Collected Columns

by Michael Frayn

  They’re at their very worst with the eight daily newspapers that face them each morning. The rich profusion of sizes and styles and arrangements exhibited by the words in the newspapers completely demoralises them. They run hopelessly back and forth from one story to another like panic-stricken chickens. And yet they’re so hidebound by restrictive practices that even at this juncture they refuse to see more than one size of type at a time – if they see the small headlines they don’t see the large ones, and if they see the text they don’t see the headlines at all.

  Heavens, it makes me mad to think of all the time and ingenuity the printers and sub-editors have expended to make life easy for the readers’ eyes – only to have ungrateful young peepers like mine pick and choose and complain. But isn’t that the modern pupil all over? All they think of is eye, eye, eye.

  With typical cowardly idleness they always start by picking on the smallest type at the bottom of the page, hoping no doubt that my hand will absent-mindedly turn the page over before they come up against anything their own size.

  Short of pinning the newspaper to the wall, and slowly advancing from the other side of the room with my glasses off, reading it line by line like an oculist’s chart, I suppose I’m condemned to go on starting the front page each morning with the This Funny Old World section at the bottom:

  HIS PET ATE – TROUSERS

  Harold Morbidly (47) went to work in his underpants after his pet hamster, Lulu, ate his trousers, Chingford, Essex, magistrates were told yesterday.

  Discouraged by this inauspicious intelligence, my eyes labour slowly up from the bottom of the next column along.

  Last night a man was helping the police in their inquiries.

  ‘I tried to stop him,’ said Mrs Sough, ‘by running after him shouting “Help, police!”’

  He grabbed the money from the till and ran out of the shop. Then he pulled out a gun and said, This is a stick-up.’

  ‘So of course,’ said Mrs Sough, ‘I assumed he was a perfectly ordinary customer …’

  It doesn’t make any sense to me. Hey, just a moment – didn’t I catch a glimpse of ‘intimacy occurred’ seven columns over to the left somewhere? Ah, here we are.

  … An opportunity to show that the Prime Minister knew the North-East with considerable intimacy occurred when …

  Oh. H’m. Where was I?

  ‘The morals of young people today,’ said Sir Harold Sidewinder …

  That wasn’t it, was it?

  … are to be either scrapped or put into mothballs.

  Nor that. Where the devil was it?

  HEAVY LASSES KEEP GIANT COMPANY IN BED

  No.

  ‘The morals of young people …’

  What? Heavy lasses do what? Where did I see that? Oh, HEAVY LOSSES KEEP GIANT COMPANY IN RED. Yes. Heavens, I’m bored. Must try and stagger a bit higher, though.

  … wiped out. First reports put the number of dead and missing at …

  Funny about those heavy lasses, I must say.

  … when disaster … many thousands rendered homeless …

  What was that rather amusing story about a hamster going into mothballs? Forgotten already. More or less squeezed this page dry, haven’t I? Just glance at the main headline …

  WAR DECLARED

  … and I can turn over. Nothing in the damned paper, as usual.

  I don’t know what the solution is. Perhaps lead the page with HAMSTER INCIDENT SHOCK and make the tailpiece at the bottom:

  Page One Fun

  WELL, I DECLARE …!

  ‘I declare war on Russia,’ said Sir Alec Douglas-Home (60) opening a Staggered Hours exhibition yesterday. Experts combing the radio-active rubble of London last night believed that what Sir Alec really said was not ‘Russia’ but ‘rush-hour.’

  My eyes would get round it somehow, though. Probably start reading the advertisements.

  (1963)

  What the stars foretell

  It’s odd how the Guide Michelin has established itself in English mythology. Few British tourists, hammering across France with a carload of camping equipment and the last £10 traveller’s cheque preserved next to their heart, can afford anything more than the most modest of restaurants. Yet each new edition of the Guide is scrutinised by British newspapers, as if it were ‘Who’s Who’ or the Honours List, for new accessions to three-star status, or even more interesting, demotions therefrom. And when the proprietors of demoted three-star restaurants shoot themselves, that shows the French behaving in an even more amusingly French way still.

  Like Inspector Maigret and the police judiciaire, the team of Michelin agents who eat their way so secretly, expertly, and high-mindedly around France have caught the English imagination. One day there will be an English television series featuring Patrick Wymark as l’inspecteur Finbec of the Service Michelin (the Ser’ Mich’, as they call it in the business), one of the dedicated, lonely men who drive the long straight roads of France in their dark Peugeots (disguised with Pirelli tyres), grimly hunting down over-cooked artichokes in small country towns filled with birdsong.

  In the first instalment, Finbec has scarcely finished his salade niçoise in a little restaurant in Cahiers (Marne-et-Loire), when the patronne says that her husband is away, and that she has some primeurs of asparagus upstairs in her room …

  *

  I think it’s a pity that the mythology of the red Michelin has eclipsed that of the other famous Michelin guides – the guides verts. The green guides are the regional touring ones, and marvellous guides they are, with intelligent information about industry, geology, and the events of the last war, as well as old churches.

  The guides verts have their own system of star-grading, with which they classify the attractions of towns, villages, beauty spots, public monuments, and works of art. Three stars means ‘worth a journey’; two stars – ‘worth a detour’; one – interesting.’ Then there are two lower categories, distinguished only by the size of the type-face on the maps – places which are ‘to be seen if the occasion arises,’ and ‘reference points,’ which aren’t to be seen even if the occasion does arise, but merely used to find the way to more fortunate locations.

  So presumably there is an even larger force of green Michelin inspectors driving the roads of France in their discreet Peugeots, anonymously assessing the merits of abbey, view, and public fountain. Inspectors in the Mich’ vert division of the service rather look down on those in the Mich’ rouge, I suspect. Something of the branch’s traditions comes through in this quietly dramatic report sent back to head office by l’inspecteur (vert) Pondéré after his triennial inspection of Grince (Charente-et-Oise)***.

  ‘The speciality of Grince is its cathédrale gothique avec le beffroi à la mode de Rouen. But when I arrived (at 4.30 p.m.) I was informed by a rather surly verger, wearing a cassock which was none too clean, that the visit to the belfry was off. So was the visit to the treasury, and I had to make do with a cold and under-lighted crypt.

  ‘I hoped I might have better luck with the bas-reliefs en marbre de St-Boisson, but they turned out to be undergoing repair and half-hidden behind screens. I washed the cathédrale down with a promising-looking Chateau de Montvizier 1542, which turned out to be reasonably viewable, though somewhat lacking in body and mellowness.

  ‘I rounded the occasion off by sampling Grince’s much-praised panorama du belvédère de St-Astuce sur la vallée de la Buze, to which we awarded three stars in our last edition. I regret to report that I found a large cement factory floating in the middle of the view, which entirely destroyed my appetite for it.

  ‘I recommend that Grince should be reclassified “to be seen if the occasion arises.”’

  When this alarming report reaches headquarters, of course, a gigantic intelligence operation is put into motion. A whole team of secret agents infiltrates Grince and the surrounding countryside to check Pondéré’s assessment. Every aspect of the town’s Principal Curiosities and Other Curiosities is probed and sifted.
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  And when the Awards Committee sits down to consider the case, the whole field of comparative beauty-spot aesthetics comes under review. Are Gothic cathedrals perhaps a somewhat overrated form of architectural expression altogether? On the other hand, does a cement factory really spoil the view? Isn’t there a case for saying that a cement factory, and a landscape whitened by cement dust, is a more characteristic expression of the twentieth century than old-fashioned woods and cornfields?

  And is the Finger of St-Bolophon, which wags at pilgrims from its reliquary in Grince Cathedral on the third Sunday of April, before the tourist season starts, really more delightful than the Bile of Ste-Théodosie at Le Hoquet, which liquefies on the second Sunday of August, when the season is at its height?

  The whole subject is so complex, and the general principles so hotly disputed, that the Committee decides to leave Grince with one of its stars as a compromise. Even so, of course, when the new edition of the guide appears the Mayor of Grince poisons himself and the Bishop flees to South America.

  But, in the British papers, not a word.

  (1967)

  Whereas

  (A) The Author of this Deed is at present seised in fee simple and in stupor tremens by the process of moving house.

  (B) The Author is of sound mind SAVE THAT the Vendor of the first part and the Mortgagee of the second part and the Assignor of the third part and the Leaseholder of the fourth part and the Lessee of the fifth part and the Curtainor of the sixth part and the Carpetee of the seventh part and the Gasholder of the eighth part HAVE AGREED to cover all floors walls tables and other surfaces in the present residence of the Author with three coats of prime quality LEGAL DOCUMENTS.

  (C) The aforementioned legal documents are close carpeted throughout with verbiage of a tasteful period character.

  Provided that

  A space shall be kept clear among the said verbiage to accommodate an Excise Stamp charged at NOT MORE than one third of the Government’s current defence expenditure.

  And wherethemore

  (A) For a consideration the Solicitors of the aforementioned parties have agreed to join in these deeds SEEING THAT no aforementioned party would really go with a swing without them.

  (B) Given the slightest additional consideration the Solicitors’ Solicitors and the Solicitors’ Solicitors’ Solicitors would doubtless also join in both in fee simple and fee compound.

  Provided that

  The aforementioned partygiver (hereinafter called ‘the Mortgaged Soul’) shall not be responsible for maintaining more than half the country’s legal profession at any one time.

  And wherewithstanding

  IN THE EVENT of a person being both Vendor of one property and Vendee of another it is required by Logic that the Market cannot be unfavourable to him in both capacities.

  EXCEPT THAT in the case of the Author the Market shall be guaranteed to be permanently against him whether as Vendor Vendee or Vendsoever.

  And whereasmuchas

  (A) The Friends of the Author (hereinafter called Christopher and Lavinia Crumble) bought purchased or became seised of their demesne two years ago for the sum of ONE THOUSAND POUNDS (£1,000).

  (B) The value of the said demesne THEREUPON without let or hindrance and without prejudice to the liberal reputation of the aforesaid Christopher and Lavinia Crumble rose to TEN THOUSAND POUNDS (£10,000).

  (C) This being achieved in part by the application of two coats of pale mauve paint by the said Christopher Crumble and in part by the removal of all adjacent tenants of immoral or drunken habits or small means and their replacement by new tenants of immoral or drunken habits and more substantial means.

  And wheremoresoever

  Even those Friends of the Author known as Horace and Doris Morris ordinarily situate in the same boat as the Author and generally supposed by the Author to be at least as fee simple about these matters as himself have acquired a residence the size of a small cathedral for A SONG (1 Sng).

  And wherewithas

  (A) In contradistinction to the Morrises and Crumbles the Author of this Deed (or Doer or Deedee) shall entertain all reasonable certainty that he will hereinafter be known as the Deedled or Done.

  (B) The Author shall hereupon feel himself personally responsible for the maintenance in good condition of the Property Market heretofore known as the Property Racket.

  (C) The Author shall be absolutely entitled to feel ground floor flat by the whole business.

  Now it is agreed

  The Author shall have in perpetuity the peaceful enjoyment of the dirty end of the stick.

  Now this deed

  WITNESSETH as follows:

  The Author solemnly covenants with himself that notwithstanding overcrowding dilapidation infestation sudden enrichment sudden impoverishment conjugal representations or the purchase by Horace and Doris Morris of a royal palace in good order for fifteen shillings and sixpence NOR EVEN WITHSTANDING unemployment need and hunger among the Legal Profession HE SHALL before he contemplates moving house again meditate deeply upon this document for three calendar months following the first full moon after the penultimate Quarter Day of the next Leap Year but one.

  In witness whereof the party hereto sets hereunder his exhausted hand.

  (1963)

  A wisp of azure

  My Bank Holiday was sombrely illumined by Miss Freya Stark’s long essay in The Times, entitled ‘The qualities needed to escape from mediocrity.’ Miss Stark’s analysis of the nation’s situation is bold and outspoken: we’re decadent.

  ‘The decadence is there,’ she argues, ‘and anyone can spot it, from a lack of candour in public life to the fact that scarce a clock in any London street now tells the time correctly – from right and left in chaos to eccentricities of dress.’

  A solidly documented case, certainly – the wrongness of the clocks is a particularly damning piece of evidence. The conclusion came as no surprise to me. So far as I know, human society has been in a state of perpetual decadence ever since writers first discovered how to spell the word, and the chances that we might somehow have slipped into a state of undecadence since the publication of the last indictment seemed fairly slim, even before the Bank Holiday.

  What strikes me most forcefully about Miss Stark’s arguments is the prose they’re expressed in, which is largely verse – a rare quality for prose to possess in this decadent age, and one which the compositors at The Times seem to have overlooked in laying the piece out.

  Take the passage I quoted, ‘The de/cadence/ is there,/ and an/yone/ can spot it,’ she starts off, in five iambs and an amphibrach. The lack of candour in public life seems to have defeated her powers of metrification, as well it might, but she comes back strongly, in iambs varied with the occasional amphibrach again, on the fact

  That scarce a clock in any London street

  Now tells the time correctly –

  From right and left in chaos

  To eccentricities of dress.

  She concedes that many of these symptoms ‘are straws/that an/y wind/ might carry.’ What forms and phenomena the children of a particular age deck themselves with, she admits, is

  Like foam dissolving on waves that dupe themselves

  To stabilise the sands of time they cover.

  I’m not too happy about that anapaest at the third foot of the first pentameter, but Shakespeare wouldn’t have bothered about the odd anapaest in blank verse, and anyway, in a decadent age like ours you must expect a little rough workmanship here and there. In any case, Miss Stark makes up for it handsomely by rhyming a couplet before the end of the paragraph:

  Their fluid arabesque need not detain us,

  But rather that hidden force beneath it push-

  Ing it with sonorous monotony

  Ashore. What power lifts it with such pulsations,

  Such raising and lowering of nations.

  Which we call progress and decay?

  The question here is not rhetorical, for it turns out th
at the power which lifts the fluid arabesque, with such pulsations, and, indeed, such raising and lowering of nations, is (or are) two fallacies. There’s nothing like a couple of fallacies if you’ve got an arabesque to lift.

  The fallacies in question, which Miss Stark believes gained currency after the First World War, are that mediocrity can lead to, or substitute for, Excellence. Miss Stark does not totally dismiss mediocrity, in spite of its small ‘m’; she calls it, among other things,

  The golden mean, the weft and woof of habit,

  The vine and fig tree of Isaiah…

  But she prefers Excellence, with a capital ‘E’, which she describes as a ‘sprite’, and ‘not a result, but an apparition.’ She says it ‘comes out of the deep well and is either reached by its own paths or not at all,’ And she writes:

  It is whatever life may mean

  Apart from daily living,

  A wisp of azure,

  A visitation to the mind or heart.

  The trouble is, apparently, that instead of lifting up our eyes to the hills and dreaming dreams, we rested on our oars in a victorious sunset. So now mediocrity ‘creeps into our English garden, where Shakespeare is still not only read but enjoyed, by a simple act of carpentry, the setting-up of the bed of Procrustes.’

  But what of the future? Miss Stark drops into tetrameters:

  It would be desperate to watch

  Our hemisphere rolling into night

  Without a certainty of dawn,

  And day will come, we may be sure …