DIARY JOHN OSBORNE
My relations with the popular press have been bitter and hostile for almost 40 years. Papers like the Mail, Express and Daily Telegraph have traduced and vilified me consistently. It's no particular surprise. But recently I have come across moral cor- ruption so bland and remorseless that it's like confronting an advanced form of mad- ness. Last autumn I produced the second volume of my autobiography. I was pre- pared for the customary onslaught of vul- gar vituperation. The Mirror greeted it with two double-page spreads: 'Wot a Way to Treat the Old Woman!' (This was a refer- ence to one of my ex-wives.) What did sur- prise me was that the concerted campaign against both the book and my forthcoming play should start so long before the appear- ance of either. It all began seriously around April 1991. The Mail pronounced that my play had been on the 'scrap heap of histo- ry'. I can't afford to sue the Daily Mail, as they well know. Their wealth is a licence for calumny. Lawyers shrug their shoulders while their money meters tick away merrily. Over the next few weeks, various reporters turned up at my house — a four-hour jour- ney from London. I even made the mistake of feeling sorry for some of these novice foot-in-door persons. Not for long. One unmannerly youth from the Independent did get a flea in his beringed ear. He turned out to be the son of Agony Aunt Claire Rayner. So much for her parental wisdom. Perhaps this is the wretched condition we have come to, one in which intentions have to be vetted and proven by popular con- sent. There are blundering armies of nosy and interfering 'caring' maniacs. Their compassionate masks conceal a vindictive, retributive energy that arrogantly disputes the possibility of natural decency. Lovers may be blind to gross imperfection, but the truly corrupt cannot recognise the blinding streak of probity in others. It's a form of commonplace moral dyslexia. When the lit- erary. (sic) editor of the Daily Express declared that certain passages in my book were merely a bid for publicity and money, I was confident that even my manifold ene- mies would find this a dubious interpreta- tion.
Here is another bizarre, almost comic, example. In front of me I have an elabo- rately produced invitation: 'The Masters of the United Pack invite you to a Midsum- mer Ball. On Saturday, 13th June, 1992. Sibdon Castle, Craven Arms. 8.00 pm for 8.30. Black Tie. Dancing to "Cost a Livin 11". 3.00 am Carriages.' A certain Rory Knight Bruce also turned up at my door one morning last summer and introduced himself as a near neighbour. I knew that he ran the Standard Diary, which for years had been carrying a knife for me, and was recently responsible for sending up one of his staff plus photographer in pursuit of a non-story. However, he was affable and seemingly contrite. I offered him a glass of champagne. It was an idle day and we had lunch at a local pub. You will by now have guessed the outcome. Mr KB went on to 'review' my book weeks before its publica- tion. His whole thrust was based upon our desultory meeting. Even for hack work it was astonishing — not so much inaccurate as fantastical. He recorded that The Angry Old Recluse lived in Howard's End (some distance away), with a doorbell 'rammed a full inch and a half into its socket' (it simply doesn't work), dined out nightly and was protected by fierce dogs. 'How is Mark Amory [the literary editor of The Specta- tor]?' I supposedly asked. 'We used to play bridge together.' I scarcely know the good Mr Amory and I've never played bridge in my life. KB trawled the locals, including the landlady of the pub we visited who, having no idea who I am, merely said absently, 'He's a perfect gentleman.' This farrago was syndicated to my local paper where it had no impact whatever except as an exam- ple of London lunacy. My wife, whom KB hilariously described as 'a nervous crea- ture', rang him in the full flight of her awe- some Geordie fury: 'You worm! You little worm.' I know, I know ...' he whimpered. Which brings me to my invitation from the Masters of the United Pack. Inside is a note. 'I do hope that you will come to this little gathering as my guests. My olive branch is long overdue and it will be a very local gathering of a wholly private nature.' Sent with best wishes from the Joint Mas- ter. His name? You've got it. R.W. Knight Bruce.
'You're very acute.' How I wish that people given over to 'the Arts' (God rot the word) wouldn't sac- rifice themselves to politics. Only Art can be ultimately triumphant. The most revered politician is doomed to the dust of Ozymandias. Actors may indeed become presidents but Americans live, for the pre- sent, in a world more lunatic than our own. I find the spectacle of Miss Glenda Jack- son, condemned to spear-carrying in the House of Commons for the next five years, a distressing one. I say this in no spirit of gloating mockery. I always found her fear- some as an actress, a cornered-rat-like but also majestic presence. I only hope that her — to me — overweening attention to 5,000 old-age pensioners in her constituency pro- vides her with the returns that the Theatre could not give. In the other corner, we have Sir Ian McKellen beaming his homosexual- ity from every lighthouse. When he broke the news to his step-mother and sister, they apparently replied, 'Oh, we've known for 30 years.' I think they spoke for England. Political stances may make their holders feel better but such shrill interventions must create not illumination but only con- fusion about the ineffable nature of Art. My lifelong friend, Tony Richardson, rang me a few days before his death of Aids, 'explaining' that he had developed a myste- rious leg cancer. He kept up this fiction, to all of us, to the last. I believe that such fierce reticence is more noble and true to the creative spirit than any self-spoiling declarations of political or sexual alle- giance.
AI write, panic is mounting. Our fac- totum, usually an encouragingly phlegmatic chap, has been mowing and, worse, strim- ming from dawn to dusk and my wife is behaving like Mrs Danvers with p.m.t. Why? The gardens are to open on Bank Holiday in aid of — you guessed — the church roof. A previous owner planted a spectacular azalea walk to thank Winston Churchill for winning the war. Whether or not Mr Churchill was suitably grateful is not known, but the locals were and annual- ly paid their respects. Girls, now grand- mothers, recall sunny May afternoons and lemonade on the lawn. The ritual is now adjudged ready for revival. The azaleas are at their heady peak, the rhododendrons ludicrously luxuriant. So why the domestic anxiety? Well, should there be a storm, the blooms, along with all hope, will be dashed.
Then, as night follows day, the electricity will be cut off and half a ton of ice cream in the freezer will be fit only for the cats. I am watching the weather forecast with some interest as my only useful role in all this is to shovel up any last-minute dog shit.
Previous page
