DIARY
BARRY HUMPHRIES Approaching old age brings itself to my attention in small, irritating ways. Fortu- nately, aural whiskers have not yet sprout- ed, though I remember that my father start- ed growing them at about my age. Instead, there are nasal daddy-long-legs to be attacked with increasing ferocity in the shaving mirror, and dried gravy to be occa- sionally scrubbed from the cuffs. This is caused by greedy reachings across the table. I have always wanted what I want when I wanted it. The other day I caught myself going out to lunch with a small bloodstain on the collar of an otherwise pristine shirt. Not very long ago I would have quickly changed, but this time I didn't, so I must have crossed an invisible line in my path to senility. An increasing tolerance of stains is another indication of that dwin- dling self-respect which finds its ultimate expression in death. However, my indiffer- ence to dribblings and damp patches is hap- pily not total, so that I'm not yet like the old man in one of Ken Dodd's anecdotes who before departing the house in light- coloured Daks requires the attentions of his wife with a hairdryer.
Iam certainly having a few small but vex- atious memory problems. Perhaps I've always got people's names a bit mixed up, but they've been too polite to mention it. The first serious intimation of this occurred a couple of years ago in the Crush Bar at Covent Garden, during a performance of Strauss's Die Frau ohne Schatten. I bowled up to your previous diarist, Sir Jeremy Isaacs, and asked him if he was planning to turn Hofmannsthal's melodrama into a movie. To my surprise he looked a bit blank, until I made a few casting sugges- tions and even furnished him with some hints as to how the story might be brought up to date. Only when he went away, chuckling politely, did my wife say, 'Who did you think that was?' Michael Winner, of course,' I replied, 'and he doesn't take too kindly to suggestions, either.' When she pointed out my gaffe, I made it worse it by rushing after the departing director of the Royal Opera House and apologising pro- fusely that I was a bit jet-lagged (thank God for that elitist disorder) and had mis- taken him for someone else. 'Who?' asked Jeremy, with a forgiving twinkle. My reply produced an astonishing change in his demeanour. Never before have I seen such profound affront and dismay published on the countenance of another human being. Of course, I shouldn't have said anything. My wife assures me that most of my blun- ders and solecisms are construed by people as jokes. This is one of the advantages of being a comedian. Even unbelievably bad behaviour is tolerated because most people assume they're just a bit slow on the uptake in the presence of such a legendary and often cryptic wag.
Ienjoy opera, but distrust The Opera, which is something parvenus 'discover' in middle life, along with bespoke shirts and the Gazelle d'Or. They give Glyndeboume a bad name. You can always spot them standing in the stalls pretending to look for someone before they are obliged by the darkening auditorium to resume the anonymity of their seats. I sometimes snooze during operas, but only when the seats cost about £100; the more expensive the ticket, the sounder I sleep. The other day I was home (in Melbourne) at the first night of an operatic version of Summer of the Seventeenth Doll, based on the famous Australian play of the Fifties — the only Aussie show to become a West End hit, apart of course from my own attractions. The cast valiantly performed a score which reminded one of Bernstein, Menotti, Brit- ten and Rogers and Hammerstein without the tunes. Above the stage were the now fashionable surtitles — in English! This was puzzling because the opera was also in English, though Australian accents pre- vailed in the recitative. In view of Mel- bourne's new and exotic ethnic mix, it might have been more appropriate if the surtitles had been in Vietnamese, thus `We're going to play the Bob Hoskins ad until you talk' sparing the audience the infelicities of the libretto. After that I did a day's filming at William Creek in central Australia, not far (within 500 miles) of a salt lake the size of England. William Creek is a pub, a tele- phone box and a petrol pump, beside which I had to stand all day in the sun imperson- ating a blind garage attendant. Flies, thou- sands of them, supped at septum and cornea. That night under the stars, an Abo- riginal boy called Stan Drydan (alias Pos- sum) gave us a recital on his didgeridoo, a long, wooden instrument — actually the bough of a tree hollowed out by ants and carved with sacred emblems by the virtuoso himself — which sounds like an inspired cross between a bassoon and a trautonium. A marvellous experience.
ter the freedom and the heat of the outback, it was hard rushing back to Eng- land in November in order that Dame Edna might record a television special at the Heinz factory in Wigan. Most Aus- tralian kids are brought up on the baked bean sandwich, so it was interesting to inspect the gleaming technology from which this culinary delicacy springs. I had little chance to explore George Formby's birthplace, or the mysterious pier of this inland town, though a tourist brochure in the hotel claimed that most people who visit Wigan are 'reluctant ever to leave'. Heinz looked after us generously and I was presented with many tins of their sticky tof- fee pudding, which I intend to serve at din- ner parties with double cream, defying my guests to identify the metallic Lancashire origin of their scrumptious dessert.
From beanery to Deanery. After the service of dedication at Westminster Abbey celebrating John Betjeman's incorporation into Poets' Corner, we all filed past the beautiful early 18th-century cartouche which had been erected to the beloved Laureate's memory. The stone had been found in the triforium of the Abbey in its original wooden packing case in 1990. The memorial was designed by the Surveyor of the Fabric of Westminster Abbey, Donald Buttress, and the inscription was carved by David Peace in the style of Eric Gill. As I looked up at it in admiration — and grati- tude also for the poet's friendship over many years — I saw I was standing with one foot on W.H. Auden and another on John Masefield. Afterwards in the Dean- ery, Joanna Lumley — the only star I know whose ubiquity could never irritate — recited 'Cargoes' prompted by Paddy Leigh Fermor. John would have loved it.
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