DIARY KEITH WATERHOUSE
Iant looking forward to seeing Jude Kelly's Chichester production of J.B. Priestley's comedy classic When We Are Married, with Leo McKern as Henry Ormonroyd, the bibulous photographer. He was originally played by Frank Pettin- gell, but I knew the original original, that is to say the real-life one. He was a sham- bling, fag-ash-bespattered character named Charlie Bowry, who was on the verge of staggering into retirement from the York- shire Post when I arrived as a junior reporter. While he was undoubtedly a find for Priestley, who had encountered him on the Bradford Telegraph & Argus, he was a nightmare to work with. I was once sent with the swaying snapper to interview a substantial, in both senses of the word, citi- zen named Fieldhouse. Charlie's first slurred words as he took in our intervie- wee's girth were, 'Fieldmouse? Field- mouse? Tha'rt more like a bloody ele- phant!' Arriving, very much the worse for wear, to photograph a new Archbishop of York, he sent the butler for a stepladder in order to shoot his portrait from an original angle. Having mounted the steps with diffi- culty, he leaned forward to focus his cam- era and promptly crashed to the ground at the Archbishop's feet, where he wisely realised that he could get an equally origi- nal angle from the sitting position. Regis- tering the Archbishop's disapproving expression through his viewfinder, Charlie roared, 'Coom on, yer Grace, give us a merry smile — tha looks as if tha's fahnd a hawpenny and lost a shilling!' Priestley himself, incidentally, played the part of Ormonroyd for a spell in the 1938 produc- tion when Pettingell was off ill. I under- stand he was terrible. He should have got Charlie.
Ihave been conducting a mini-campaign to try to get English Heritage to reverse its decision not to erect a blue plaque on the house in Gloucester Gate, Regents Park, Where the writer W.W. Jacobs (1863-1943) lived for some years. Older readers will remember his beautifully crafted yarns of cunning longshoremen and sly villagers which, along with Sherlock Holmes and Jeeves, used to enliven the pages of the old Strand magazine. Some may read them still, as I do occasionally, for W.W. Jacobs col- lections are still to be found in second-hand bookshops. Younger readers will at least have heard of his macabre tale The Mon- kers Paw. Three of W.W. Jacobs's five chil- dren, aged 88, 92 and 95, still survive and had been looking forward to a plaque cere- !nony. His granddaughter has not had the heart to show them the letter from English Heritage informing her that they have decided against a plaque 'on the grounds that he isn't sufficiently widely remembered or read today'. This seems to me an extraordinary rebuff of a writer described by Chesterton as 'a return to the central and sane tradition of humorous literature — the child of Dickens'. And anyway, since when did books have a best-read-by date? However, as a result of several indignant letters from Jacobs enthusiasts, it is begin- ning to look as if English Heritage, if not yet exactly reconsidering their churlish decision, are at least considering reconsid- eration. Anyone who cares to augment the arm-twisting should write to the London Advisory Committee, English Heritage, Chesham House, 30 Warwick Street, Lon- don W1R 5RD.
It is beginning to look as if I shall go to my grave without ever comprehending the expression 'postmodern'. Is it the same as 'state of the art' or whaj? And how can you be any later than bang up to date? In his recent rant against the West End, Trevor Nunn savaged 'superficial, camp entertain- ments masquerading as the post-mod- ernism so fashionably acceptable to a vogu- ish critical coterie'. What on earth is he banging on about — Salad Days? The late unlamented Modern Review, I recall, used to pepper its pages with the term; now that it is threatening a revival, will it be called the Postmodern Review? The most baffling example of this literary buiz word was in an Observer soap opera review, in the headline
`You can't do that, Alf — even if it is very postmodern'. This was a reference to a proposal by All Roberts, in response to a council promise to name something after him, to change the name of Coronation Street to Alfred Roberts Place, with the explanation that 'Place' sounded more select'. Postmodern or not, All is on the ball there. In the council housing estates where I grew up there were, taking their cue from the genteel acres of owner-occupied Dun- roamins, no streets at all — there were places, crescents, drives, groves, avenues, ways, approaches, rises, lanes, views, closes, mounts, walks, gardens, parades, vales and even boulevards, but no streets. Were we postmodern ahead of our time?
At eccentric friend of mine, an art crit- ic, once proposed to sell his excellent col- lection of modern pictures and, with the proceeds, commission the Royal School of Needlework to create a 40-foot-long tapestry celebrating his life. 'Like the Bayeux Tapestry?' I enquired, deadpan. Without irony he replied, 'Quite. Just the highlights of one's career, of course.' He never got round to it and now I am about to beat him to it. I have been invited to fea- ture on the Leeds Tapestry, a Millennium project of 24 panels which looks set to make the Bayeux effort look like a Victori- an sampler. Stitched by over 300 volun- teers, it will illustrate all facets of Leeds life from the city's industrial and textile her- itage to its diverse religions, from its muse- ums and galleries to its local heroes and heroines. There is a transport panel, so there is every hope of a Leeds tram being immortalised in stitches, while the food and drink panel will doubtless incorporate a Yorkshire pudding. I am looking forward to this — I have never sat for a tapestry before. I did once sell the first British tea- towel rights to a column of mine which had my face on it, but that is a different story.
Foreign sports journalists at Atlanta were apparently puzzled to see some of their English television colleagues sporting T- shirts with the legend: 'Official ITV Tosser'. The appellation goes back to Euro 96 when at some point Paul Gascoigne would con- sent to only one pooled interview between BBC and ITV — they would have to sort it out between themselves who did it. Meeting his BBC counterpai-t, an ITV sports produc- er is puzzled to be asked, 'Any questions for Gazza?"I don't know what you mean — we haven't decided who's interviewing him yet.' 'Yes, we have, we tossed and you lost.' The ITV man says importantly, 'You didn't toss with me, my friend — and I'm the ITV toss- er around here.'
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