I am luckier than many others, older and younger, who find paying £1,000 a year a big problem.
And I can afford a voice recognition program for the computer. There’s no way I’m going to retire, I’ll be writing until I die. It’s my passion.
I have other people who can drive me. In the circumstances, I am lucky so far. I didn’t think so last November when I was told I had PCA, a rare form of Alzheimer’s which affects the back of the brain. I was offered no form of treatment when I was first diagnosed. One local specialist wasn’t familiar with PCA so couldn’t take me on and I wasn’t old enough to go to the other local man who would only deal with patients over sixty-five.
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