AND ANOTHER THING
Little chance of a literary Donnybrook in London these days
PAUL JOHNSON
Barbarians. Yahoos. Untennenschen. Canaille.' The speaker was Cyril Connolly coolly surveying a literary party in the 1950s, from just inside the door, and addressing his remarks not so much to me personally — I scarcely knew him — as urbi et orbi. A second later he was gone.
I gather from a new life of Connolly by Clive Fisher, due in 1995 — I have been reading the proofs with delight — that he didn't really enjoy parties unless he was giv- ing them himself, and so in control. In any case, I could not agree with him. London literary parties, in those days, seemed to me immensely exciting and privileged occa- sions. Looking around a room, I could hardly believe the evidence of my senses. Was that really T.S. Eliot, or 'Torn' as I longed to call him, holding forth on the power of pentameters? Could it actually be W.H. Auden listening to him, none too patiently? And did my eyes deceive me, or was that not Ivy Compton-Burnett wagging a bony finger in the face of Rose Macaulay?
Unfortunately, such parties were not as decorous as these illustrious names might imply. They were always potentially, some- times actually, I explosive. Before the evening ended there was liable to be blood as well as broken glass and cigarette stubs on the carpet. I recall one evening when a leading academic critic, having made an interesting point too vehemently, was knocked bleeding and unconscious to the floor, while his wife, also the worse for wear, walked straight into a glass door in the ladies' loo and shattered it. Both ended up in hospital. Dylan Thomas and, still more, Brendan Behan set high standards of literary misbehaviour. I have an inefface- able image of Behan pouring neat whisky into his ear under the impression it was his mouth.
Then, too, there were some notorious bruisers loose in those days. Maurice Richardson was a peaceable man, not easily roused. But once enraged by what he called 'pipsqueak bad manners' he was always ready to 'sort out' the offender, and then one realised he was a former heavyweight boxer. John Davenport too had fought in the ring to some purpose. His high-pitched voice belied his massive strength, and when he began to address a minor poet or detec- tive-story writer (classes he abhorred) as 'short-arsed' or `jumped-up', you knew trouble was on the way. Davenport was famous for putting the Lord Chancellor on the mantelpiece of the Savile Club bar (`Sit there, you short-arsed little swine'), an out- rage for which he was expelled from the club. Evelyn Waugh was likewise expelled from the Savile, for smashing in the glass cigar case with his walking-stick when the porter was slow to arrive with the key to it. He too was around in those days, though more likely to provoke a fight with well- directed insults than lay about him first. Gilbert Harding was another sharp- tongued conversational warrior, around whom chaos swirled. And then there was Constantine Fitzgibbon, who gave premon- itory signs of aggression by swinging his right arm slowly and menacingly from side to side, a bellicose Irishman worthy of King Brian Borth One reason fights were frequent was that literary parties were then still primarily masculine affairs. Bimbos and floozies were scarce, but there were just enough pretty girls around to provoke intense competitive jealousy and so, from time to time, fisticuffs. Literary men were happy to scrap for such delicious morsels as Sonia Brownell or Bar- bara (Tears before bedtime') Skelton, not to speak of the ravishing Edna O'Brien, then fresh from the wilds of Ireland. There was always, at a typical literary party in the Fifties, an air of sexual tension, as hungry young men hovered, elbowed and jostled around the few honey-pots.
Literary occasions today are much tamer because women predominate. I have been to three so far this Christmas season and the girls were in a majority at all of them: at one, indeed, they outnumbered men by more than two to one. Then again, today's masculine contingent leaves much to be desired. It is not yet as bad as New York, where recently I heard a tipsy woman address the throng: 'Aren't any of you guys straight for Christ's sake?' but we are mov- ing in that direction. Gays they may call themselves, but they certainly do not add to the tensile gaiety of a booksy shindig. As 'Is that the Ee-Zee-Liposuction Clinic? Christmas is coming and I'm getting fat, can you fit me in?' one frustrated female put it last week, call the buggers glums.' Another and perhaps more important reason why London literary parties now tend to sink without trace is that no hosts serve the hard stuff. In the Fifties, the late Jock Murray, entertaining the elite in that matchless Albemarle Street drawing-rooln where Thomas Moore burned the drib' manuscript of Byron's Memoirs in the grate', used to dish out an endless succession or the strongest and iciest martinis this side of the Atlantic. Until the end of the Sixties al least, a writers' soirée without whisky an.d gin would have been unthinkable. Today it is always champagne — or plonk at the downmarket gatherings. The spirit or spirits of literary London have fled. Indeed orange juice is spreading almost as fast as sodornY, though I don't say the two are connected. However, we must not generalise too much. The most notable party I havie attended recently was given by IV CO.r league Auberon Waugh at Simpson's. He Is, quite a showman is young Bron. His 'Dv Sex' awards had the London literati rolling, especially when a delectable young lady read extracts from a novel by Edwina Cur- rie, in which the heroine (Mrs Currie her" self, I assume) ate strawberries and cream spread over the private parts of a fellow` MP. Marianne Faithful!, an amazing crea- ture, gave the prizes — and kisses. There may or may not have been whisky but the champagne certainly flowed. While the 'Bad Sex' stuff was going on, I repaired to the bar and asked for a Coke. 'You'll 'ave to pay for it.' What do you mean?' `Mr Waugh's orders — champagne free, soft drinks to be paid for.' Good God. kW, much?' One pound fifty — in advance' Did Mr Waugh tell you to be rude to tee' totallers as well as charging them?' Count yerself lucky, I 'ave to fetch it.' The waiter took the money and was away for solve time. When he finally handed me the Coil he said, 'That's yer lot, I'm not going bac, again.' From all of which I concluded thac; Bron's campaign in favour of smoking a,„°,.s drinking has got going early this year IP father, up above, would have approved. •c But it will take more than one eccentrif host to bring back the literary vernaculat ° yesteryear. 'Excuse me, but are you by ad chance the unspeakable anonymous eowa",re who reviewed my novel so despicably In t, TLS?"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to•• • 'Take that, you brute!'
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