DIARY
Terence Rattigan and I had a desultory, forlorn correspondence for a while. His letters were written in the small hours, usually from Paris or Bermuda. They were cautious, courteous and generous. There was a great deal of regret for his past, confessions of professional dishonesty and avarice as well as advice about not desert- ing my country to live among tax- reprobates, how to withstand the sustained vilification of reviewers and, worst of all, the desertion of your public. Never having had the last, it was the least useful insight. 'Whatever you do, and I don't think you wiI1' he said, 'don't write what they expect You to write.' No one knew better that Playwrights are especially condemned to the yawn and spite of fashion. Their work laYS them open to something like social banishment while novelists and poets are More comfortably barricaded in their stu- dies. If they are successful in their twenties and persist in working on into the decrepi- tude of their early fifties only uncompen- sated redundancy faces them until they receive the country's gold watch when terminal illness and death qualify them for reassessment.
N.• o one suffered more evidently from this assault course than Rattigan and Co- yard• Noel, with his justified arrogance, rose above it' in the discovery of his newly acclaimed genius in cabaret. Rattigan, introspective in a manner which the Master Would have regarded as self-indulgent, was Permanently wounded, exiling himself to • everlY Hills and Colonial golf clubs. The ironyis that they were never really out of fashion at all. They simply allowed them- selves to be convinced of it by a few hacks and hustlers.
Ithought of Rattigan a few days ago When I had a communication from the b trYal Society of Literature informing me that I had been elected a Fellow and that it w,ould cost me £15. In one of the more Chatty sections of his letters to me, Ratti- Lan had written: 'I've just put you up as a Fl(SL. I don't think there's much glory to It' You just buy yourself in. And, if you lii aven't already got any, you can put their etters after your name. It might amuse You.' Well, it did slightly, but not to the extent of stumping up the fee. The Corn- Panions of the Society are impressive Friough, but the list of Fellows largely Includes mediocrities similar to those proc- laimed as council or board members on the Masthead of your subsidised theatre prog- rammes. I also noticed that most of my contemporaries in the trade had accepted this distinction years ago. Possibly some wordsmiths and academics take pride in aPPending FRSL to themselves, but there
JOHN OSBORNE
doesn't seem much profit in being a beg- rudged afterthought in such company. Not a complaint, nurse. Just the inmate's com- ment.
0 ne accolade in my career I can claim exclusively is that of being the only living English playwright to be pursued by the mob down the streets of London. On this particular first-night tumbril, I fled from the spectacle of several hundred people, including Coward, a motley of theatrical knights and sundry stars, who stood up to boo me. I found myself in the waiting path of a pavement full of lynch-happy play- goers. I have had ladies' boots thrown from the audience and been booed by tray- banging customers and what seemed to be a little dog at a matinee in Brighton. Nowadays we get the real going-over from the management and reviewers rather than the public. Booing has become an unfamil- iar sound to this generation of playwrights, official tribunes of the arts. It's an odd, unforgettable sound when it's coming your way, exhilarating, like the tribute ringing in the ears of a wrestler in his corner. No doubt I shall be the one to bring it back.
Ihave in front of me a play contract. Paragraph 11.02 states that for attendance at rehearsals the Theatre 'shall pay the Author £25 for each day of such attend- ances and £12.50 for each half day of such attendances'. If the playwright agrees to place himself fully at the disposal of the management for the whole rehearsal period, he will receive a weekly attendance fee of £125 as well as 'reasonable and legitimate' hotel and travelling expenses incurred during preliminary rehearsals. This is the aggrandisement of true timidity on all sides. To allow a playwright to demand payment for attending rehearsals of his own play is the flowering philistine folly of those who administer the nation's purse. Pinter, Ayckbourn, Shaffer, or the public scourges of private greed like Tre- vor Griffiths, Brenton and Hare can scarcely be said to be in need of a few bob for the bus-fare or a night's lodging for the privilege of listening to their very own and golden words. Those who are so deprived could surely get a chit from the Arts Minister or even a postal order from one of the bank chairmen or downhill racers on the Board — in lieu of royalties, naturally.
When George Devine was Arts pur- veyor at the Royal Court he received £40 a week and the theatre subsidy itself was the same amount, in some contrast to the half a million handed over presently to the Rons and Lens who preside over that building and its workshops, sweatshops and Youf theatre. Tony Richardson, as assistant artistic director, was paid £14 a week. Recently, he asked the box office if he might pay for his ticket by cheque. Recognising the man whose theatre had provided her with a sinecure, the hirsute gorgon behind the counter refused. 'It's against theatre policy,' she said with the smug finality of those prigs and bullies who now have dominion over daily life. In an almost human aside and recognition of a sometime fellow worker, she added: 'You wouldn't expect us to make an excep- tion, would you?"Yes, I would,' was the illiberal reply.
Those who were dismayed at the de- mise of the Flavour of the Week engage- ment photograph in Country Life were not reassured by its return when it was repre- sented by Miss Kim Nevill. She was tasty enough, very, very, but her address was 47 Leigh Road, Westbury, and she was to be married to Mr Mark Young of 115 Station Road, also in Westbury. Could this aberra- tion be what Mrs Thatcher meant by her own vision of a classless society? Might we look forward to the announced nuptials of Tracey, daughter of Cllr Sid and Mrs Wellfair of Bishop Boateng House, SE1? However, the following week's even fruitier flavour was the daughter of a neighbour. At the wedding, Brigade and Old Etonian ties were hanging from trees and I was the only guest in a lounge suit.
High-rise Normans are not yet phoning for the fish-knives for Sharon's do at the Leisure Centre. We blessed reactionaries may breathe again.
Last week the Wash-Out-Wife paled again as she slumped in front of Channel 4's latest castration series, Watch the Woman. While a harridan in a skimpy T-shirt cracked on about faked orgasms, WOW poured yet another triple malt and moaned: 'It may not be insulting to wim- min but it's sure offensive to the rest of us.' She is now re-reading Jane Austen, branded 'a token' by the T-shirt, and, happily, is feeling much better.
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