DIARY
JOHN OSBORNE
W11, it's been a funny old week, all right. No, it's been an unmitigated, alarm- ing, yet reassuring bitch of a week. Here I am, in the Scott Fitzgerald black, resound- ing hours of the early morning, trying to recollect it all with some coherence. The truth of it is that I can't. So many strange and unaccountable things have happened. I can only, as ever, and it would seem with inevitable offence, try not to dissemble. For those not already and understandably wea- ried of the subject, I have been immersed in the production of a new play. As has been ceaselessly pointed out, the first for 16 — is it so long? — years. I can see why. A perverse dream of my untutored youth: I think, to whom is it — or indeed this — addressed? Whoever, they would be better off without it. No more plays, no more journalism for me.
hose who have never been in its ugly glare may imagine the limelight seductive. My best recourse would be to put a paper bag over my head. For weeks, I assured my producer that I was an uninsurable liability, but, in the face of something like tears of anguish and reproach, I gave in. All right, I would speak to 'genuinely interested' and 'sympathetic' journalists on the Telegraph, the Standard, the Sunday Times, Time Out ... It seemed less exhausting to agree than refuse. One of the more squalid aspects of these undertakings is the way the press take you for a fool, their only 'genuine interest' being your anticipated pratfall. And then I made a really dumb mistake and allowed myself to be interviewed by the 'Prig's Own Paper', the Guardian. This one feigned friendliness too. In her matronly floral frock, she was almost convincing as an unprejudiced witness. Her description of me as a 'thug in a pink tie' still surprised. She asked, 'Have you any friends?' No, I didn't hit her. Mr Show-Biz-Baz of the Daily Mail didn't just misspell my name, he called me Orton. My innocent godson was staggered to hear oafish photographers pursuing me down the street yelling, 'Come on, John — give us an angry one.'
All this was predictable in my garish stars long ago. What I didn't expect was the consistent outpouring of simple affection from people whose regard I had no reason to presume upon. From the cab-driver who refused to let me pay my fare, or the concierge who bought me an imaginative first-night present, to hard-pressed actors, directors, producers and stage managers, all of whom might well have felt abused. I am astonished by it all. Another thing, before I write my last printed or performed sentence: I seem to have a reputation for
being shabbily anti-gay, anti-feminist and so on, but I have discovered that I have more loving gay and female friends than ever looked out from any loony lighthouse. That's the last from a playwright all but killed with kindness and performance. OK, luvvie?
Ihave known for ages that I was palpably 'politically incorrect'. Now I've been told so. But, despite what I read, I really don't have political affiliations, although I sup- pose I did once believe I must be a socialist. The present Prime Minister may be an easy butt for the sneering classes, but I was relieved at his personal triumph in the elec- tion. The prospect of five years snared by a bunch of saloon-bar bullies and middle- class pietists was chilling. Yet the thing that aroused my greatest admiration was John Major's defence of the 1702 Act of Union. I had felt an apprehension of terrible loss. The Scots, whatever they may feel about undoubted injustices, have colonised this country as shrewdly and efficiently as they did the Empire. They have provided parlia- mentarians, prime ministers and adminis- trators. I regard myself as an honorary Scot. I even love the bagpipes. I married three ladies, all entitled to the tartan, and I myself have a kilt which I regard as both a battle honour and a badge of historical kin- ship. It also shows off my legs, my only dis- tinguished feature. But my gratitude to the good Mr Major took a bit of a pounding in last weekend's Honours List. We all knew that Archer had it coming to him. But Lloyd Webber? In days of yore, you had to be almost dead before they handed it out: old Noel and Rattigan pined for the bauble almost unto their graves. Ivor Novello, to my mother's dismay, never made it at all. Now, you don't have to be terminal, just loaded. Archer and Andrew are both unholy jokers. But they are rich.
Ishall be strapped down for yet another session at an outpost of the British Dental Gestapo when the Garrick Club discusses the matter of admitting women. The insti- tution is mainly in the domain of lawyers and journalists, but I can't resist commit- ting my own feelings of sadness and depri- vation at the prospect, much as I felt over the impulse to withdraw Scotland from the Union. Never having been in the army, my only experience of all-male company was at school, when it afforded few enjoyments. Now, once a month, if I'm lucky, I look for- ward to a long lunch there. Should this barmy ballot be carried, the pleasures of masculine courtliness and hospitality will be gone for ever. I feel there is a measure of destructive and mean-hearted Crom- wellianism here, like the motives behind the ordination of women. There are many glib myths about men's clubs: the public school food, the predominance of old bores and those who are afraid of women. It sim- ply isn't so. There is an exhilarating arm's length intimacy afforded by Garrick Street's restriction, a bond that would be inhibited by the gaze of everyday unisex comportment. Besides, most women worth their incomparable salt wouldn't give you tuppence for it; they have their own intima- cies, less expensive perhaps, but more exclusive. If the vote doesn't go my way, that mysterious mixture of discretion, reti- cence and flamboyance will be banished forever, and I may never again enjoy the heady pleasure of falling down the staircase entangled in the arms of Sir Robin Day.
P.S. On peoplespeak: 'No problem'. In the past days I have been assured by British Rail, restaurants and dry cleaners, among many others, that there was `no problem'. I hadn't anticipated one but, like the injunc- tion to 'have a nice day', it makes you won- der: trains derailed, tables double-booked and indelible stains. Last week, on doctor's orders, I telephoned a pathology factory to organise a blood test. 'No problem.' How can they possibly know until I've had it? But I do hope they're right.
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