W hen, 50-odd years ago, I started in what was then
known as the Business, later the Arts and more recently the Media, I was warned not to express opinions openly, for fear of alienating the Public. Added to that, my generation of little girls was told to be seen and not heard, and to do as our elders and betters, which included politicians, told us. They know best. Well, after a week of even more carnage in Iraq, I disobediently declare, ‘No, they don’t.’ This mere luvvie knew it was folly to try to impose a revolution on a country from outside, and force democracy on it. I knew it would create more terrorists, and I knew thousands would die because of the missionary zeal of two dangerously myopic men. In short, I knew it was not just disastrous but worse — silly.
When I was the subject of the TV programme Who Do You Think You Are?, which delves into your family history, I was shocked to discover I had German roots. And even more shocked that I was shocked. I realised I was racist and prejudiced. As a wartime child I was taught to hate the Germans. And I did, despite rejoicing in the unified Europe. Then I was asked to appear in the musical Cabaret, playing an ordinary woman in Berlin during the rise of Nazism. Now, living her dilemma every night, I understand. In this production the young director, Rufus Norris, has found a way of making popular theatre deal with a deeply serious subject and, judging by conversations with youngsters at the stage door, it engages them more profoundly than any history lesson.
In the same TV programme I discovered that my great-grandfather was superintendent of the Pimlico pumping station at the start of the Victorian sewage system. The pumping station near my house in Hammersmith is now being converted into flats. Better than pulling it down, I suppose, but I mourn the loss of the majestic interior machinery that still exists in Pimlico. They are also digging up the original drainpipes and replacing them with nasty blue plastic things, which they say will last longer. They have already plunged us into darkness twice by cutting through electric cables, as well as silencing our phones, and are taking weeks to dig their holes and even longer to fill them in. Should I really trust them to surpass the genius of Bazalgette?
Ihave postponed delivery of my new Jaguar XK sports car. I don’t want them scratching it with their inaccurate diggers. Truth to tell, I feel a bit guilty about it anyhow. The environmental lobby is getting to me. I hope some scientist is going to come up with something that makes beautiful cars acceptable again. They are my passion. Since my first pea-green Morris 1000 convertible, I have cherished my cars. MGs, Morgans and Jags — all have delighted me. Mind you, I recently visited a classic car exhibition where the Top Gear gang were doing a show. It was disturbing. Jeremy Clarkson, with his belly hanging over sagging jeans, was making adolescent jokes about being a petrolhead. I realised I probably look equally absurd, a 73year-old woman in a supercharged sports car. But I’ll be defiant a little bit longer. Then I’ll join the green people, who drive those ugly electric snails, or ride bikes, and become as sanctimonious as they are.
Did an interview with David Frost. He keeps at it, despite not seeming quite as wily as he was. Although he still got that admission of disaster in Iraq from a startled Blair. Matthew Byam Shaw’s production of the play Frost/Nixon shows David using his affable approach to ensnare Nixon. Nick Clarke, who died this week, had a similar killer punch lurking behind his genial parrying. How grateful I am to these people, Rottweilers Humphrys and Paxman included. And the press. They provide the only curb on government excesses. Democracy does not work with an opposition that rolls over or nowadays seems to agree with everything.
Ihave a line in one of my songs in Cabaret: ‘When I had a man my figure was boyish and flat’, etc. Last night I aberrantly sang ‘When I was a man’, etc. It convulsed the cast but the audience took the idea of Fraulein Schneider being a transsexual in their stride, along with all the other gender ambiguities going on in the show. Or indeed in Soho. As I wander around looking for a taxi on a Saturday night, I wonder at the queues outside clubs that provide a world I wot not of, and have left it too late to explore. I came across my Aunty Ruby’s 1921 school sewing book the other day, full of meticulous examples of various stitches. I don’t think you could teach faggotting or whipping to today’s youngsters. I suspect they practise their own version in some of those clubs. Does anyone still do buttonholes or patches? When she was 90, I asked my aunt why she no longer read her Daily Telegraph. Her reply: ‘It isn’t my world any more, darling.’ She died shortly after. I wonder if I’ll ever feel like giving up? Or will I agree with the ageless Mel Brooks who was in town this week? He was quoted as saying, ‘If you’re alive, you’ve got to flap your arms and legs, you’ve got to jump around a lot. For life is the very opposite of death and you must at the very least think noisily and colourfully, or you’re not alive.’ I think I’ll opt for flapping and jumping.
Cabaret is on at the Lyric Theatre until 7 April.
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