YOUNG WRITER AWARDS: THE WINNERS _
How the boss went down
Andrew Martin
The judges of this year's Young Writer Awards, presented on Monday, were Charles Moore, editor of the Spectator, Mark Amory, literary editor, and Andrew Gimson, deputy editor. They faced, as they had both hoped and feared, an ex- tremely difficult task. The entry was large, and much of it was good.
At the upper end a group of about 25 pieces emerged, each of which seemed to have a chance of winning one of the three prizes. It was necessary to assess the relative merits of, for example, 'When a fish attacked me' (an amusing account of a mishap off Goa), and 'Why I left the Right' (a well-argued reaction against American neoconservatism); to decide whether a vivid discussion of racism, or Irish politics, or censorship, was preferable to a descrip- tion of six hours in the French Foreign Legion, or a visit to a spiritualist, or an embarrassing experience to do with drink in Stockholm. Which was the better piece of writing? This one had more jokes, but some of them seemed to have been made by accident. This one was full of intelligent argument, but spoilt by momentary lapses into unintended absurdity.
We should like to thank all who took the trouble to enter. The standard of the entries was even higher than last year, perhaps because almost all competitors had recognised that a writer, and particu- larly a journalist, cannot take his or her readers for granted, but must somehow try to interest the poor creatures.
The standard may have risen because this year no part of the prizes was to be awarded to the schools or colleges of the winners. There was therefore less incentive for teachers to encourage their pupils to enter, but also less danger that teachers would simply send off the best essays their classes had produced. Particularly as pupils get older, school essays are liable to be judged good or bad according to the criteria of the GCE examiners. This is an influence which the young writer desper- ately needs to escape. Some of the most vivid writing this year came from authors who were evidently enjoying the freedom not to have to prove that they had mas- tered some syllabus, read the right books and memorised a few key facts and quota- tions. The standard of literacy was, inci- dentally, for the most part high.
The winner of the first prize, a trip to Hong Kong donated and arranged by British Caledonian Airways, is Andrew Martin: his article appears below. Second prize, The Times Atlas and The Times Atlas of World History, donated by Times Books, was awarded to Michael Hay-Jones for 'Class War comes to Hampstead', and third prize, £50-worth of book tokens, to Timothy Carroll for 'In memoriam'. My boss hadn't smiled for a good while now. He was sweating. His papers were on the floor. He was stabbing the computer in an intensely rhythmical way. Were his eyes closed? Yes, almost. The computer was beginning to squeal a bit, nothing very satisfying yet, but the pitch was getting higher, and people were notic- ing. My boss was taking deep breaths, pounding now not so much like a honky- tonk piano player as a one-fingered drum- mer. He was concentrating on just the one button, his favourite, the big L-shaped one that says 'Return'. Work was coming to a halt in the vicinity of my boss. A small group of large New Zealand secretaries perched on their desks, eyes glistening. The old codger in Central Services was nodding understandingly. An under- manager dialled an ominous number on the telephone. Now the pounding had stopped. My boss was looking totally calm, his forefinger was jamming the 'Return' button down; the computer was screaming. A quiet man in a horrible polo-necked jumper led my boss away to the computer department as everyone dispersed.
You don't say that computers have broken. You say that they have 'gone down'. This one, that day, had gone a long way down; perhaps, who knew, it was somewhere near the bottom. But of course it would be back. One of the terrible characteristics of computers is the way they can break as a result of totally natural, actually understandable causes — too many users, excessive button-bashing — and yet somehow get fixed very quickly. They enact a sort of parody of vulnerabil- ity. Their surely unnecessarily frequent breakdowns only serve to remind the average middle-aged middle-manager (my boss) of the dreadful fact that he knows nothing at all about the machine which occupies 90 per cent of his working hours and therefore 50 per cent of his waking hours. Just nothing.
You can tell this by the way these chaps explain computers to us temporary clerks. They speak about the machine in a way which is at once oracular and desperately evasive. 'A computer is nothing more than an adding machine writ large.' Think of a speak your weight machine then add some.' A computer can only say yes or nd: of course it does this a lot.' Dramatic summaries of hopelessly confused accounts were common: 'Crap in, crap out.' It's all pure logic.' I only ever thought, 'Forget it. Don't try to understand.' I would laugh at the swearing bit, suck my pen thoughtfully at what I took to be the core of the explanation, roll my eyes at the amount of filing we were being spared. I sometimes felt such sympathy for this stranded, blurb ling figure waving his trembling hands ii between patting his personal terminal as it were a little dog and not a ball and chain, that I would try to let him see that his secret was quite safe with me, that I would not be calling anyone's bluff. I didn't nmind, at all that this man was trying to give the impression that he was patronising me. , Such men will not accept that you can t take computers in your stride. Computers upset people, disorientate people — all the time. The main problem is the not- understanding part: to work every day with a machine you don't understand is like, having an enormous crate in the middle of your living room which you can't open a0 which you can't move. But bafflement is not the end of the story. The tension created by a computer breakdown comes as much from the tremendous strain of trying not to look like a slacker in the idle time as from the sheer inconvenience of having your whole day s work snarled up in the bowels of a machine, you've never seen. Even the feeling dta, wholehearted boredom which this frequent event might offer is denied to the computer user. If you're doing the filing you cdue build up a fine feeling of contempt for th a sickly-coloured, finger-slicing cardboard, and the reverberating, filthy cabinet. Via' _ YOUNG WRITER AWARDS: THE WINNERS
is more, you can express your contempt physically, by kicking the lower drawers shut or by crushing the tops of your files. Sitting in front of a computer, whether it is working or not, your inevitable feelings of boredom and disgust are corrupted by guilt. You have the constant suspicion that if you really knew your computer, it would turn out to be profoundly interesting. Computers make people feel stupid, and when you're already feeling bored that's the last thing you want. It's all very well to say, as one of my Poor beleaguered bosses did, that you don't have to know how Concorde works to enjoy America. That means-to-an-end stuff will not wash, as he of course knew deep down. His job was about means, not ends. This is true of most people who use computers most of the time. They don't see the end, or if they do, they don't do anything with it, except say, 'There it is.' And then there is the computer depart- ment.
The men from the computer department walk the pigeon-toed computer fancier's walk in grey plastic slip-ons despite earning twice the salary of people of equivalent status outside their department. They pat word-processing secretaries gently on the behind as their bitten-down fingers titillate the keyboard. And they reserve their specially horrible behaviour for my middle- aged bosses. Their classic tactic here is to storm up to the on-the-blink computer and its stricken operator, tap one button (the most insignificant one they can find), giggle for no more than two seconds and then saunter back thoughtfully.
They come in three distinct types, com- puter men, but they are all dedicated to behaving badly and looking worse. There is the young polyester dandy whose per- versely combed hair starts from the lowest of hairlines. There is the computer execu- tive, buckles on his slip-ons and Jeremy Irons beard. There is the eccentric genius, the mascot of the department. He is usually foreign in some peculiar way and sleeps lightly on a table in the department listening to the whirrings of the night routine. He looks just like a tramp.
The second type is worst. I once saw a computer boss, arms folded, tiny tongue clicking in tiny mouth, giving instructions to a girl who didn't have a clue what he was talking about. As she delicately, ex- perimentally touched the buttons, she was crying. The computer man wasn't looking at anything, least of all her. It was the same man, as a matter of fact, who said to one of my managers, 'Do you understand what you're supposed to be doing now?' The office stopped. The computer expert did the opposite of blush. My boss, a nice man who actually didn't understand at all, picked up his science fiction book, his photocopy of the Telegraph crossword, and went home. The computer executive tap- ped his favourite button and the machine flickered into life just as if nothing had happened.
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