"...
It
was
the
usual
Australian
Christmas
dinner,
taking
place
in
the
middle
of
the
day.
Despite
the
temperature
being
100°F.
in
the
shade,
there
had
been
the
full
panoply
of
ragingly
hot
food,
topped
off
with
a
volcanic
plum
pudding
smothered
in
scalding
custard.
My
mother
had
naturally
spiced
the
pudding
with
sixpences
and
threepenny
bits,
called
zacs
and
trays
respectively.
Grandpa
had
collected
one
of
these
in
the
esophagus.
He
gave
a
protracted,
strangled
gurgle
which
for
a
long
time
we
all
took
to
be
the
beginning
of
some
anecdote.
..."
"...
The
only
asphalt
road
in
the
area
led
down
to
the
railway
line
at
about
the
same
angle
as
a
door-wedge.
It
might
not
sound
a
very
perilous
incline,
but
I
was
able
to
prove
that
it
was
more
than
steep
enough
for
a
small
boy
on
a
tricycle
to
attain
terminal
velocity.
The
pedals
became
a
vicious
blur.
There
was
no
hope
of
getting
my
feet
back
on
them.
It
was
apparent
that
I
would
arrive
at
the
bottom
of
the
hill
just
in
time
to
be
flung
on
to
the
line
in
the
path
of
a
train
even
them
looming
out
of
the
cutting.
Hearing
my
screams,
my
mother
came
after
me
like
the
back
half
of
Zeno's
paradox
about
Achilles
and
the
tortoise,
if
you
can
imagine
Achilles
in
drag
and
the
tortoise
screaming
its
head
off
while
balanced
on
a
shaking
bicycle
seat
with
its
legs
stuck
out.
She
caught
up
with
me
at
the
last
moment.
..."
"...
Two
of
the
worst
Australian
spiders
are
the
funnel-web
and
the
trap-door.
One
is
even
more
lethal
than
the
other
but
I
can't
remember
which.
[...]
The
funnel-web
is
a
ping-pong
ball
in
a
fox-fur.
[...]
But
the
real
horror
among
spiders
was
more
likely
to
be
encountered
in
the
lavatory
itself.
This
was
the
red-back.
[...]
It
had
the
awkward
habit,
in
unsewered
areas
like
ours,
of
lurking
under
the
lavatory
seat.
If
a
red-back
bit
you
on
the
behind
you
were
left
with
the
awkward
problem
of
where
to
put
the
tourniquet
and
not
long
to
think
about
it.
Nor
could
you
ask
anyone
to
suck
out
the
poison,
unless
you
knew
them
very
well
indeed.
..."
"...
they
were
tanned
a
colour
so
reddish
it
was
almost
strawberry.
It
was
another
episode
in
my
long
history
of
unsuitable
shoes,
a
story
which
is
not
yet
closed
and
would
need
a
book
of
its
own.
Let's
just
say
that
even
now,
when
I
have
learned
to
dress
as
plainly
as
possible,
I
still
get
so
impatient
with
the
whole
time-consuming
business
of
covering
up
exposed
skin
that
I
will
buy
the
first
thing
that
catches
my
eye,
and
that
when
it
comes
to
shoes
the
first
thing
that
catches
your
eye
is
the
last
thing
you
should
ever
put
on
your
feet.
It
is
almost
better
to
be
an
impulse
shirt-buyer
than
an
impulse
shoe-buyer.
I
have
worn
shirts
that
made
people
think
I
was
a
retired
Mafia
hit-man
or
a
Yugoslavian
sports
convener
from
Split,
but
I
have
worn
shoes
that
made
people
think
I
was
insane."
"At
the
time
I
left
Australia
it
was
already
on
the
verge
of
becoming
one
of
the
great
wine
countries
of
the
world,
but
I
won't
pretend
I
was
in
any
way
au
courant
with
the
incipient
viticultural
breakthrough.
My
idea
of
a
fine
wine
was
one
that
merely
stained
your
teeth
without
stripping
the
enamel."
- Every
morning,
right
after
their
porridge,
the
children
would
be
given
a
delicious
spoonful
of
sickly-sweet
molasses,
followed
by
a
vomit-making
dollop
of
cod-liver
oil.
Billy
begged
to
be
given
the
oil
first.
"Why,
oh
why,"
he
wondered,
"can't
I
have
the
nice
stuff
last
to
take
away
the
nasty
taste?"
But
he
was
always
given
the
molasses
first.
His
aunts
were
not
the
only
ones
who
believed
the
hard
way
was
the
best
way,
and
that
safety
resided
in
suffering.
Billy
says
that
many
a
Glaswegian
has
cast
troubled
eyes
on
a
brilliant,
sunshine
day
and
muttered,
"Och,
we'll
pay
for
this!"
[p. 22]
- But,
despite
his
early
star
pupil
status,
Billy
was
terrified
of
the
nuns,
and
was
especially
wary
of
Sister
Philomena
who
had
pictures
of
hell
on
her
wall
that
looked
like
travel
brochures.
Billy
assumed
she'd
been
there.
[p. 28]
- Mona
and
Margaret
both
dolled
themselves
up
whenever
they
ventured
out.
When
nylons
were
in
short
supply,
the
sisters
would
get
creative
with
Bisto,
plastering
the
gravy
all
over
their
bare
legs
and
wandering
around
the
city
stinking
like
a
Sunday
dinner.
[p. 36]
- Scots
have
long
objected
to
the
pejorative
lines
once
used
in
the
[British]
Anthem:
"God
grant,
and
with
a
mighty
rush,
Rebellious
Scots
to
crush".
Not
surprisingly,
Billy
has
proposed
the
institution
of
a
new
National
Anthem.
The
tune
would
be
the
theme
from
the
long-running
and
popular
BBC
radio
series,
The
Archers,
while
the
words
would
go:
"Dum
de
dum
de
dum
de
dum
Dum
de
dum
de
dah
dah
Dum
de
dum
de
dum
de
dum
Dum
de
diddle
de
dum."
[p. 52]
- Being
the
tricksters
they
were,
John
and
Billy
got
up
to
a
variety
of
shenanigans
in
the
hostels.
One
of
their
favourite
tricks
was
slicing
people's
bananas
inside
the
skin:
holding
the
banana
vertical,
they
would
carefully
stick
a
sewing
needle
into
it
at
right
angles,
then
move
it
side
to
side
so
it
dissected
the
flesh.
They
repeated
this
at
one-inch
intervals
all
the
way
down
the
banana.
In
another
ingenious
operation,
they
would
steal
a
person's
egg,
make
a
minute
hole
in
both
ends
and
blow
it
empty.
Then
they
wrote
an
"Excuse
me"
note
on
delicately
rolled-up
toilet
paper
and
slid
it
inside
the
egg.
People
who
went
to
bed
with
their
socks
on
were
prime
targets
for
the
cousins.
When
one
of
these
innocents
was
asleep,
Billy
and
John
would
remove
one
sock
and
put
it
over
the
other.
They
thought
it
was
hilarious
fun
to
watch
the
victim
searching
in
vain
for
his
missing
sock
the
next
morning.
[p. 79]
- When
Billy
learned
"frailing",
a
type
of
strumming,
from
Pete
Seeger's
book
How
to
Play
the
Five-String
Banjo,
he
was
dismayed
to
discover
the
technique
played
havoc
with
his
fingernails.
The
guitarist
John
Pearse
told
him
that
flamenco
guitarists
strengthened
their
worn-down
nails
with
layers
of
cigarette
paper
and
nail
varnish,
but
Billy
found
that
method
far
too
messy.
His
friend
Hamish
Imlach
advised
him
to
stuff
himself
with
Jelly
Babies,
presumably
for
their
gelatin
content,
but
that
didn't
work,
and
neither
did
mountains
of
raw
broccoli.
Over
the
years,
Billy
has
tried
commercial
liquid
nail
hardeners,
silk
wrapping
and
acrylic
nails,
none
of
which
have
been
successful.
He
now
applies
several
layers
of
Revlon
nail
repair
kit,
carries
nail
buffers,
polish
and
several
grades
of
files
with
him
at
all
times,
and
heaven
help
anyone
who
asks
him
to
do
a
household
job
that
results
in
a
broken
nail.
"If
anyone
peeked
inside
my
banjo
case,"
confesses
Billy,
"they'd
think
I
was
a
manicurist."
[p. 105]
- "Banjo
players'
wives
are
always
driven
crazy
by
the
noise,"
Billy
announced
to
me
a
couple
of
years
ago,
as
if
he
were
telling
me
something
I
didn't
already
know.
Hearing
a
single
banjo
lick
being
practiced
over
and
over
again
in
your
house
is
a
truly
tortuous
experience.
"What's
the
difference
between
a
banjo
and
an
onion?"
I
tease
him.
"Nobody
cries
when
you
slice
up
a
banjo."
"How
many
banjo
players
does
it
take
to
change
a
light
bulb?"
he
returns.
"Just
one,
but
he
does
it
over
and
over
again
..."
[p. 106]
- By
now,
Billy
was
performing
virtuoso
banjo
solos
such
as
"Cripple
Creek"
or
"Down
the
Road",
and
humourous
introductions
("I'd
like
to
dedicate
this
to
nervous
flatulence:
it's
called
'Windy
and
Warm'
").
[...]
The
music
of
the
Humblebums
resonated
with
the
class-conscious
sensibilities
of
their
audiences.
"I'd
like
to
dedicate
this
song
to
everyone
who
ends
up
in
the
Dunfermline
Infirmary
after
visiting
the
local
police
station
there,"
Billy
would
proclaim,
referring
to
recent
cases
of
suspected
Police
brutality.
"They
usually
fall
down
the
stairs."
He
followed
that
with
his
parody
of
the
Crystals
hit
"And
then
He
Kissed
Me"
that
he
re-titled
"And
then
He
Kicked
Me".
[p. 112]
- When
Billy
first
met
Iris
Pressagh
in
1965,
he
thought
she
was
delightful,
very
beautiful
and,
moreover,
she
never
once
vomited
on
him.
[p. 112]
- Billy
had
always
thought
it
would
be
rather
nice
to
be
famous
and
maybe
rich
into
the
bargain,
but
above
all
he
just
wanted
to
be
windswept
and
interesting.
[p. 128]
- On
the
road,
Gerry
and
Billy
used
to
amuse
themselves
by
reading
newspaper
reports
of
unlikely
court
cases
to
each
other,
like
the
one
about
a
man
who
slaughtered
animals
in
an
abattoir.
In
his
passport
he
had
described
his
occupation
as
"killer";
still
he
could
not
understand
why
he
was
refused
entry
to
Spain.
[p. 129-130]
- It
is
7:15
p.m.
on
a
Thursday
night
in
January
2001.
I
am
over-stretched,
trying
to
write
a
patient
report,
prepare
a
lecture,
clean
up
the
dog
pee
and
check
on
a
child's
homework
before
Billy
and
I
leave
for
a
charity
event
in
Beverly
Hills.
We
are
due
there
at
eight.
Billy
pops
his
head
in
to
remind
me
that
I
have
just
fifteen
minutes
to
get
dressed
for
what
will
be
a
very
flashy,
public
event.
Twenty
minutes
later,
I
climb
into
the
car,
breathing
heavily.
I
am
now
wearing
an
outfit
that
seemed
like
a
good
idea
a
few
minutes
ago.
"Jesus,
Pamsy,"
he
exclaims,
you
look
like
you
glued
your
body
and
dived
into
the
wardrobe."
I
shoot
him
a
look,
which
causes
him
to
revise
his
comment.
"No,
I
mean,
you
look
great
..
er,
did
you
try
that
on
in
the
shop?"
[p. 136]
- Billy
absolutely
loves
babies.
He
refers
to
them
as
"talking
sausages"
and
has
quite
a
way
with
them
all.
If
you
ever
need
a
baby
to
fall
asleep,
Billy's
your
man.
Hes
has
a
special
technique
called
"Sleepy-Toes"
that
never
fails.
[p. 153]
- Billy
sits
up
and
zaps
the
alarm.
"I'm
going
back
to
my
natural
wake-up
call,"
he
announces.
"What's
that?"
I
wrench
myself
upright.
"Before
I
go
to
sleep,
I
tap
myself
on
the
forehead
with
my
index
finger,
once
for
every
hour
until
I
reach
the
time
I
want
to
wake."
"Has
it
ever
worked
for
you?"
I
ask
hesitantly.
"Nooo,"
he
hedges,
"but
then,
I'm
a
man
of
unusual
ability.
I
know
things
that
would
confound
medical
science.
[...]"
[p. 218]
- Sharks
are
omnipresent
around
Sydney
beaches.
[...]
Billy
came
back
for
lunch
one
day,
furious.
"People
are
so
inconsiderate,"
he
said,
"always
letting
off
their
bloody
car
alarms.
It
gets
everyone
in
such
a
panic.
Every
few
minutes,
hundreds
of
them
rush
out
of
the
water
to
see
if
it's
their
car
that's
being
broken
into."
I
didn't
have
the
heart
to
tell
him
it
was
the
shark
alarm
he
was
hearing.
[p. 220]
- "Wouldn't
it
be
good
it
we
all
had
ideas
as
good
as
Howard
Hughes?"
he
mused.
"Of
course
he
was
a
bit
of
a
space
cadet,
but
I
can't
find
fault
with
the
idea
of
being
transported
around
in
a
drugged
state."
Apparently,
Hughes
preferred
to
be
injected
with
a
sleeping
drug
in
his
bed
at
home
and
to
wake
up
in
his
country
of
destination
with
no
conscious
memory
of
the
flight.
"It's
a
brilliant
idea,"
Billy
decided.
"In
my
humble
opinion,
the
guy
was
years
ahead
of
his
time
...
but
then
..."
he
poked
at
his
wilted
lettuce,
"maybe
he
just
had
a
pathological
hatred
of
aeroplane
food."
[p. 220-221]
- Billy
loses
track
of
time
when
he's
on
stage.
On
several
occasions,
he
has
misread
his
watch
and
performed
an
hour
longer
than
usual.
On
one
famous
occasion,
he
performed
over
four
hours
at
the
Sydney
Opera
House
and
his
audience
ended
up
being
locked
out
of
the
car
park:
the
man
just
loves
performing.
[p. 223]
- [...]
he
discussed
the
curious
logic
and
use
of
language
he
always
hears
in
the
Irish
countryside
generally.
It
always
makes
him
roar.
"You're
the
spitting
image
of
yourself,"
someone
had
said
to
him
in
a
pub
near
Ballyconneely.
A
woman
wanting
bacon
in
another
village
was
berating
a
salesperson:
"What
kind
of
post
office
is
this,
with
no
rashers?"
[p. 232]
- 18
May.
Back
home
in
Bray.
[...]
I
feel
as
if
I
am
put-upon
by
everyone,
a
typical
after-tour
feeling.
A
cold
panic
as
one
realizes
that
there
is
no
room
service
on
the
telephone
dial,
no
tea
and
biscuits
at
the
lift
of
the
phone.
[...]
[p. 233]
- Billy
was
able
to
do
quite
subtle
comedy
in
that
situation,
including
a
set
piece
about
a
baby-monitors,
in
which
he
did
a
priceless
impersonation
of
a
sleeping
baby:
"Don't
buy
one
of
those
intercoms,"
he
advised
his
audience.
"Babies
pretend
to
be
dead.
They're
bastards
and
they
do
it
on
purpose."
[...]
"Well,
don't
worry.
I
read
that
sixty-eight
per
cent
of
all
British
men
masturbate
on
a
regular
basis.
How
do
they
know?
Does
it
show
up
on
the
Richter
Scale?
[...]"
[p. 234]
- Billy
still
wears
a
tea
cosy
on
his
head
whenever
he
gets
the
chance.
Our
family
motto
has
become:
"Never
trust
a
man
who,
when
left
alone
in
a
room
with
a
tea
cosy,
doesn't
try
it
on."
[p. 235]
- Billy
had
told
the
audience
that,
when
Scottish
people
take
their
clothes
off,
they're
blue
and
that
it
takes
a
whole
week
of
sunbathing
to
become
white.
[p. 240]
- In
the
past
Billy
had
made
fun
of
the
place
[California]:
"Any
town
that's
got
an
all-night,
drive-in
taxidermist
has
got
to
be
weird,"
he
would
say.
[p. 247]
- Arctic
spring
has
no
darkness
at
all,
so
Billy
had
to
remember
to
sleep.
At
first
he
would
wake
up
with
a
start
in
the
sunlit
night
thinking
a
bear
had
come,
because
the
iceberg
was
very
noisy.
Icebergs
are
freshwater
giants
floating
on
seawater
and,
as
they
are
raised
and
lowered
by
the
tide,
they
growl.
[...]
[...]
He
learned
that
Inuit
names
are
not
gender-specific.
When
a
child
is
born,
a
name
is
not
given
until
they
recognize
who
from
the
past
has
been
reincarnated.
Once
the
traits
of
a
particular
ancestor
are
perceived,
the
child
is
named
after
that
person,
whoever
it
is.
So
a
boy,
for
example,
might
be
given
his
grandmother's
name;
as
a
term
of
endearment
his
own
mother
might
call
him
"mum"
and
he
in
return
would
call
her
"daughter".
The
Inuit
visited
Billy
every
now
and
again
to
give
him
ice
from
the
iceberg
for
his
tea.
They
have
a
spiritual
connection
to
the
iceberg,
so
they
first
talked
to
it,
to
explain
what
Billy
was
up
to,
dwelling
in
its
vicinity.
They
believe
the
spirits
of
their
ancestors
come
to
see
them
every
year
in
the
icebergs
then
disappear
until
the
next
spring.
By
the
end
of
his
time,
Billy
could
see
little
groups
of
people
inside
the
iceberg,
groups
of
four
and
five
huddled
together,
all
with
their
hoods
up,
talking.
Billy
would
tease
his
daytime
visitors.
"Gosh,
your
ancestors
were
a
bit
noisy
last
night."
[p. 258-259]
- Orkney
is
a
magical
Viking
place
with
its
own
peculiar
atmosphere
that
intrigues
Billy.
That's
where
he
invented
the
bare-bum
dance.
He
did
it
because
he
didn't
know
what
to
do
with
the
standing
stones.
[...]
Billy
strongly
recommends
that
the
notice
boards
in
historical
sites
such
as
that
do
a
rethink.
Instead
of
guessing
the
purpose
of
the
stones,
he
would
prefer
something
more
frank:
"We
have
no
idea
what
this
is.
Try
to
leave
it
the
way
you
found
it."
His
own
solution
to
addressing
the
mystery
of
the
ancient
stones
was
to
resist
stating
the
obvious
and
simply
dance
around
them
naked,
like
an
old
Celt.
[p. 263]
- The
slapstick
behaviour
in
that
film
[The
Imposters]
was
not
confined
to
the
screen.
Allison
Janney
turned
up
one
day
with
a
fart
machine
made
from
a
tumbler
with
special
putty
inside;
when
she
rammed
her
fingers
in,
it
made
a
most
realistic
noise
of
breaking
wind.
Everyone
rushed
out
to
procure
more
of
these
and
there
were
many
more
on
the
set
the
following
day.
It
was
absolute
mayhem,
with
Steve
Buscemi
doing
the
splits
in
mid-air
to
a
loud
farting
noise.
Stanley
Tucci
encourage
improvised
inventiveness
so,
during
one
of
the
scenes,
Billy
sneaked
a
favourite
greeting
he'd
received
from
a
passing
drag
act
when
he
had
appeared
with
his
banjo
and
earrings
on
the
breakfast
show
Good
Morning
Massachusetts
in
the
early
seventies.
In
a
lovers'
tiff
scene
between
the
two
gay
characters
in
The
Imposters,
Oliver
had
to
slap
Billy
in
the
face.
"Savage
gypsy
lover!"
Billy
returned,
to
off-camera
howls,
followed
by:
"Don't
you
like
the
taut
roundness
that
exercise
brings
to
the
buttocks?"
[p. 268]
- Once
in
Aberdeen,
Billy
parked
his
car
across
the
street
from
the
cigar
shop
on
a
double-yellow
line
next
to
a
bank
treasury
truck.
As
soon
as
he
parked,
he
was
besieged
by
Aberdeen
supporters
en
route
to
the
local
game.
Billy
dutifully
sat
in
his
car
and
signed
autographs,
some
on
bank
notes,
which
were
passed
to
him
for
signing.
As
he
passed
them
back,
he
thought,
as
he
always
does
when
people
ask
him
to
sign
money:
"I
wonder
what
these
people
are
going
to
do
with
them?
Frame
them,
I
suppose."
[...]
Billy
returned
to
his
car,
relieved
he
hadn't
been
booked
for
waiting
on
a
double-yellow
line.
He
signed
a
few
more
autographs,
then
headed
south
for
the
motorway.
He
hadn't
even
reached
the
outskirts
of
Aberdeen
when
there
was
the
wailing
and
flashing
of
police
vehicle
behind
him
and
he
was
requested
through
a
loud-hailer
to
pull
into
the
next
side
street.
[...]
Billy
was
completely
mystified.
The
officer
sat
him
in
the
back
seat,
with
police
officers
beside
him,
and
got
on
the
radio
to
headquarters.
He
proceeded
to
speak
to
a
voice
at
the
other
end.
"Well,
Sir,
we
found
the
driver
of
the
red
Range
Rover
...
yes
we
apprehended
him
...
and,
believe
it
or
not,
it's
Billy
Connolly."
There
was
a
sharp
intake
of
breath
at
the
other
end
of
the
radio
and
then
a
pause.
Then
the
voice
said
quietly:
"The
Billy
Connolly?"
"Aye,
the
comedian."
"Put
him
on
...
Mr
Connolly,
were
you
parked
in
Market
Street
today?"
"I
don't
know.
I
was
parked
next
to
a
toy
shop
in
town
on
a
double-yellow
line
next
to
a
security
van
opposite
the
cigar
store."
"Yes,
that's
Market
Street."
"Then
I
was
parked
there."
Billy
was
puzzled.
He
thought
they'd
gone
to
incredible
lengths
to
apprehend
a
man
who'd
parked
on
a
double-yellow,
unless
someone
had
robbed
the
security
van
in
the
meantime.
"What
were
you
doing
there?"
"Buying
a
cigar."
"We
were
watching
you
on
CCTV
while
you
were
speaking
to
a
crowd
of
people."
"Oh
yes
-
I
was
signing
autographs.
Mostly
for
Aberdeen
supporters
on
their
way
to
the
game."
There
was
silence
for
a
minute
or
so.
Then:
"On
what
were
you
signing
these
autographs?"
"Money,
mostly,
fives,
tens,
twenties
...
and
some
little
bits
of
paper,
but
mostly
money."
He
could
hear
laughing
on
the
other
end.
The
policeman
in
the
car
was
nodding
sagely.
"What
exactly
is
going
on?"
Billy
was
getting
fed
up.
"Mr
Connolly,
we
were
watching
your
car,"
explained
the
voice,
"and
we
saw
a
great
deal
of
money
changing
hands.
We
couldn't
see
the
driver,
but
we
were
concerned
because
two
of
the
people
were
the
most
notorious
drug
dealers
in
Aberdeen."
"I
can
assure
you
I'm
clean,"
protested
Billy,
"and
have
been
for
a
long,
long
time.
You
can
search
my
car
if
you
like."
They
declined
to
do
so.
"I
would
appreciate
it
if
you
wouldn't
tell
anyone
about
this,"
the
voice
appealed
to
Billy
as
he
left
the
car.
"Are
you
kidding?"
Billy
snorted.
"I'm
a
comedian
for
God's
sake,
this
is
manna
from
heaven."
[p. 271-273]
- "Blonde
hair
is
a
delight
when
it's
on
a
blonde
woman
...
and
so
scary
when
it's
on
top
of
a
face
like
mine,"
he
added,
peering
at
his
reflection
in
the
hall
mirror.
"As
my
father
used
to
tell
me
in
the
sixties,
I
look
like
a
tramp
peering
out
of
a
hayloft."
[p. 279]
- Because
the
process
of
taking
bets,
or
making
a
book,
was
illegal,
the
system
of
identifying
betting
slips
was
important.
How
to
identify
the
winner
of
a
bet?
The
punter
couldn't
put
his
real
name
on
the
slip
for
fear
the
police
might
raid
the
premises,
find
the
slips
and
identify
the
gambler.
This
risk
was
avoided
by
a
system
of
nome
de
plumes.
Once
chose
the
name
was
better
kept
so
that
the
bookie's
clerk
didn't
get
confused.
There
was
often
surprising
ingenuity
in
the
choice
of
name.
[...]
One
disgraced
classicist
used
Thucydides
which
caused
pronunciation
problems
back
at
base.
The
accepted
explanation
was
that
Thucydides
was
Turkish
for
nancy
boy.
The
excitement
of
this
watching
for
"The
Law"
was
intense.
We
were
brought
up
to
hate
the
police
only
slightly
less
than
the
Billy
Boys
from
Salisbury
Road.
"Once
a
policeman,
never
a
man"
went
the
saying,
and
nobody
denied
it.
We
could
not
name
a
single
saint
who
had
been
a
policeman,
nor
did
they
have
a
patron
saint.
[p. 9]
- Even
at
the
age
of
eight
I
was
an
embarrassment
to
everyone
because
of
my
preoccupation
with
God.
"Do
you
realize
that
God
is
everywhere?"
I'd
ask,
echoing
Miss
Egan
from
school.
"Yes,
we
know
He's
everywhere,
we
know
the
catechism
too,
you
know."
"No,
I
mean
everywhere,"
I'd
insist,
ignoring
the
tone
of
voice
from
my
uncle
Bill,
who
didn't
seemed
to
be
impressed
by
God's
omnipresence.
"Yes,
God
is
all
over
the
place,
there
isn't
anywhere
that
God
is
not
in.
Or
up."
I
had
to
have
the
last
word
even
if
it
meant
hell.
"He's
even
up
the
leg
of
Mrs
Pierrepoint's
Drawers."
Auntie
Louie
would
look
at
me
warningly
and
I'd
take
the
hint
from
her
and
her
alone.
[p. 13]
- In
our
house
we
drank
tea
all
the
time.
The
kettle
was
on
all
day.
My
mother
was
a
thirty-cup-a-day
supper
and
we
easily
burned
the
arse
out
of
three
kettles
a
year.
Today
I
can
easily
drink
nine
cups
a
day
and
probably,
if
I
wasn't
married,
I
could
emulate
me
Mam
and
approach
the
magic
thirty
mark.
There
was
only
one
woman
in
the
street
who
could
out-drink
our
Mam
and
that
was
Mrs
Goodstone
who
had
a
son
with
a
club
foot.
On
a
bad
day
we'd
hear
that
Brenda,
that
was
her
name,
had
reached
thirty-three
cups.
This
news
would
be
received
in
tight-lipped
silence
and
me
Mam
would
lower
her
head.
Thirty-three
was
Mam's
ideal
number.
She
was
proud
to
be
in
the
thirty
group
as
that
was
the
age
of
Our
Blessed
Lord
when
he
did
His
first
miracle
at
the
marriage
feast
at
Canaan,
the
changing
of
the
water
into
wine.
[...]
Thirty-three
was
a
sacred
number
as
it
was
the
age
of
Our
Blessed
Lord
at
the
time
of
His
last
miracle,
the
sticking
back
of
the
ear
[See
Luke,
Chapter
22,
50-51].
It
was
said
that
a
woman
who
could
drink
thirty-three
cups
down
to
the
lees
would
receive
a
message
from
Pope
Pius
the
XII,
Eugene
Pacelli
that
was.
But
I
can't
be
certain
of
this
for
great
piss-the-beds
often
have
very
selective
memories.
[p. 13-14]
- During
the
1940s
every
boy
I
knew
read
the
comics.
[...]
In
the
Adventure,
there
was
one
character
who
puzzled
us.
He
was
called
Alf
Tupper,
the
Tough
of
the
Track.
Alf
was
very
working
class,
rough
of
speech
and
lived
in
an
abandoned
railway
carriage
and
only
ate
fish
and
chips.
He
was
just
like
us
except
that
he
was
a
brilliant
athlete.
The
stories
were
about
his
triumphs
over
drawling
fellows
with
double-barrelled
names
who
wore
Norfolk
jackets
and
said
"I
say,
you
chaps"
an
awful
lot.
He
was
our
first
anti-hero,
I
think,
bloody-minded
and
full
of
spirit,
with
no
desire
to
be
like
the
drawling
enemy.
These
stories
swamped
our
imaginations
and
reinforced
our
mistrust
of
girls
and
our
patronizing
attitudes
towards
foreigners.
[p. 20-22]
- When
I
was
about
nine
years
old
I
was
struck
with
abscesses
on
the
back
of
my
left
leg.
They
got
so
bad
that
I
had
to
stay
in
hospital
for
several
days.
The
pain
of
having
my
abscesses
squeezed
was
really
very
severe
and
it
upset
me
terribly.
The
nurses
chosen
for
this
ghastly
job
had
tremendous
thumbs.
I
think
that
most
nurses
in
those
days
had
powerful
thumbs
but
the
squeezers
were
very
special.
I
still
tremble
at
the
sight
of
highly
developed
female
thumbs.
The
squeezing
nurses
always
seemed
to
work
in
pairs.
One
would
hold
you
down
while
the
other
with
raised
thumbs
and
flickering
tongue
would
approach
and,
with
sacramental
precision,
would
complete
the
torture.
These
squeezing
sisters
always
seemed
to
be
red-headed
and
very
freckled.
And
when
they
had
squeezed
all
the
pus-filled
children
in
the
dressing
station
they
would
cruise
the
wards
to
back
up
other
nurses.
Especially
they
were
useful
to
their
ward
sisters
when
it
came
to
making
the
children
eat
up
their
food.
One
day
I
was
ordered
to
eat
up
my
cabbage.
Being
rather
undisciplined
and
mostly
used
to
jam
butties
and
sweet
tea
I
refused
to
obey
their
order.
At
my
refusal
to
eat
up
my
greens,
the
two
ward
sisters
glanced
at
each
other
and
clicked
their
fingers
and,
as
if
by
a
miracle,
two
thumbs
appeared
topped
by
freckles
and
red
hair.
I
was
pushed
back
against
my
pillow
by
the
finger
clickers
while
"Power
Thumbs"
slapped
a
wad
of
cabbage
across
my
mouth
and
tried
to
force
it
down
my
throat
with
her
magic
thumbs
which
were
a
bit
like
tyre
levers.
Struggling
to
resist
the
force
feeding
which
made
me
feel
sick,
I
began
in
my
fear
to
fart
like
a
buffalo.
The
finger
and
thumbs
trio
of
freckled
harpies
were
appalled
by
my
grossness,
involuntary
though
it
was.
"Stop
that
stink,"
they
screamed,
"stop
it."
But
I
couldn't
stop
it.
Like
a
lost
and
panic-stricken
tug
boat
in
a
thick
fog
I
farted
on
in
various
keys
of
terror.
Gasping
for
breath,
the
cabbage
squad
retired
and
conceded
defeat.
[p. 22-23]
- Keeping
clean
in
a
family
of
fourteen
wasn't
easy.
In
the
mornings
the
smell
of
Lifebuoy
soap
filled
the
house.
Actually
the
smell
of
soap
pervaded
the
whole
of
Liverpool
most
of
the
time.
At
school
the
smell
was
of
Derbac
soap,
the
instant
slayer
of
lice.
The
lice
were
hunted
by
a
special
squad
of
highly
trained
women
who
were
chosen
for
their
eagle
vision.
Sometimes
they
could
tell
you
had
live
when
you
were
thirty
yards
away.
Being
a
Lice
Lady
was
quite
a
good
job
in
those
days
as
so
many
of
us
were
lousy
a
good
deal
of
the
time.
It
was
a
very
common
sight
to
see
small
groups
of
children
standing
on
a
corner
with
jam
butties
in
one
hand
and
the
other
busily
scratching
away
at
the
tops
of
their
heads
like
miniature
Stan
Laurels.
[...]
At
school,
we
were
very
preoccupied
with
cleanliness
and
Godliness
and
leprosy
and
the
sufferings
of
waifs
and
strays
in
Africa,
while
our
Guardian
Angels
perched
on
our
shoulders
sneezing
away
in
the
clouds
of
dandruff
and
falling
lice.
[...]
Fr.
Nolan,
our
parish
priest,
was
forever
haranguing
us
about
saints
and
lepers.
[...]
His
favourite
leper
man
was
a
Fr.
Damian
who
simply
adored
lepers.
[...]
"Our
Lord
loves
a
leper,
because
He
made
them
lepers
in
His
mysterious
wisdom
and
not
only
does
he
love
a
leper.
He
loves
a
leper
lover."
[...]
We
scoured
the
streets
for
lepers
whenever
we
were
out
scavenging
for
salvage,
but
we
never
found
one,
not
even
among
the
supports
of
Everton
Football
Club.
But
when
leprosy
finally
arrived
in
our
house
in
the
form
of
scabies,
Fr.
Nolan
was
nowhere
to
be
seen.
[...]
There
was
no
Fr.
Damian
to
come
and
make
pots
of
tea
for
us
and
give
us
a
hug.
[p. 26-27]
- But
Peg
Leg
Jones!
Just
get
this.
He
was
a
great
farter,
a
farter
in
a
million.
And
this
is
important.
All
boys
given
the
chance
would
like
to
be
professional
farters
for
it
is
a
capacity
to
fart
that
gives
a
lad
his
first
true
sense
of
status.
Before
he
becomes
a
member
of
the
SAS
or
a
paramilitary
group
with
a
cause
that
lines
up
with
his
adult
psychosis,
he
must
first
start
as
a
farter.
I
suspect
that
there
are
no
exceptions.
[...]
There
were
some
who
could
fart
wetly
or
trump,
as
they
say;
others
could
pump
as
though
whistling
through
gooseshit.
And
these
few
variations
were
all
more
or
less
noxious.
But
Peg
Leg
Jones
could
produce
the
vilest
smells
that
ever
you
suffered.
And
his
product,
when
he
wished,
was
perfectly
silent.
It
was
in
a
register
higher
than
humans
could
catch.
Sometimes
a
dog
would
be
found
dead
near
a
crossing,
run
over
after
pausing
to
decode
Jones's
high-register
signal.
I
may
be
exaggerating
but,
when
Jones
let
rip,
it
seemed
that
the
green
and
cream
paint
on
the
walls
at
Saint
Swithin's
school
would
curdle
and
bubble
and
run
a
bit.
But
these
details
were
as
nothing
to
what
followed.
Our
teacher,
Miss
Mallory,
who
had
a
long
face,
rather
like
a
horse
that
has
been
baptised
and
can't
conceal
its
glee,
would
in
a
split
second
be
transformed.
Now
she
would
look
like
an
Orangeman's
horse,
all
tortured
and
filled
with
the
agony
of
a
true
heretic;
in
a
word,
she
would
resemble
a
horse
that
had
lost
its
faith.
And
there
are
few
sadder
sights
than
a
faithless
horse.
[p. 30-31]
- I
shall
never
forget
the
expression
on
my
father's
face
as
with
scalded
balls
he
tried
to
find
the
budgie
in
the
coal
scuttle.
[...]
[...]
In
his
solitary
confinement
at
home,
no
words,
looks
or
comfort,
he
turned
all
his
unwanted
affection
towards
a
budgie.
Unable
to
express
his
feelings
for
people,
he
was
able,
like
most
men,
to
sustain
a
very
complex
relationship
with
a
pet.
Lots
of
men
in
our
street
did
the
same.
[...]
On
a
Sunday,
at
two
o'clock
as
the
pubs
closed,
it
was
nothing
to
see
nine
men
and
their
dogs
in
Indian
file
and
all
drunk.
It
was
a
terribly
sad
sight
to
see
a
drunken
bulldog
trying
to
lead
his
plastered
owner
back
to
lunch.
[...]
[...]
During
lunch,
my
father
would
often
put
a
whole
roast
potato
in
his
mouth
and
then
blow
like
a
melancholy
grampus,
trying
to
cool
it.
This
was
an
appalling
sight,
especially
to
my
mother
who
had
once
worked
as
a
chambermaid
at
the
Exchange
Hotel
and
thought
she
knew
how
the
best
people
behaved
at
lunch.
Her
head
would
go
down
and
she
would
reach
for
the
carving
knife.
Knuckles
white,
she
would
struggle
to
control
herself.
[...]
After
he'd
finished
his
dinner
and
knowing
how
much
he'd
made
my
mother
suffer,
he
would
suddenly
feel
affectionate
and
get
the
budgie
out
of
its
cage.
What
a
bloody
palaver.
My
father
had
been
given
the
budgie
just
after
Christmas
following
Mam's
fatwa
and
had
called
it
Herod.
[...]
Anyway,
after
dinner
Herod
would
hop
from
his
cage
and
on
to
Dad's
finger,
then
on
to
his
shoulder
while
Dad,
carrying
his
great
mug
of
tea,
got
himself
comfortable
by
the
fire
[...]
So
that
the
picture
be
clear,
I
must
tell
you
that
Dad
liked
his
tea
strong,
very
strong,
and
no
sugar.
He
would
lean
forward
and
Herod,
with
all
the
agility
in
his
genes,
would
hop
from
shoulder
to
biceps,
to
forearm
and
wrist
and
then,
with
the
neatest
little
hop
you
ever
saw,
he'd
hop
on
to
the
rim
of
Dad's
mug
of
tea
and
sit
there
as
innocent
as
could
be.
[...]
And
while
Dad
supped
his
tea
noisily,
and
made
a
sound
like
pebbles
being
shovelled
into
a
zinc
wheelbarrow,
my
bother
John
parked
his
bike,
opened
the
front
door
and
--
how
could
he
just
let
it
go
like
that?
He
let
the
door
go,
and
bang!
It
went
off
like
the
one
o'clock
gun,
sending
a
column
of
air
down
the
narrow
passage
between
the
front
door
and
the
kitchen
where
Herod
was
performing
on
the
rim
of
me
Dad's
mug.
The
blast
was
too
violent
for
a
budgie
to
keep
his
feet
and
little
Herod
plunged
head
first
into
a
big
mug
of
very
strong
Lipton's
tea.
Father,
in
reflexive
terror,
threw
up
both
hands,
thus
allowing
the
scalding
Lipton's
to
fall
into
his
lap
and
souse
his
balls.
But
at
least
it
got
the
budgie
out
of
the
tea.
The
falling
mug
jerked
Herod
with
really
quite
a
lot
of
force
into
the
coal
scuttle,
which,
half
full
of
lack
and
nuts,
didn't
give
him
a
soft
landing.
All
this
happened
to
quickly.
From
"Who's
a
pretty
boy,
eh?"
to
the
flirting
of
Herod,
to
the
arrival
of
my
brother
and
the
blast
of
air
that
pitched
Dad's
love
into
scalding
tea
and
then
into
the
blackness
of
the
coal
scuttle
seemed
a
mere
fraction
of
a
second.
I
saw
it
all,
from
the
torture
of
Dad's
slurping
to
the
bird's
silly
carry-on,
to
the
catastrophe
itself.
And
I
saw
my
mother's
face
change
from
Deirdre
of
the
Sorrows
to
a
vision
of
bliss
as
the
hated
object
of
my
father's
affection
fell
to
its
doom.
Well,
not
to
its
doom
exactly,
but
it
never
spoke
again,
or
flirted
again,
and
certainly
it
never
danced
again.
It
seemed
to
lose
all
zest
for
life
and
not
long
after
it
seemed
to
volunteer
itself
to
an
easy-going
cat
we
had,
called
Innocent,
after
a
famous
Pope,
I
believe.
[p. 45-48]
- The
resident
priest,
Fr.
Jameson,
had
done
the
warm
up
and
retired
to
the
seat
reserved
for
him
at
the
left
of
the
sanctuary.
The
pulpit
was
empty
but
lit
interestingly
by
the
candles.
There
was
a
profound
silence.
Then,
as
if
from
the
other
side
of
the
universe,
we
heard
the
sound
of
dragging
feet
and
stertorous
breathing
(some
priests
were
fifty-a-day
men,
adultery
experts
favouring
Sweet
Afton,
a
popular
Irish
cigarette).
And
then
came
the
chink
of
rosary
beads.
These
noises
came
nearer
--
the
sound
of
terror
for
tonight
as
our
man
dragged
himself
up
the
steps
of
the
pulpit.
Two
claw-like
hands
appeared
over
the
edge
of
the
pulpit
and
a
terrifying
Old
Testament
figure
came
into
view.
This
was
our
appointment
with
fear
and
the
old
frightener
up
there
was
our
very
own
answer
to
Valentine
Dyall
[a
great
radio
actor
of
my
childhood]
the
Man
in
Black
with
a
cassock
on
and
a
huge
crucifix
tucked
into
his
belt.
He
glanced
down
at
us;
we
were
seized
with
awe
and
shrank
within
ourselves.
just
the
sight
of
him
reminded
us
of
how
unworthy
we
were.
His
gaze
swept
over
the
whole
congregation.
This
way
and
that
he
looked
about,
and
all
in
silence.
He
rocked
forward
a
little
and
then
drew
himself
up
to
his
full
height.
He
towered
over
us
like
Ivan
the
Terrible
and
drew
out
the
crucifix
from
his
belt.
Then
holding
it
before
him
as
if
to
bless
us,
he
raised
it
up
and,
with
the
sudden
strength
for
which
prophets
are
famed,
he
spun
round
towards
the
altar
and
from
his
great
height
he
hurled
the
crucifix
across
the
altar
rails!
It
landed
on
the
marble
floor
with
an
amazing
crash
and
slid
at
speed
about
ten
feet
before
crashing
into
the
credence
table,
rattling
the
cruets
and
nearly
severing
the
table's
legs.
We
were
appalled.
But
our
man
slowly
turned
back
to
us
and
hissed,
"And
that's
what
you
do
every
time
you
commit
a
sin
against
holy
purity."
He
then
rapidly
ran
through
the
party
line
on
chastity,
how
long
a
kiss
could
be
sustained
before
it
went
from
a
venial
sin
to
a
mortal
sin.
The
time
was
calculated
from
billiards,
and
the
interval
allowed
was
the
duration
of
a
canon
shot,
not
long
if
you
were
a
keen
kisser.
[p. 51-52]
- Once,
just
outside
the
kitchen
where
I
had
the
honour
of
washing
up
the
monastery
porridge
pot,
I
noticed
to
my
amazement
four
clogs,
which
equalled
two
monks,
and
five
rather
shiny
ankle-band
shoes
of
the
kind
that
my
grandmother
used
to
wear.
What
were
two
and
a
half
grandmas
doing
near
the
kitchen?
There
was
nobody
I
could
ask
and
it
remains
a
mystery
to
this
day.
[p. 63]
- [...]
I
carried
on
reading
from
some
daft
old
fool
called
Scaramelli.
It
was
a
tale
about
hermits
who
had
sacrificed
all
for
the
love
of
God
but
who
had
remained
attached
to
their
crabs
or
cats
or
lice,
I
forget
which,
and
so
that
after
fifty
years
of
mortification
they
had
still
finished
up
in
hell.
[p. 74]
- The
[army]
cooks
with
their
unassailable
power
despised
us
and
did
things
to
test
our
hunger.
[...]
Sausage
like
old
cartridge
cases
and
mashed
potato
the
colour
of
abandoned
plimsolls
could
not
deaden
our
lust
for
something
to
eat.
Once
a
man
next
to
me
found
the
handle
of
a
radiator
in
his
mashed
potato;
he
said
nothing,
merely
moving
it
to
the
side
of
his
plate
after
sucking
the
mashed
potato
off
it
first.
Nobody
else
said
anything
either.
If
the
truth
was
known
several
of
us
were
probably
jealous.
[p. 83-84]
- Once
as
I
stood
to
attention
by
my
bed
knowing
that
my
lay-out
was
not
all
that
good,
I
saw
the
CO
frown
and
then
glance
toward
the
duty
corporal.
The
corporal
made
a
little
gesture
as
if
he
was
scratching
the
side
of
his
head
which
he
changed
into
a
tapping
of
his
temple.
The
CO
spotted
the
reference
to
a
half-wit
and
his
frown
became
a
beaming
smile.
"Good
lay-out,
soldier,"
he
said,
and
went
on
with
the
inspection.
Afterwards
the
word
went
out
that
I
was
some
sort
of
hypnotist.
[p. 85]
- The
audition
took
place
in
a
beautiful
library.
There
were
about
five
elderly
ladies
sitting
behind
a
long
table
and
smiling;
it
was
a
frosty
day
and
there
was
a
distinct
nip
of
Karvol
in
the
air.
In
those
days
older
ladies
often
splashed
on
the
decongestants.
Two
of
the
ladies,
a
Miss
Scorer
and,
I
think,
a
Miss
Scott
were
also
sucking
Fisherman's
Friends;
and
with
the
radiators
going
at
full
blast
the
vapours
of
the
cinnamon
and
pine
oils
were
released
into
the
atmosphere
of
the
library
with
such
intensity
that
they
caught
at
my
throat
and
brought
tears
to
my
eyes
as
I
recited
"Dover
Beach".
By
the
time
I
reached
the
line
about
"The
long
melancholy
withdrawing
roar",
I
was
sobbing
for
lack
of
pure
oxygen.
The
five
ladies
were
deeply
moved
by
my
emotional
power
and
so
on
the
strength,
the
overpowering
strength,
of
Karvol
decongestant,
I
was
accepted
into
the
Rose
Bruford
College
of
Speech
and
Drama
[...]
[p. 100]
- Waiting
for
a
136
bus
from
Highgate
station
to
Muswell
Hill
Broadway
on
a
misty
evening
in
February
is
a
bit
like
lurking
outside
the
gates
of
purgatory.
I
stood
there
once;
at
the
bus
stop
I
mean,
one
nineteenth
of
a
grey-faced
crocodile
of
the
depressed,
all
anxious
to
get
away
from
each
other
and
find
comfort
in
their
homes.
The
feeling
in
the
queue
was
that
the
next
136
might
come
in
about
a
fortnight's
time.
Resignation
tinged
with
despair
was
in
the
air.
Nobody
spoke,
a
few
shuffled
and
one
man
caused
a
near-ecstasy
of
excitement
when
he
had
a
fit
of
coughing;
but
it
soon
passed
and
apathy
returned
as
we
all
took
root
again.
About
a
quarter
of
an
hour
passed,
during
which
time
several
of
the
rooted
queue
glanced
furtively
at
the
man
who'd
coughed,
as
if
in
the
desperate
hope
that
he
might
cough
again
and
thus
suggest
we
were
still
alive.
As
these
sly
glanced
darted
about
the
Trappist
line,
something
happened;
an
event
took
place.
This
event
changed
my
life.
The
fence
to
Highgate
Woods
lay
to
our
right
at
a
distance
of
about
six
feet.
It
was
a
beaten
fence,
a
fence
that
looked
as
if
it
was
made
up
of
former
queue
members
for
the
136
bus
who
had
waited
in
vain
and
finally
weathered
into
knot-holed
palings.
Through
a
hole
in
this
fence
came
an
angel
of
change
in
the
shape
of
a
mongrel
dog.
No
best
in
show
this
little
fellow,
oh
no.
He
might
have
got
his
coat
from
an
Oxfam
shop,
for
it
was
without
hint
of
lustre
and
had
a
whiff
of
other
long-dead
dogs.
He
gave
me
the
impression
of
having
once
belonged
to
a
taxidermist.
What
I
mean
is
that
there
was
something
off
about
him.
His
ears
didn't
seem
to
match
and
might
have
been
won
in
a
raffle
in,
say,
Kentish
Town.
They
seemed
unacquainted
with
each
other.
One
stood
up
quite
boldly
and
the
other
one
was
obviously
a
bit
shy.
But
in
his
eyes
there
glowed
the
life
force.
Greyish
brown
and
twinkling
bright,
speckled
and
flecked,
and
full
of
unquenchable
optimism.
A
bit
like
Sir
Ian
McKellen,
I
suppose.
Be
that
as
it
may,
he
wriggled
through
the
broken
palings
and
stopped
short
at
the
sight
of
us
undead
all
in
a
line.
But
he
wasn't
daunted.
He
trotted
down
one
side
of
the
queue
and
up
the
other,
wagging
his
tail
and
whimpering
quietly
to
himself
as
if
to
say:
"He
must
be
here
somewhere."
He
repeated
this
journey
around
the
queue
about
three
times,
stopping
here
and
there
sniffing
at
a
shoe
or
a
trouser
turn-up.
As
he
came
near
to
me
I
looked
down
at
him
and
smiled
beseechingly,
hoping
he
would
sniff
at
me
and
approve
of
my
bouquet.
But
he
didn't.
He
continued
his
quest
elsewhere
among
us.
About
four
zombies
along
from
me
stood
a
pale,
grey
man
with
a
tinge
of
blue
to
him.
He
could
have
passed
for
a
ghost
anywhere.
There
was
not
a
single
feature
in
him
that
leapt
at
you.
Born
to
be
in
the
Special
Branch
but
as
though
even
they
had
overlooked
him,
he
was
instantly
appalled
when
the
tail-wagging
mongrel
chose
him.
With
a
yelp
of
sudden
adoration
the
dog
looked
up
at
the
near-invisible
man
he
had
chosen,
this
revenant,
and
with
a
quite
goatish
leap
he
butted
spy
man
just
below
the
knee.
Then
he
raced
away
and
round
the
the
queue
and
back
to
grey
face
and
butted
him
again.
The
excitement
caused
the
queue
to
tremble
into
life
and
people
began
to
look
toward
the
chosen
one
in
curiosity.
I
was
drowning
in
jealousy.
Malice
rose
in
me
and
I
began
to
loathe
the
pale,
blue-grey
figure
who
had
been
preferred
to
me.
Again
the
dog
tore
around
the
slightly
trembling
queue
and
again
he
stopped
at
shadow
man,
rose
a
little
on
his
hind
legs
and
butted
him
below
the
knee.
Shadow
man
didn't
want
to
be
noticed.
He
shifted
slightly,
ignoring
the
giggles
of
delight
that
ran
among
us.
Giggles
of
delight.
We
had
been
brought
back
from
the
dead
by
a
mongrel
dog.
One
of
us
had
been
chosen
for
God
knows
what
mysterious
reason
and
it
wasn't
me.
Twice
more
the
ceremony
was
repeated
and
the
giggles
turned
to
laughter,
healthy
laughter;
a
girl
smiled
at
the
man
next
to
her.
Our
saviour
seemed
to
sense
our
rebirth
and
did
another
circuit.
As
he
arrived
at
the
feet
of
the
drab
bastard
he'd
selected,
a
huge
truck
roared
towards
our
bus
stop.
The
darling
dog
arched
his
back
and
attempted
his
knee-butting
act
of
homage.
The
grey
man
shifted
again
and
more
nimbly
than
you'd
have
thought
possible,
he
kicked
sideways
and
caught
our
life-giving
dog
on
the
side
of
his
mouth.
With
a
yelp
of
amazement
he
leapt
away
from
this
kick
and
back
into
the
road
right
in
the
path
of
the
great
truck
and
disappeared
between
the
wheels
of
an
Ernest
Roderick
Foden.
A
gasp
of
horror
burst
from
us
all
as
our
miracle
maker
disappeared
under
the
truck.
In
a
second
the
lorry
was
past
and
there,
looking
quite
amazed,
but
still
smiling,
was
our
God.
I
mean
our
Dog.
And
do
you
know
what?
He
rushed
with
delight
to
the
swivel-eyed
git
who'd
kicked
him,
and
arching
his
back
he
butted
him
affectionately
again
as
if
to
say:
"You
didn't
mean
that
did
you?"
And
he
circled
us
one
more
time
before
dashing
through
the
hole
in
the
fence
and
disappearing
back
into
Highgate
Woods
as
the
136
came
to
carry
us
all
away.
I
didn't
get
on
the
bus
with
the
others.
I
decided
to
walk
down
to
the
Broadway.
Some
of
my
meanness
evaporated
and
I
felt
at
one
with
that
dog.
"I
don't
care
who
kicks
me
in
the
lip,"
I
thought,
"I'll
go
on
and
do
what
is
necessary."
[p. 129-131]
- So
off
I
went
to
York
to
try
my
luck.
But
my
luck
was
out,
I
was
a
disaster.
That
was
what
the
other
actors
thought
but
the
audience
seemed
to
like
me
and
that's
the
main
thing
isn't
it?
They
particularly
liked
it
when
I
shook
my
head
and
disappeared
in
a
shower
of
talcum
powder.
So
you
can
guess
what
sort
of
a
performance
I
gave:
a
real
headshaker.
When
you
can't
act,
shake
the
talc.
Many
a
performance
has
been
saved
by
talc
or
a
slipping
toupee.
I
once
did
the
talc
and
wore
squeaky
shoes.
When
I
look
over
my
shoulder
into
my
past,
I
mostly
see
flops
or
even
disasters.
I
have
seen
plays
that
were
so
bad
I
would
have
paid
a
small
sum
to
be
in
them.
[...]
[p. 145]
- [..]
There
were
fight
scenes
to
be
prepared
and
bird-handling
scenes
too.
The
budget
was
big
enough
in
those
days
to
include
six
mighty
hawks
and
their
handlers.
[...]
The
hawk
would
rise
up
and
flutter
like
a
bloody
great
eagle,
all
the
while
shitting
over
me
as
if
he'd
been
on
curry
all
night.
[...]
The
play
was
pretty
well
received
and
I
got
a
few
laughs
during
the
fight
scenes
as
I
skidded
about
a
bit
in
hawk
shit.
Anyway
I
survived
it.
Joan
Plowright,
playing
a
wonderful
woman,
had
to
do
a
very
old-style
death
scene
surrounded
by
her
extended
family.
As
her
brother
Sir
Francis
Acton
I
had
to
lead
the
grieving
gang.
As
we
all
knelt
around
the
deathbed
muttering
the
paternoster,
we
began
to
vary
the
prayer
to
tease
Anthony
Hopkins.
For
some
reason
we
started
to
say
in
guttural
tones,
"Edward
Woodward,
Edward
Woodward
who
art
in
Heaven".
This
was
all
very
silly
but
it
amused
those
of
us
not
playing
very
big
parts
and
made
life
hard
for
Hopkins,
because
the
dying
Joan
Plowright
was
supposed
to
be
his
wife.
[...]
[p. 177-179]
- Michael
Wisher,
who
can
seriously
be
described
as
the
creator
of
the
character
Davros,
used
to
work
with
a
kilt
on
and
paper
bag
over
his
head
to
maintain
his
feel
for
the
part.
[Davros,
for
those
who
don't
remember,
wore
an
ugly
mask
(which
Michael
couldn't
see
through)
and
had
no
legs].
He
took
his
work
so
seriously
that
he
would
not
remove
the
bag
even
at
coffee
break.
To
see
coffee
and
biscuits
being
pushed
under
the
paper
bag,
followed
by
a
cigarette,
while
the
bag
continued
to
express
the
most
passionate
views
on
how
Davros
felt
about
things
was
just
bliss.
He
did
allow
us
to
make
a
hole
in
the
top
of
his
bag
so
that
the
smoke
could
escape.
[p. 205]
- Douglas
had
plenty
of
bottle
and
wasn't
at
all
anxious
that
the
Zygon
computers
looked
like
abandoned
pizzas.
[p. 207]
- During
the
shooting
of
"Planet
of
Evil"
[...]
There
was
a
scene
in
which
I
had
to
seize
some
poor
alien
and
threaten
to
kill
him
with
a
knife
in
order
to
persuade
his
comrades
to
reveal
their
leader
to
me.
It
was
a
very
ordinary
little
scene;
so
ordinary
that
I
hadn't
really
read
it
properly.
When
the
knife
was
offered
to
me
I
felt
suddenly
impatient
and
then
disgusted
with
the
idea
of
using
such
a
course
threat
in
our
lovely
programme.
The
line
I
was
to
say
ran,
"Take
me
to
your
leader
or
I'll
kill
him
with
this
knife".
Yes,
I
think
it
was
as
plonking
as
that.
So
I
refused
to
say
it.
We
had
very
little
time
left
on
our
final
day
of
filming
to
get
this
scene
in
the
can
and
my
refusal
caused
a
problem
for
David
Maloney,
the
director.
In
Philip's
absence
he
had
to
log
the
scene
I
was
causing
about
my
lines.
I
didn't
really
care.
David
and
I
were
very
friendly
colleagues
and
he
knew
I
was
not
just
being
difficult.
But,
without
the
producer
there,
who
could
take
responsibility
for
the
change?
Me,
of
course.
We
rolled
the
cameras
and,
as
written,
I
grabbed
some
pitiful
little
native
of
Zeta
Minor,
pulled
him
close,
and
said:
"Take
me
to
your
leader
or
I'll
kill
him
with
this
deadly
jelly
baby."
When
the
other
little
Zetas
agreed
to
comply,
I
bit
the
head
off
the
jelly
baby
(orange
was
my
favourite)
and
I
think
I
offered
the
rest
of
it
to
the
captured
Zeta.
[...]
When
at
last
the
episode
aired,
the
children
loved
the
scene
and
realized
that
I
was
bluffing
the
Zetas
who
wouldn't
know
a
jelly
baby
from
a
kangaroo.
It
made
just
as
much
or
as
little
sense
as
a
knife.
[...]
All
this
happened
in
October
1975.
A
few
weeks
ago,
in
a
bookshop
in
Manchester,
a
child
of
about
ten
offered
me
a
jelly
baby.
He
was
happy
when
I
laughed,
then
he
quoted
my
line,
and
it
was
my
turn
to
be
happy.
[p. 207-209]
- At
one
time
I
toyed
with
the
idea
of
suggesting
that
Doctor
Who
and
K9,
with
John
Leeson
in
vision,
should
take
over
the
Open
University.
I'd
seen
some
Open
University
stuff
and
thought
it
was
so
turgid
we
could
do
it
better.
It
even
flashed
through
my
mind
that
perhaps
we
could
take
over
the
whole
National
Education
program
in
Whitehall.
But
I
stayed
schtum
in
case
they
locked
me
up.
[p. 218]
- To
be
a
children's
hero
was
my
supreme
pleasure
and
pride.
"Don't
talk
to
strange
men,"
did
not
apply
to
me.
In
any
family
where
there
were
children
I
was
welcome.
In
the
park
I
could
buy
the
ice
cream
and
goodies
and
they
would
sit
by
me
on
the
park
bench
and
laugh,
and
when
an
anxious
mother
came
rushing
up
to
find
out
who
this
man
was
in
the
Burberry
coat
and
fright
wig,
as
they
thought
of
my
hair,
the
children
would
become
embarrassed
and
mutter,
"Go
away,
Mum,
it's
Doctor
Who."
[...]
I
always
sat
down
if
I
could
for
the
children
were
always
a
bit
alarmed
at
my
height.
Once,
walking
along
Westbourne
Grove
I
was
surrounded
by
a
group
of
ecstatic
children
and
for
ten
minutes
or
so
I
entertained
them
and
their
teacher.
As
they
went
off,
chortling
with
pleasure
and
waving
affectionately
to
me,
I
noticed
a
young
Greek
shopkeeper
watching
me.
As
I
turned
to
go
on
my
way
he
said,
"Everybody
knows
you,
Doctor,
and
I
was
thinking
as
I
watched
you
with
those
children,
who
knows
me?
Who
knows
Dimitri?
When
I
walk
down
the
street
nobody
knows
Dimitri,
no
children
hold
out
their
arms
to
me."
And
he
was
right
and
I
shall
never
forget
it.
Once
I
was
a
hero.
The
students
at
St
Andrew's
University
wanted
me
to
put
my
name
forward
as
Rector.
The
ultimate
expression
of
student
power
was
to
appoint
a
fiction
to
the
governing
body.
But
I
turned
them
down
when
I
discovered
that
I
was
not
the
first
choice.
By
universal
acclamation
Basil
Brush
was
announced
as
their
first
selection.
He
was
my
hero,
too.
[p. 224-225]
- Conan,
who
originally
came
from
Yorkshire,
was
so
poor
as
a
child
that
his
father
had
great
difficulty
affording
the
fare
for
the
little
family
holiday
to
London
he
liked
to
organize
every
year.
One
year
he
discovered
that
it
was
cheaper
to
catch
a
cargo
boat
from
Hull
and
sail
with
the
entire
family
to
Norway.
They
would
then
disembark
at
Oslo,
catch
another
boat
sailing
to
Tilbury,
London,
where
they
would
catch
a
tram
to
Camden
Town
and
have
a
few
days'
excitement
in
town.
They
say
that
it
is
still
cheaper
to
do
the
same
trip
nowadays.
[p. 236]
- At
London
airport
somebody
met
me
and,
true
enough,
the
ticket
was
first
class
and
I
was
reassured;
the
part
might
be
paltry
but
the
ticket
was
great,
and
that's
important
to
a
fellow
who
isn't
sure
of
himself.
People
may
say
it's
a
first-class
script,
but
what
I
want
to
know
is,
is
it
a
first-class
ticket?
I
always
read
the
ticket
before
the
script
and,
usually,
the
ticket
is
more
dramatic.
Sometimes
I
have
done
scripts
that
are
less
dramatic
than
ironing
a
shirt.
[p. 251]
- "Anyway,
where's
my
dinner?"
he
asked
the
stewardess
as
she
turned
away
from
serving
Hunt.
"You
said
you
didn't
want
any
dinner,
sir,"
she
said
quietly.
"I
didn't
hear
me
say
that,"
said
Joe.
And
the
rather
ominously
and
with
great
politeness
he
said:
"May
I
please
have
something
to
eat,
young
lady"
She
went
off
and
Joe
slumped
back
in
his
seat
and
wearily
lit
a
cigarette
and
mumbled
something
to
Hunt
who
seemed
very
cheery
and
was
eating
happily.
The
stewardess
appeared
with
a
portion
of
foie
gras
and
rather
frostily
offered
it
to
the
now
dozing
Joe.
He
looked
up
at
her
with
incomprehension,
saw
the
round
of
foie
gras
on
the
plate,
and
thinking
it
was
an
ashtray,
he
muttered,
"Why
thank
you,"
and
stubbed
out
his
cigarette
in
the
foie
gras.
I
shall
never
forget
the
look
on
that
girl's
face.
[...]
[p. 252-253]
- When
we
got
back
to
the
hotel
there
was
a
telephone
message
from
the
Crane
Kalman
Gallery
inviting
[Merula]
to
contribute
half
a
dozen
pictures
to
the
mixed
show
they
are
having
in
mid-February:
a
big
morale
booster.
We
ordered
Buck's
Fizz
to
celebrate.
It
had
the
look
and
scent
of
mimosa
in
Portugal
in
the
early
spring.
--
18
January
1995
- The
sky
is
cloudless,
the
wind
cold,
the
crocuses
have
flopped
over
and
the
future
of
the
daffodils
looks
doubtful.
The
ground
is
so
wet
that
every
step
is
a
squelch.
Moss
appears
to
be
replacing
grass
but
there
is
a
definite
feel
of
spring
in
the
air;
which
brings
to
mind
an
old
song
of
Douggie
Byng's.
--
21
Feb
1995
- "What
do
you
want
to
be
when
you
grow
up,
Billy?"
"I
hope
to
be
an
actor."
"But,
Billy,
actors
don't
grow
up.
And
you,
Lancelot?"
"A
drama
critic."
"Really?
That's
unusual.
I
hope
you
won't
find
it
a
bore
after
a
year
or
two.
And
you,
Penelope,
if
you
ever
grow
up?"
"I'm
going
to
be
a
director,
a
director,
a
director."
"You
always
were
a
chatterbox,
Penelope.
Not
one
of
you
has
said
you
want
to
be
a
playwright.
How
sad.
All
of
you
wish
to
put
the
cart
before
the
horse."
--
26
February
1995
- Yesterday
evening
we
watched
Miriam
Rothschild
on
BBC
2's
"Seven
Wonders
of
the
World"
series
and
thought
she
was
terrific
-
entertaining,
vital
and
astonishing.
But
the
programme
was
all
too
short
-
half
an
hour.
I
want
it
repeated,
enlarged
and
for
her
to
give
hours
more
of
her
knowledge
and
wisdom.
I
want
to
know
more
(or
at
least
I
think
I
do)
about
the
microscopic
pond
creature
that
can
disappear
up
its
own
fundament;
about
the
remarkable
hopping
of
fleas;
and
about
carotenoids,
colour,
light
and
sight.
[...]
--
23
March
1995
- [...]
Not
much
hype
in
1957
when
The
Bridge
on
the
River
Kwai
brought
me
an
Oscar
but
the
let-down
was
there
sure
enough.
It
was
the
Daily
Express,
I
think,
which
carried
a
banner
headline
which
read,
"Deborah
Kerr
fails
for
the
third
time".
A
very
English
assessment.
She
hadn't
failed
in
any
real
sense
(she
had
several
beautiful
performances
to
her
credit)
-
she
just
hadn't
been
handed
a
trophy.
A
race
or
fight
or
game
can
be
won
but
to
call
something
"the
best"
in
the
arts
is
absurd.
I
wouldn't
mind
betting
Dickens
would
fail
to
win
the
Booker
Prize
(too
readable
and
too
funny)
and
Turner
the
Turner
Prize
and
poor
Keats
wouldn't
even
be
considered
for
any
poetry
prize.
And
so
on.
I
suggest
that
givers
of
awards
to
actors,
writers
and
artists
should
choose
half
a
dozen,
almost
at
random,
and
say,
"These
are
people
we
wish
to
honour
-
equally".
Geoffrey
Madan,
in
his
Notebooks,
quotes
a
Canon
Liddon
as
follows:
"The
applause
of
all
but
very
good
men
is
no
more
than
the
precise
measure
of
their
possible
hostility".
--
28
March
1995
- On
Friday
I
was
offered
another
voice-over;
this
time
for
the
Euro
Tunnel.
It
so
happens
that
two
weeks
ago
I
booked
three
first-class
tickets
to
Paris
for
2
May.
I
was
told
that
our
Senior
Citizen
rail
cards
would
knock
£90
off
each
ticket.
Lovely.
But
not
so,
it
appears.
This
Friday
I
was
informed
that
the
train
had
its
full
quota
of
Senior
Citizens
for
the
day
I
am
travelling.
This
is
the
first
I've
heard
of
such
a
quota.
Will
it
soon
apply
to
our
Inter-City
routes?
I'm
not
doing
the
voice-over:
though
I
would
do
so
happily
if
they
would
allow
me
to
warn
other
elderly
travellers
of
this
let-down.
--
1
April
1995
Much
of
the
day
I
have
busied
myself
making
notes
on
the
small
parts
in
Shakespeare,
often
nameless,
which
are
rewarding
to
the
actor
if
only
he'll
not
dismiss
them
as
beneath
his
dignity.
If
I
can
work
it
up
into
a
talk
I
might
call
it,
"Only
a
cough
and
a
spit"
-
the
phrase
so
often
used
by
actors
to
explain
away
a
lack
of
opportunity.
--
27
May
1995
- Last
night
watched
TV
programme
(put
together
by
Terry
Pratchett)
on
orang-utans
in
Borneo.
It
contained
a
remarkable
few
minutes
of
a
huge
male
orang-utan,
which
had
a
face
like
a
flat
oriental
mask,
walking
-
red
hair
rippling
-
with
a
deliberate,
undulating,
unstoppable
movement
toward
the
camera.
The
it
sat
down
and
contemplated
us.
I
shouldn't
have
used
the
words
"which"
or
"it",
but
"who"
and
"he".
He
was
a
God
of
the
Rain
Forest
with
a
mesmeric
personality.
It
was
the
most
impressive
thing
I've
seen
on
the
box
this
year;
always
excepting
Miriam
Rothschild's
half-hour
in
March.
Must
have
my
eyes
tested.
Today
I
found
myself
making
enticing
cooing
sounds
to
what
I
took
to
be
a
rather
pale
pigeon
on
the
lawn
outside
my
study.
It
turned
out
to
be
a
knuckle-bone
left
by
one
of
the
dogs.
--
13
June
1995
- A
vast
balloon
hummed
its
way
towards
the
house
as
we
were
finishing
dinner.
It
looked
as
if
it
were
going
to
land
in
an
adjacent
field.
The
dogs
went
wild
with
excitement,
leaping
in
the
air
as
if
to
take
a
bite
out
of
it,
but
the
balloon
slowly
rose
over
a
hedge,
fancy
free,
and
disappeared
from
sight.
Dido,
out
border
terrier,
returned
to
us
with
triumph
written
all
over
her,
well
satisfied
that
she
had
seen
off
a
giant
and
seeking
our
grateful
praise.
And
a
biscuit.
--
28
July
1995
- Finished
Trollope's
The
American
Senator.
The
opening
chapters
are
a
bit
wearily
confusing
but
one
he
has
got
thoroughly
underway
it
is
enthralling.
Arabella
Trefoil
is
a
great
creation
and
for
sheer
awfulness
matches
Sylvia
Tietjens
in
Ford
Maddox
Ford's
Parade's
End.
I've
come
across
her
several
times,
in
various
disguises
but
always
recognizable,
in
London,
Paris,
Cairo
and
New
York
-
but
she
lives
mostly
in
Sussex.
--
4
September
1995
- A
smiling,
pleasant
chap,
probably
in
his
thirties,
accosted
me
near
the
station
with,
"Could
I
have
your
autograph?"
He
proffered
paper
and
biro.
I
was
graciousness
itself
and
wrote,
"Good
wishes"
followed
by
my
name.
"Thanks
ever
so,"
he
said.
"My
granny
will
be
thrilled."
--
18
September
1995
- Back
at
the
hotel
I
tried
to
get
out
of
a
lift
as
Eric
Ambler
was
trying
to
get
in.
We
had
exactly
the
same
encounter
about
three
weeks
ago.
What
is
Providence
trying
to
tell
us?
We
nattered
together
for
five
minutes,
verbally
comparing
failing
eyesight
and
creaking
limbs,
sharing
resentment
-
or
maybe
envy
-
at
mutual
friends
who
have
boldly
gone
ahead.
[...]
--
5
October
1995
- In
early
evening
to
a
friend's
flat
where
I
made
my
long
overdue
confession
to
a
holy
and
illuminating
priest.
It
was
a
memorable
experience
which
gently
sponged
away
all
my
recent
irascibility,
anxieties
and
spiritual
turmoil.
Perhaps
kneeling
at
a
dining-room
table
is
more
relaxing
than
the
upright
coffin
of
an
elaborately
carved
confessional.
It
would
be
good
to
think
that
from
now
on
I
shall
spread
only
sweetness,
light
and
understanding,
but
I
fear
I
know
myself
too
well.
The
bad
habits
of
a
lifetime,
when
tackled
head
on,
seem
only
to
bend,
not
break.
--
22
November
1995
- [...]
The
dear
people
(the
McCutcheons)
who
run
the
Harrow
Inn,
a
few
hundred
yards
up
from
us,
sent
up
a
vast,
excellent
steak
and
kidney
pie.
[Merula]
never
makes
pastry
so
I
hadn't
seen
one
of
those
porcelain
chimneys
poking
through
the
crust
for
many
years.
It
looked
to
me
remarkably
like
the
chimneys
you
see
sticking
out
of
the
half-buried
troglodyte
houses
in
Murcia,
in
southern
Spain.
--
11
December
1995
- Today
I
have
felt
querulous.
Behaviour
has
been
spiky;
largely
due,
I
think,
to
our
affable
postman
dutifully
pushing
piles
of
junk
mail
through
the
letter-box
daily.
It
gets
worse
near
Christmas.
The
rubbish,
the
charity
appeals
(often
in
duplicate)
and,
worst
of
all,
the
photographs
from
Star
Wars
demanding
autographs.
They
mostly
come
from
America
and
as
often
as
not
enclose
a
stamped
address
envelope
-
the
stamps,
being
US
stamps,
are
useless
here.
The
English
usually
make
their
demand
without
photograph,
envelope,
stamp
or
money.
The
nation
has
got
acclimatized
to
asking
something
for
nothing.
Bills
in
the
post
are
welcome
by
comparison.
It's
mean
and
hard
of
me
but
from
1
January
1996
I
am
resolved
to
throw
it
all
in
the
waste
bin
unopened
(bills
excepted,
of
course);
I
no
longer
have
the
energy
to
assist
teenagers
in
their
idiotic,
albeit
lucrative,
hobby.
--
16
December
1995
- [...]
a
Super
Color
Pen
[...]
which
advertises
that
it
contains
no
xylene.
What
on
earth
is
xylene?
It
could
be
a
useful
Scrabble
word.
--
18
December
1995
- [...]
The
past
eight
weeks
have
been
a
strain,
so
I
decided
to
comfort
myself
with
a
Christmas
present
and
went
to
Mr
Blumlein's
excellent
CD
shop
in
Petersfield,
where
I
treated
myself
to
some
Mozart,
Shostakovich,
Nielsen,
Saint-Saëns
and
Medtner.
The
last
was
a
mistake
-
he
goes
on
too
long,
like
an
after-dinner
speaking
with
a
few
good
anecdotes
but
who
doesn't
know
when
to
stop.
--
20
December
1995
- A
pleasing
letter
this
morning
from
Miriam
Rothschild
saying
that
if
we
encounter
each
other
this
year
(which
I
very
much
hope
we
may)
she
will
tell
me
a
romantic
story
about
worms.
Also
she
will
bring
me
up
to
date
on
the
minute
creature
that
lives
under
the
eyelids
of
the
hippopotamus
and
feeds
on
its
tears.
Can't
wait.
[...]
--
3
January
1996
- Epiphany
and
Twelfth
Night.
This
used
to
be
a
great
party-giving
night,
particularly
in
some
theatre
circles.
Perhaps
it
still
is.
Down
here
there
are
only
Merula,
Alan
B
and
me
to
celebrate
by
doing
nothing.
The
best
12th
Nt
parties
I
ever
attended
were
given
by
Richard
Leech
and
his
family
-
a
fairly
violent
but
joyful
playing
of
indoor
games.
One
of
the
silliest
and
most
intimate
of
games
was
the
race
between
two
teams
passing
an
orange,
held
under
the
chin,
from
one
chin
to
the
next.
In
those
days
I
had
a
sort
of
part-time
secretary,
a
jolly
lady
who
undoubtably
had
more
than
one
chin.
I
fear
she
was
a
liability
to
whichever
team
had
the
good
nature
and
misfortune
to
choose
her.
--
6
January
1996
- "The
bawdy
hand
of
the
dial
is
now
upon
the
prick
of
noon"
-
but
no
sign
of
our
expected
but
unknown
guest,
who
is
half
an
hour
late.
It
is
hoped
that
he
may
arrange
a
small
exhibition
of
Merula's
paintings
and/or
wool
pictures.
He
is
probably
lost
in
the
narrow
roads
under
the
Hangers;
unless
he
is
taking
a
short
rest,
as
is
now
obligatory
by
a
Brussels
ruling
for
shellfish
travelling
more
than
thirty-five
miles.
[...]
--
29
January
1996
- Last
night
we
watched,
aghast,
a
TV
programme
about
American
mothers
training
their
tiny-tot
little
girls
in
the
arts
of
seduction
for
a
glitzy
appearance
at
the
Southern
Charm
Pageant
in
Atlanta,
Georgia.
As
rabid
"stage
mothers"
they
made
our
own
appalling
breed
of
ambitious
mums
seem
only
partially
insane.
I
think
the
five-year-old
winner,
crowned
in
a
tinselly
way,
was
hailed
as
"Queen
of
Queens".
I
dread
to
think
of
her
future.
--
1
February
1996
- I
seems
an
impertinence,
when
pushing
eighty-two,
to
deliberately
associate
with
people
a
lot
younger
than
oneself,
feeling
that
possibly
one
might
interest
or
entertain
them.
Of
course
it
isn't
quite
that:
secretly
one
hopes
and
longs
to
draw
on
the
vitality
and
brightness
of
the
young,
and
above
all
to
be
able
to
join
in
their
laughter.
How
is
one
to
grasp
the
all-pervasiveness
of
time?
Somewhere
Einstein
wrote,
"The
distinction
between
past,
present
and
future
is
only
an
illusion,
however
persistent."
Any
comment
from
me
would
be
a
gem
for
Pseuds'
Corner
[a
column
in
Private
Eye
magazine
quoting
examples
of
pretentious
nonsense].
But
how
does
Einstein's
statement
compare
with
St
Augustine,
who
quoted,
with
admiration,
an
old
man
he
knew?
-
"Time
comes
from
the
future,
which
does
not
yet
exist,
into
the
present,
which
has
no
duration,
and
goes
on
into
the
past,
which
has
ceased
to
exist."
--
5
February
1996
- I
had
long
letter
this
morning
from
the
painter
Keith
Grant,
who
has
just
returned
from
one
of
his
regular
visits
to
Norway.
When
we
first
me,
early
last
year,
I
told
him
I
longed
to
see
again
Aurora
Borealis.
His
description
of
what
he
saw
this
winter
in
the
Artic
Circle
is
so
good
I
hope
he
will
allow
me
to
quote
it
in
full.
Here
it
is:
The
most
dramatic
display
was
on
Christmas
Eve.
I
was
driving
between
two
small
towns
about
half
an
hour
apart.
Suddenly
the
sky
to
the
east
began
to
glow,
a
huge
fan
of
green
bluish
light
rose
almost
to
zenith
with
mysterious
dark
patches
of
strange
and
irregular
shapes
within
it.
These
were
clouds
in
silhouette.
The
fan
of
light
broke
up
into
vertical
shafts
of
light
extending
upwards
from
the
horizon
great
height.
The
began
to
ripple
and
change
position
and
then
separated
into
so
many
hanging
curtains
receding
and
diminishing
in
size
to
give
the
most
awesome
perspective
expression
of
deep
space.
From
this
area
in
the
east
the
whole
heavens
became
a
vast
dome
of
hanging
silken
banners
and
flags.
The
movement
of
the
ribbons
of
light
was
unnerving.
It
was
as
if
some
conscious
agency
was
causing
the
waves
and
ripples
of
lights,
constantly
shifting
position
so
the
no
effect
could
be
memorized,
since
it
was
eclipsed
by
a
more
and
more
stunning
pageantry.A
great
loop
of
light
appeared
and
then
seemed
to
descend
towards
me,
only
to
rise
and
shrink
with
such
rapidity
I
wondered
if
I
had
seen
or
imagined
it.
Suddenly
it
was
over,
a
few
fitful
flashes
here
and
there,
and
then
the
darkness
and
intense
cold
through
which
the
stars
(which
I
could
see
through
the
aurora),
now
no
longer
in
competition
with
the
northern
lights,
shone
in
diamond-like
brilliance.
A
Norwegian
girl
said
to
me
that
when
one
sees
the
Aurora
like
this
-
"It
is
like
nature's
benediction".
Wonderful,
wonderful.
I
have
seen
so
many
displays
recently
that
I
am
satisfied.
--
10
February
1996
- No
one
can
feel
much
like
singing
today,
except,
perhaps,
some
Irish
terrorists
and
their
subterranean
supporters.
There
is
a
melancholy
feel
in
the
air,
a
weary
"I
have
been
here
before"
attitude;
the
hopes
of
the
past
eighteen
months
irreparably
dented,
I
fear.
I
remember
an
English
priest
saying
to
me,
years
ago,
"I
am
sick
of
Irishmen
coming
to
the
confessional
with
the
works
of
St
John
of
the
Cross
in
one
pocket
and
a
gun
in
the
other."
And
now
to
Mass.
There
will
be
prayers
for
peace
and
justice
as
always.
It's
the
interpretation
of
justice
the
causes
the
greatest
difficulty.
--
11
February
1996
- [...]
That
was
in
1961,
when
I
was
making
a
film
called
A
Majority
of
One.
(I
don't
think
I
ever
saw
more
than
about
ten
minutes
of
it.
It
was
Penelope
Gilliatt,
I
think,
who
described
my
make-up
as
a
Japanese
business
gent
as
me
with
ravioli
stuck
on
my
eyelids.
That
was
about
the
only
thing
about
the
whole
enterprise
that
made
me
laugh.)
--
14
February
1996
- A
query
from
my
agent
this
morning
wanting
to
know
if
I
would
be
interested
in
playing
Firs
in
a
film
of
[Checkhov's
play]
The
Cherry
Orchard
in
Germany
[...]
The
best
Firs
I
have
seen
was
the
Russian
actor
Alexi
Gribov
who
was
in
the
Moscow
Arts
Company
when
it
came
to
London
in
the
early
fifties.
He
was
a
great
actor,
played
three
parts
here
and
made
a
critical
success
in
all
of
them.
When
interviewed
by
the
press
he
gave
a
classic
reply
to
the
perennial
question,
"Which
is
your
favourite
of
all
the
parts
you
play?"
Gribov
replied,
sotto
voce,
"I
can't
tell
you
that
because,
you
see,
it
would
make
the
other
parts
jealous."
A
very
true
observation.
--
1
March
1996
- [...]
In
[Dame
Muriel
Spark's]
tribute
to
Graham
[Greene]
she
spoke
of
the
financial
help
he
gave
her
when
she
was
a
struggling
writer.
She
said,
"It
was
typical
of
Graham
that
with
the
monthly
cheques
he
often
sent
a
few
bottles
of
red
wine
to
'take
the
edge
off
cold
charity'."
It
says
something
very
pleasing
about
both
of
them.
--
2
March
1996
- Got
my
hearing-aids
[...]
They
have
minute
antennae,
or
so
I
supposed
them
to
be,
as
if
belonging
to
dwarf
Martians,
but
they
are
really
little
lavatory
chains
to
pull
the
things
out.
[...]
--
4
March
1996
- When
I
got
home
I
had
a
short
rest
and
then
inserted
the
hearing-aids
[...]
and
put
on
a
CD
of
Mozart
violin
sonatas.
I
had
no
idea
Mozart
could
be
so
shrill.
It
wasn't
uncomfortable
or
unpleasant,
just
surprising.
Water
from
taps
in
a
hand-basin
had
something
in
common
with
Niagara,
tearing
a
piece
of
paper
suggested
being
struck
by
lightning
and
the
sound
of
my
feet
walking
across
the
wooden
floor
in
our
living-room
was
as
brash
and
insistent
as
flamenco
dancing.
What
a
lot
I
have
been
missing
during
the
past
two
or
three
years.
It's
all
quite
refreshing.
I
am
pretty
sure
sound
isn't
actually
like
what
I
now
hear,
but
what
I
hear
is
amusingly
new
and
I
think
I
can
live
with
it.
--
6
March
1996
- Merula's
sister
Chattie
came
for
the
day
and
night
and
an
old
actor/painter
friend
of
theirs,
Ole
Pooley
arrived
for
lunch,
so
conversation
was
more
or
less
confined
to
reminiscences.
Ole
is
a
week
or
two
older
than
me,
lives
in
LA,
still
plays
vigorous
tennis,
swims
a
lot,
walks
a
lot
and
obviously
has
all
his
marbles.
I
felt
a
bit
put
out.
--
24
March
1996
- The
[Pope's
Easter]
Mass
was
to
start
at
10:30.
[...]
We
were
courteously
shown
to
our
red
plush
chairs
in
the
front
row,
surrounded
by
ambassadors
with
their
wives
in
black
lace
mantillas.
As
we
turned
up
our
raincoat
collars
against
the
bitter
wind
and
settled
down
the
heavens
opened.
[...]
we
were
soaked
to
the
skin
and
our
teeth
were
chattering
[...]
And
then
His
Holiness
appeared.
We
all
stood
and
tried,
in
the
Italian
fashion,
to
clap
our
wet
hands.
He
walked
slowly
and
steadily
to
the
altar
under
its
vast
canopy.
At
the
appropriate
moment
we
sat
again
on
our
red
plush
chairs.
The
sensation
was
that
of
sitting
in
a
chilled,
sodden
summer
pudding.
--
8
April
1996
- [...]
All
the
time
I
have
worked
in
films
I
have
been
painstakingly
good
at
'hitting
my
marks'
on
the
studio
floor
in
an
effort
to
satisfy
directors
and
technicians,
and
I
have
also
made
an
effort,
when
repeating
a
scene,
to
make
it
an
exact
replica
of
the
previous
'take'.
Jeanne
[Moreau]
demonstrated
that
such
exactitude
was
deadening.
Watching
her
filming
I
knew
she
was
right;
every
'take'
was
slightly
different
and
every
one
was
spontaneous
and
fresh.
If
I
had
been
freed
of
my
self-imposed
strait-jacket
three
decades
ago
I
might
-
who
knows?
-
I
might
have
taken
off
and
been
a
sort
of
star;
I
saw
a
few
actors
cease
to
be
real
people
when
they
succeeded
and
some
of
those
who
failed
became
ingrained
with
bitterness.
And
some
of
the
good
ones
who
made
it
to
the
top
didn't
know
how
to
cope
with
their
success
and
reached
for
the
bottle.
Updike's
In
the
Beauty
of
the
Lilies
gives
a
full-length,
devastating
portrait
of
a
Hollywoodized
human
being.
No
thank
you.
--
15
April
1996
- [...]
a
passage
I
read
yesterday
in
Admiral
Lord
Cochrane's
autobiography,
written
in
1859.
Cochrane,
as
a
midshipman,
served
during
the
Napoleonic
wars
in
a
frigate
in
Norwegian
waters.
They
had
on
board
a
parrot
which
nearly
drove
the
first
lieutenant
mad,
as
it
imitated
exactly
the
bosun's
whistle
and
was
endlessly
piping
out
contradictory
orders,
which
were
immediately
obeyed
by
the
men.
On
one
occasion,
in
return
for
hospitality
ashore,
the
officers
invited
a
party
of
Norwegian
townspeople
aboard.
A
'chair'
was
rigged
to
hoist
them
up
the
ship's
side.
A
lady
was
in
mid-air
when
the
parrot
piped
"Let
her
go!",
which
the
sailors
did
and
the
poor
woman
had
to
be
saved
from
drowning.
--
16
April
1996
- [Shakespeare,
in
Henry
V,
has
a
brief
phrase,
"Old
men
forget".]
It
is
horribly
true,
as
every
old
person
knows,
but
what
would
be
even
more
disturbing
would
be
"Old
men
remember!",
for
once
they
started
remembering
how
the
hell
do
you
put
a
stop
to
them?
And
by
"them"
I
mean
me.
--
25
April
1996
- One
of
the
depressing
things
about
arriving
in
a
fifth-rate
hotel
is
the
knowledge
that
you
are
going
to
find
bent
wire
coat-hangers
jangling
in
a
rickety
wardrobe.
The
hangers
will
barely
have
the
strength
to
support
a
shirt,
let
alone
a
suit.
A
far
cry
from
that
to
the
way-up-market
De
Vere
Grand
Hotel
at
Eastbourne
where
decently
shaped
wooden
coat-hangers
are
plentifully
supplied,
but
they
are
of
the
kind
which
have
a
solid
nail
through
the
top
instead
of
a
hook.
You
go
fishing
in
the
air
for
minutes,
holding
up
the
weight
of
your
clothes,
while
trying
to
make
a
satisfactory
connection
with
the
little
metal
contraption
which
should
take
the
head
of
the
nail.
I
suppose,
from
the
hotel's
point
of
view,
this
discourages
petty
thieving.
I
would
rather
do
without
all
the
posh
little
knick-knacks
on
offer
in
the
glossy
bathrooms
and
see
the
money
saved
do
on
old-fashioned
coat-hangers.
[...]
My
eye
fell
on
a
couple
of
bowls
of
what
I
took
to
be
cocktail
nibbles
and
I
proffered
these
around.
They
turned
out
to
be
bowls
of
pot-pourri.
--
28
April
1996
- Stacking
away
some
old
newspapers
for
recycling,
my
eye
fell
on
something
which
I
instantly
recognized
-
my
own
name.
It
occurred
in
a
review
of
an
American
book
about
the
paranormal.
It
simply
said,
"Alec
Guinness
possesses
second
sight."
News
to
me.
--
16
May
1996
- Dido
saw
off
a
pretty
fox
cub
but
didn't
pursue.
She
is
now
curled
up
in
front
of
the
fire,
looking
like
an
ammonite.
--
17
May
1996
- I
have
only
seen
The
Master
Builder
once,
when
Ralph
[Richardson],
Peggy
[Ashcroft]
and
Wendy
Hiller
did
it
at
the
National.
Larry
Olivier
and
I
went
together.
[...]
At
the
end
of
the
performance
Larry
and
I
went
backstage.
When
we
were
leaving
his
dressing
room,
Ralph
suggested
his
dresser
should
show
us
the
way
out.
Larry
declined,
saying,
"You
forget,
old
thing,
that
I
was
responsible
for
this
theatre.
I
know
every
brick
in
it."
He
beckoned
me
and
away
we
went.
Some
twenty
minutes
later
we
found
ourselves
in
a
vast,
damp,
dripping,
ill-lit
area
under
the
Thames.
Our
shouts
echoed
meaninglessly.
A
search
party
picked
up
the
sounds
and
rescued
us.
It
was
a
long
evening.
--
21
May
1996