DIARY
BARRY HUMPHRIES Came home from Ischia to see my Daily Telegraph with 'Madonna' on the front page. I had known somewhere at the back of my mind that the newspaper had changed hands recently, but hadn't real- ised how much the old Telly was letting down the side. As big a disappointment as the Penguin lists which used always to announce at least one book you wished you had time to read. Now, they are about as strident and disheartening as any other paperback list — except Virago. How nice it must be to work for Virago Press and republish the works of neglected, seldom- read, or just unfashionable ladies. Edith Wharton wasn't the only readable Amer- ican. How about a reprint of Elinor Wylie's sardonic comedy Jennifer Lorn? Or Lum- mox by the nearly forgotten Fannie Hurst, an author I first read at the command of Lillian Gish. Amongst English novelists, surely Marguerite Steen and Inez Holden deserve a modern audience?
Strange to journey by train and bus, deep into the green depths of the English countryside to see a masterpiece of the Americana musical theatre: Glyndebourne for the last night of Trevor Nunn's glorious Porgy. The stage was so black we all felt like overdressed honkies. Mrs Ira Ger- shwin was there with a Cartier diamond dress clip. At the end of the show she rose from her seat and we applauded vociferously, in the hope, perhaps, that she might transmit our gratitude to her hus- band and brother-in-law. Sooner or later. At an interval, she opined to me that it was the best Porgy ever. In his valedictory speech, after all the stamping had stopped and all you could hear were champagne corks in distant dressing-rooms, George Christie announced next season's offer- ings. Such is his charm and salesmanship that he managed to make a newly- commissioned opera called The Electrifica- tion of Russia sound irresistible. A work by Janacek, in Czech, with illuminated subti- tles, will certainly make us all grateful for the electrification of West Sussex.
Itake a personal interest in almost anything that happened in the decade of my birth. I was one when Porgy and Bess received its first, rather arty performance. When George Gershwin's death was re- corded in the Melbourne Sun News- Pictorial, I was three. Gershwin had been on a concert tour and had stumbled over a few notes halfway through the Concerto in F. After the performance someone asked him what went wrong, and he replied lightly that he had smelled something burning. It had been an olfactory hallu- cination: the first indication of a brain tumour.
In the last two years traffic in the narrower alleys of Hampstead self-service Food Halls has ground to a halt. Everyone is rooted to the spot reading the 'literature' on tins, tubes, packets and cartons to see if they're free of noxious additives. The only people who do not seem to be required by law to publish the chemical constituents of their products on a label are the purveyors of booze: the commodity which always gets such a good press in this periodical. In fact, wine is almost crunchy with chemicals and preservatory agents. Not long ago an in- novatory Australian gastronome marin- ated some tinned tomatoes overnight in the lees of a popular local Riesling. By morn- ing the tomatoes had gone albino in a pink syrup; bleached by the little drops of this and that with which vintners spike their brew. Since so many Australian dishes require the marination of tinned tomatoes, the incident has led to a national furore.
How do you tell some people that you won't have a drink, thank you? If, like me, you happen to be TT and occasionally attend parties you will be indeed lucky to avoid the Hospitality Bore. The person, very often with a bevvy problem, who insists that you have 'a real drink'. Better not to have so much as a glass of water in your hand when the hospitality bore is on his convivial rounds. He's quite capable of slipping you a shot of vodka without you even knowing. What do you say when they lurch up to you and yell: 'You mean you're not drinking anything?' I find a cup of tea is a useful prop under these circumstances. Even a host who is driven to apoplexy by your abstinence will be unlikely to spike your Earl Grey. At dinner parties your continence is usually more noticeable: especially if a fully paid-up, card-carrying drunk is present who wants to know, out of a mixture of envy and incredulity, why you aren't drinking. The last thing you want to do is degrade the conversation into a long debate about the dubious merits of mineral water, so it's better not to extol the superior qualities of Vichy or Apollinaris or Spa. Everyone knows that liquor reaches parts of people that water never touches. It's just that there are some amongst us who cannot believe that we don't want to be reached. In some cases we've been reached enough. So how do you stop them in their tracks? 'I'll have a drink if you pay the hospital bills,' or 'No thanks, I'm pissed already,' are two re- sponses which I have found effective. It is absolutely no good telling people you're driving home as it leads to the 'one for the road' routine. However, 'I'm allergic to it I'm afraid' cuts ice with some hostesses, especially in north London where the allergy-prone, in all their manifold and wonderful forms, receive a sympathetic hearing. Remember that people who press drink upon you want to give you some- thing. If you decline their vintages you are rejecting them. Suggest, if they grow too importunate, that you might be prepared to accept something in lieu of a drink. Their framed Steinberg poster of Manhat- tan, for example, or a Habitat chair, or even their compact disc player.
Don't know why all those people in the marquees at Gatwick are whingeing. They may not know it, but they'll have a better time there than at Benidorm. That is, unless there is a walkout by the guy- rope operatives, or an industrial inaction by the tent peg and brailing Union.
Richard Ingrams has hit the Big F. I'd like to join in his jubilee celebrations at Rules, but I think I'll be too busy briefing Charlton Heston for his interview with Dame Edna Everage. She knows all his biblical movies: Ben Hur, Earthquake, Moses, The Ten Commandments. In fact she feels she knows old Chuck in the biblical sense, so to speak. He could part her Red Sea any time he liked . . . etc. I remember in the early days of Private Eye before he became the first Young Fogey, Richard always had a couple of dollops of dry lather on his lobes as though he'd shaved without a mirror. His collars reg- ularly exhibited bloodstains. I'm not sure why these details linger in my mind. Is it merely the link between Ingrams and shaving cream?
Good news for those of you who are sick of paying inflated prices for West End shows. Touts outside the National's five- hours long attraction The Wandering Jew are offering tickets for half price. Catch him before he goes on tour.
Previous page
