Cape boredom
Michael Henderson
Durban EVERYBODY has a black spot, some subject or interest dear to others that they can't crack. Andrew Marr doesn't care for Wordsworth or for English beer, but then he's a lippy Jock. Philip Hensher, who seems to have inherited Anthony Burgess's mantle as the Man Who Knows Everything, despises Richard Strauss, and once wrote a small-minded review in this magazine of Michael Kennedy's superb biography of that composer. (He made up for it with a magnificent tribute to William Trevor.) There are seasoned travellers who don't like New York, which is hard to believe, and football supporters who don't like Manchester United, which isn't. The famous are not necessarily more tolerant. John Osborne couldn't stomach Bernard Shaw, opining that he wrote 'like a Pakistani'. Wagner patronised Brahms; and Larkin, a great English poet, dismissed Wallace Stevens, a great American. Less exaltedly, Piers Pughe Morgan — as the Guardian diary used to reveal each week — couldn't stand David Yelland.
My own blind spot is South Africa. When people tell me how beautiful it is, I ask: beyond the Cape, where? When they talk up the wines, I wonder: what have they been drinking? The food is moderate, the people are dull and the country is infested with violent crime. As for African 'culture', it is possible to argue that both the English and the Germans contributed more to civilisation in one century, the 16th, than Africa has done in 2,000 years. Apart from those minor points, South Africa is a top spot to follow the cricket World Cup.
Naturally, when I say the people are dull, I don't mean every man-jack. But, on the whole, they are a humourless bunch. Three years ago, after writing some rude (and, to be honest, repetitive) things about East London, I was confronted in the press box by a local reporter, his photographer and — no word of a lie — the town's tourism officer. Was there, he asked, anything that might make my visit more rewarding? 'A one-way ticket to Paris,' I replied. It wasn't the most amusing riposte but on other days, in other places, it might have brought a smile. Not that day, that place.
The Western Cape is wonderful, of course. The mountain and coastal suburbs of Cape Town constitute one of the world's finest natural sights, by day and by night, yet even there a curious person would easily get bored. It's not just that there aren't any art galleries and theatres (not everybody misses such amenities); it's just that, to borrow a line from Mr Larkin, this is life with a hole in it. Life is not all about long, languid afternoons under a hot sun and a strong pound. There is no real engagement with the world here.
Bringing people to South Africa for the World Cup was supposed to do wonders for the country, and no doubt it will be counted a great success, even if the host nation is unlikely to win the tournament. Actually, most neutrals hope they don't win. There is an assumption of superiority within South African sport that makes them appear arrogant, and arrogance is never an attractive quality. If the Australians fail to retain the trophy they won at Lord's four years ago, there ought to be a stewards' inquiry-.
So, that's my little thing out of the way. I'm sorry, all you good folk of the republic, but most of my instincts are European. I think the world of Wordsworth (stop your ticklin', Jocky Marr) and strongly favour Kennedy's line on Richard Strauss. Covent Garden is doing Elektra next month. Now that's culture!
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