DIARY
JOHN OSBORNE
Afew weeks ago I received, by special delivery, a scroll (I suppose you'd call it), framed and mounted, proclaiming that I had been `nominated' (along with half a dozen others) for a Laurence Olivier 'Out- standing Achievement' award. I was invited to attend a luncheon with the other nomi- nees. Since then I have been sent a letter from the BBC on behalf of the sponsors (Swet, the Observer and American Express) asking me to 'supply us with a copy of a biography regarding your career to enable us to compose a suitable eulogy should you win the Kenneth Tynan/Observer award for Outstanding Achievement for which you have been nominated. I look forward to your reply.' It was signed by the assistant floor manager for the awards. Who can enjoy being a supplicant candidate? The Big Night is this coming Sunday. Anyway, I threw the floor manager's letter into the bin. This may seem churlish, but I see no point in writing my own eulogy for an event I shan't attend in aid of a bauble I haven't a hope of winning. The gristle of fugitive instinct is about all I have left.
This present award reminds me of Ibsen. He was avid for medals, the 19th-century equivalent of our novelty-shop statuettes. He sought them out and put himself up for them like a touting film star. He was also in the habit, when inappropriately bemedalled at public celebrations, of becoming dis- agreeably drunk, cruelly abusive and having to be carried home. It all came back to me some months ago, when I accepted a gong from the Writers' Guild. It seemed a spon- taneous, generous gesture on their part, didn't promote anything in particular, and would almost certainly go unnoticed. A dis- astrous miscalculation. The evening was not conducted by friendly scribes but com- mandeered by television bully-boys and moguls, lasted six excruciating hours, dur- ing which I snoozed off after a meagre dis- tribution of drinks and, fatally, forgot to take my evening fix of insulin. Like Ibsen, I was carried from the platform, comatose. But sober. The following day, the Round- head hoydens of opinion denounced my shame with all the primness the bilious old Norseman might have encountered from the bombazined daughters of the Oslo Band of Hope a century ago. As I was try- ing to borrow a large sum of money at the time, it seemed less damaging to my chances of escape from penury to allow my conduct to be interpreted as a drunken lapse rather than a diabetic hypo. Old Hen- rik was fortunate, living in an age of iron- clad morality rather than maidenly prig- gery. I fancy he might have chucked his medals at the lot of them. I didn't get the loan anyway. Another hand-out this week from the Daughters of Eve (West) — Boston post- mark, typewritten on University of South- ern California paper — informing me of their programme for 1993. This one states that Sylvia Plath suffered Fatal Damage and that the Eight Daughters of the Coun- cil have decided to 'send a delegate party to the 30th anniversary ritual at the Plath grave in Britain and to bring earth from it for placement in the Daughters' Hearth and bury within the grove the citation of Honorary Daughter. This is now being crafted for Spring readiness.' Their main resolution is: 'The Daughters of Eve con- tinue to research in the US and Britain charges of Fatal Damage against three male persons: Harold Pinter — fatal dam- age to Vivien Merchant, 1982. John Osborne — fatal damage to Jill Bennett, 1990. Ted Hughes — fatal damage to Sylvia Plath, 1963.' Tippexed over in bright green is the damning accusation: 'They showed no remorse, then or now.' If indicted, it goes on darkly, 'these persons will be tried by the Daughters' Jury. Witnesses will be called from Britain to bear testimony before the Daughters' Jury. In 1993 thirty years will have passed since Sylvia Plath suffered Fatal Damage . . . And all Eve's Daughters shall be free.' All the latest American lunacies, from tooth-'n-claw fem- inism to political correctness, seem to be swiftly absorbed over here, so a transcript of the trial proceedings should make for a fruity evening at the Royal Court's Theatre Upstairs. With the accused in absentia, I would hope. Might the Dotty Daughters contemplate kidnapping? Perhaps I should 'Lucky there's no work to not go to.' look up the number of Special Branch. Or plead remorse?
Ihad intended to keep off the subject of the Theatre, partly because I know that it must be tedious to most readers of this journal (or why else would it consistently employ the most flaccid of drama critics?). But I am puzzled by the general antago- nism to something few people, these days, choose to experience. The virulence of this antipathy is clear from the glee which has greeted the invention of the species luvvies. Now, I had all but given up resisting the contempt piled upon actors. Few of them are unspotted by ruthlessness and vanity. Some are little better than strolling psy- chopaths, and actresses, once baptised by fame, often come close to clinical madness. But the appellation luvvie' is a calumny, a journalist's jealous perception of something of which they know little and understand less. Enmity to success is ammunition to every British journalist's gunbelt. It is they who are largely responsible for the hysteri- cal clamour of the Oscars, they who raise the drooling pitch to massed frenzy. The actors are merely the drafted clowns. Play- ers may be excruciatingly silly, burbling about themselves on chat-shows, wearing idiotic Aids ribbons and making embarrass- ing acceptance speeches. But they often do express their affections openly, and some- times genuinely, which grates on the news- paperman's sullen and frequently suburban heart. Actors are irredeemably tiresome when they bound onto the political stage, when they rival MPs or writers. They can be shrewd, kind, emotional, calculating, full of frailty and, occasionally, acute intelli- gence. They can become monsters, but not the very best of them. This is my 45th year in the trade, and I can count the number of luvvies' I have known on little more than the fingers of two hands.
There was a depressing article in the Telegraph the other Sunday about the demise of Sunday lunch, a justly treasured punctuation mark in the bourgeois week. I was a bit flummoxed to learn that a cut of beef could cost £60. Not in these parts, however well hung. And although it may be sad but true that women no longer have the inclination or know-how, I suspect it is the rampant microwave which can't cope with a piece of prime. I imagined the whole article to be a jape when I read its claim that Sun- day lunch had all but disappeared from Ludlow, a mere 15 miles from my own Aga, until my wife returned from the market there, brandishing sun-dried tomatoes. 'At last!' she squealed. What next? Goodbye Yorkshire pud; ciao soggy polenta.
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