Collected Columns

by Michael Frayn

  17 And God said, yes, He quite liked the velociraptor, too. But how about the squid? She hadn’t said anything about the squid. He had been trying to do something rather special when He had made the squid.

  18 And His wife said, yes, She liked the squid, the squid was a wonderful creation, particularly fried in batter. But there was something that worried Her just a tiny bit.

  19 And God said, Oh? What was that?

  20 And She said that it was only a small thing, and perhaps She shouldn’t mention it.

  21 But God said, No, go on, be absolutely frank, I never mind constructive criticism.

  22 And His Wife said, Well, She wasn’t absolutely sure about the chihuahua.

  23 And God opened His eyes very wide in absolute amazement and said, You’re not sure about the chihuahua?

  24 And She said, Well, not absolutely. And just possibly, if She was being completely honest, there was also something a bit funny about the jellyfish.

  25 Whereupon God grew extremely wrath. He would have understood, He said, if She had had doubts about the funnel-web spider or the staphylococcus or man. He had grave doubts about the last two Himself. But the chihuahua and the jellyfish just happened to be the two best things in the whole of creation, the only things that He was entirely happy with, and if She couldn’t see that then She would never understand anything about His work at all.

  26 And God’s Wife flounced out of the room, and there was silence in heaven for about the space of half an hour.

  27 And on the twelfth day His Wife came back and said She was sorry, She realised He was under tremendous pressure, and if He was really worried about man, why didn’t He try creating woman as well? A woman might have some sort of moderating and civilising influence. She might help man get more in touch with his feelings, and talk about things.

  28 And God said that this was quite frankly the most ridiculous idea He had heard in all His born days, of which, He added, He had had more than She had had hot dinners.

  29 And She said, Well, it was just an idea.

  30 And on the thirteenth day God created woman. It smacked to Him of compromise, and He wasn’t very happy about it, but He had to admit He couldn’t really think of anything better. Anyway, in the end You had to make compromises here and there, You had to be prepared to learn from practice and listen to other people’s points of view, He saw that.

  31 And on the fourteenth day God won the Yorkshire Post Universe of the Year Award, and He made an acceptance speech that got a few laughs, and His Wife wore her dark blue silk with the pearl choker, and behold, things didn’t seem quite so bad after all.

  (1994)

  Your inattention, please

  Now will you please ensure that your seat-belt is securely fastened, ready for take-off.

  Your table should be folded away, with the seat-back upright and the arm-rest down. Your mind should be in the closed position to be adopted when routine safety announcements of this sort are made. Faces should be completely obscured by newspapers, or eyes securely shut. If you are still conscious, you may find the level, hypnotic tone of voice in which this announcement is being made helpful in securing complete inattention.

  In the pocket in front of you you will find a card showing aircraft safety procedures. In the interest of your own peace of mind, please studiously ignore this. Any attempt to look at it may result in your appearing nervous or inexperienced to your fellow-passengers. We are mentioning it purely as a test to make sure that no one is listening.

  The cabin attendants will now demonstrate the use of the aircraft’s emergency oxygen masks and lifejackets. They are not trained in mime or the use of theatrical properties, and they find this performance profoundly embarrassing. It is important to them to know that no one is watching. Those of you who are unable to read, or who are afflicted by insomnia, may look out of the window.

  If for any reason the cabin air-supply should fail, oxygen will be provided. Masks like this will appear automatically. We say ‘like this’, but what in fact these masks are like you have of course no idea. In the unlikely event of anyone looking up, and seeing the entire cabin staff transformed into grinning effigies of Prince Charles, please remain seated. Place the newspaper back in front of your face and try to breathe normally.

  The action of pulling the mask to the face automatically opens the way to less inhibited behaviour. Please do not smoke when the masks are in use, as the lighted end of the cigarette may be forced up your nostril.

  There are emergency exits on both sides of the aircraft. They are not being pointed out to you now, because they are clearly marked. It is true that the cabin attendants are swinging their arms forwards and sideways, but this is part of a simple programme of physical exercise intended to relieve stress caused by the frustration inherent in the nature of the work.

  Additional lighting is provided on the arm of your seat and at floor level for the convenience of passengers who have sunk even deeper behind their newspapers at this time.

  In the unlikely event of a landing on water, you will find that you have no idea where your life-jacket is stowed. If this should happen, remove outer clothing and prepare for immersion. Place your jacket carefully under the seat in front of you, check that your shirt is free from the waistband of the trousers or skirt, then pull it upwards over the head in one steady movement, like this.

  It is particularly important that no one watches any part of what follows.

  Release the catch at the waistband, pull down the fastener provided, and let the lower garments fall to the floor. Please ensure that they do not obstruct the emergency exits.

  There is a whistle attached to your lifejacket for attracting attention, which attendants are holding close to their lips, but being very careful not actually to blow in case attention should indeed be attracted. In a real emergency this would of course be still under your seat with the lifejacket, and you may wish to try alternative methods of persuading people to look at you.

  Your cabin attendants are now demonstrating the procedure for these. Ladies should undo the fastenings at the front of the upper undergarment as shown, and pass it backwards over the shoulders, like this.

  Now peel any hosiery downwards, like this, followed by the lower undergarment, taking care to keep the pelvis rotating at the same time, as shown. Once off, the undergarments may if desired be passed around various parts of the body, like this, then tossed lightly into the faces of potential rescuers, who may be engrossed in the Financial Times at least as deeply as passengers are now.

  If you are still wearing the masks at this time, you may wish to loosen your inhibitions even further, as attendants are now demonstrating.

  If necessary, the pressure can be increased by applying the mouth to this mouthpiece, but gentlemen, no pipes or cigars, please. For your own safety and comfort, kindly do not inflame other passengers until you are outside the aircraft.

  Thank you for your complete lack of attention. Now please allow cabin staff a few seconds to retrieve their clothes and retire to the galley areas to dress, then open your eyes, fold newspapers away, settle back in your seats and enjoy the flight.

  (1994)

  Your quick flip guide

  The quickest and flippest guide to all the entertainment of history since the dawn of time! Glance at it here and thank God you missed it!

  14 The Big Bang. Would you believe a more

  billion BC mindless way of opening the schedules than The Big Breakfast? They must be desperate.

  600,000 BC The Old Stone Age. Carry On Chipping. And on. And on.

  40,000 BC The New Stone Age. It says here. You could have fooled us.

  2500 BC The Pyramids. Early undertakers’ bills were shockers, too.

  1220 BC The Ten Commandments. They make ’em, you break ’em.

  1200 BC The Holy Bible. Something Old – something New – something borrowed – can it be true? Some enjoyably naff special effects, though, particularly with corpses coming back to life.

&nb
sp; 30 BC The Roman Empire. Lashings of nosh and booze, and some great sex, if you don’t mind sitting through all those battles first. Lions v. Christians makes a change from the UEFA Cup. (Some scenes may upset animal-lovers.)

  AD 400 The Dark Ages. Just when you thought it was safe to wake up and take an interest again.

  1066 The Norman Conquest. Ever wondered why so many of the nobs seem to have Frog names? No? Back to sleep again, then.

  1337 The Hundred Years War. Creaking slasher featuring ex-pats v. colourful locals in well-loved holiday landscapes. And you thought A Year in Provence was long!

  1347 The Black Death. Noir-ish but predictable medical nasty with rats and pustules.

  1400 The Renaissance. The Italians may have lost at home to Croatia, but they invented art, wouldn’t you know it?

  1478 The Spanish Inquisition. Your one-stop action sudser – cops and firemen. Only here’s the gizmo – the cops are all in drag and the firemen start the fires.

  1508 The Sistine Chapel. Geniuses – who needs ’em? Fellow here who’s right up the wall, not to mention across the ceiling. But watch out for God getting static electricity out of Melvyn Bragg.

  1545 The Council of Trent. Predictable ecclesiastical romp. Could this be the original vicarage tea-party?

  1564 William Shakespeare. So – whodunnit? Was it Will in the study with the quill? Or was it Francis in the backparlour with the bacon? Or was it the butler all the time, and who cares?

  1600 The British Empire. Stiff upper lip, chaps. The natives are restive – and they still haven’t invented air-conditioning. (Black and white.)

  1618 The Thirty Years War. Another leisurely ramble round the usual trouble-spots.

  1687 The Law of Gravitation. When apples keep falling mysteriously off the apple trees, people suspect a poltergeist is at work. But eccentric scientist Isaac Newton believes there may be a more rational explanation …

  PICK OF THE PICK

  1739 The War of Jenkin’s Ear. A real find. A fast-paced little war made on a shoestring, with a totally fresh and original starting point, that had a big influence in its time on better-known productions such as the War of the Austrian Succession. Terrific performance by Jenkin himself as the gung-ho mariner, and the severed ear is genuinely creepy. Everyone knows the shlocky remake with Vincent Van Gogh, but this rare original has been strangely overlooked by historians. British history-making at its best.

  1760 The Industrial Revolution. Slime ’n’ grime and Trooble at t’ Mill.

  1769 Napoleon Bonaparte. This is the one about the Little Man with Big Ideas.

  1776 The United States. Great blues, great burgers – pity about the Polish jokes.

  1837 The Victorian Age. The costumes are naff and the sex is kinky. Worth a glance, though, for the wonderfully tacky lighting effects. All that smoke and fog may have brought life expectancy down to the level of a prawn sandwich, but they must have saved art directors a fortune in dry ice.

  1859 The Origin of Species. Shock horror! The whole schedule turns out to consist of Planet of the Apes!

  1899 Sigmund Freud. Sigmund is a nice Jewish boy in Johann Strauss’s Vienna. But when he meets screwed-up Mr Rat Man, strange things begin to crawl out of the woodwork …

  1905 The Theory of Relativity. Things a bit slow down your way? Nip off for a Weekend Break in a space-rocket – and they get slower still. Geddit? No, nor do we. But watch out for the wacky prof with the fright-wig and the spaniel eyes.

  1914 World War I. Mud ’n’ blud, but what it’s all about no one knows.

  1917 Communism. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

  1939 World War II. Entirely predictable routine spin-off with bigger bangs – plus Vera Lynn. (See Interview feature: Adolf Hitler – ‘my dream bathroom’, p.17.)

  1969 Moon landing. One small step for them – one large vodka for us, please.

  1995 Meltdown. How predictable can you get? The biggest switch-off since they canned the Epilogue.

  (1994)

  Your shameful secret

  A cold shock of apprehension ran through me when I saw Ken Follett described in the Guardian as a luvvie.

  Ken Follett? I know actors are luvvies, we all know that. But Ken Follett’s not an actor – he’s a writer. So the disease is spreading. Maybe I’m a luvvie. I’ve worked with actors, shared toilet facilities with them, possibly drunk out of the wrong cup of coffee in a rehearsal room …

  But Ken Follett doesn’t even write for the theatre. And now I see that the term ‘Luvvies for Labour’ is being used to apply to celebrities of all descriptions. So plainly the problem is not being contained within the theatrical community at all. Everyone is at risk. Maybe you’re a luvvie! Yes – you!

  You laugh. But then you start to wonder … What’s the first symptom?

  The first symptom is that you’re sitting there in a reasonably warm room, with food on the table in front of you, and a glass of wine, and you feel some faint spasm of sympathy passing through you for some other group of human beings, who as a result of their own fecklessness, or through the operation of natural laws beyond your control, are not sitting in a reasonably warm room, with food and a glass of wine in front of them.

  The glass of wine in front of you is not claret, I assume – I hope. Claret-drinkers are particularly at risk – were known to be even before the luvvie virus was first identified. But you’re sitting there with your glass of burgundy, say – burgundy is perfectly all right – when suddenly, out of nowhere, you hear this terrible … thing coming out of your mouth. This pious, sententious, canting, do-gooding, expression of hypocritical concern for someone not yourself.

  How could it possibly have happened to you? You’re not an actor! You haven’t avoided all life’s pitfalls, perhaps, but at least you’ve avoided that one. It’s true you thought of taking it up when you were at school. And you could have done – everyone said you were a wonderful Bernardo in the school Hamlet. By now, if you hadn’t exercised real self-discipline, you could easily have been sitting in the Groucho giving interviews about European monetary policy. But you steeled yourself. You turned your back on it. You didn’t become a writer, either, though God knows you were tempted at times. You didn’t even go into cultural administration or arts funding. Remember how you almost responded to that advertisement in the Careers pages? Forgotten yearnings come flooding back … But you didn’t. And now, suddenly, out of nowhere … this.

  Another terrible suspicion comes to you. Perhaps you are a member of the chattering classes! You cast your mind back. What have you been saying at dinner parties recently? Nothing, surely. You sat there, you ate your food, you drank your … well, it might have been claret – but claret on its own is all right. It’s claret and concern for others which is such a deadly cocktail. And you certainly didn’t express any concern for others, not in public, not at the dinner table. You smiled a little sardonically when other people spoke. And all right, you spoke, of course you spoke, you’re only human – but you always practised safe speech. You talked about the kind of things that the non-chattering classes talk about. Schools, holidays. How you don’t understand computers. The ridiculousness of luvvies and members of the chattering classes. But chatter? No one could call that chatter …

  And then you remember … it was late at night, you’d had quite a lot of the claret, and you dropped your guard a little. You were just fooling around, of course, it wasn’t serious. It was something that the person sitting opposite you said. Something about luvvies or the chattering classes, perhaps. For some reason you felt you wanted to disagree. Some actors, you said, were perfectly decent people who knew their place. And if the chattering classes didn’t chatter, then what would the non-chattering classes have to non-chatter about?

  Maybe, you think, nobody else remembers – maybe they never even noticed. But you know it happened. You know that deep down you have these strange unacknowledged feelings. You know you were tipping claret down on top of them. And next time you go to a d
inner-party you’re going to be looking at everyone, thinking ‘Does he know about me? Does she know?’ And just as you think you’re getting away with it once again you’ll realise that there’s something familiar about the person who’s looking at you across the table, not saying anything, a little ironical smile playing about the lips … Yes – it’s someone who was present the night you committed your little indiscretion.

  You try to keep calm, but you feel the panic rising within you. He knows – you know that from the little smile. Is he going to out you to the rest of the company? Is he going to ring you at work next day, as you sit among all your carefully-chosen, discreet, unforthcoming, intensely non-theatrical colleagues, and try to blackmail you?

  Or worse, suggest meeting somewhere privately, just the two of you? Because you realise, from that little smile, that he is a secret luvvie himself – a closet member of the chattering classes. He’ll take you to some special bar he knows, full of actors and people in leather jackets flaunting progressive opinions. He’ll ply you with claret. You’ll find yourself exchanging shy doubts about the enterprise culture and the sovereignty of Parliament …

  As you sit there at the dinner-table, the whole vertiginous downward spiral opens in front of you. You make a supreme effort to avoid your fate. You start to babble wildly about schools and holidays – the incomprehensibility of computers and Stephen Hawking – the difficulty of finding good servants – the prospects for the stag-hunting season …

  Everyone gazes at you. They’ve never seen you like this before – so red in the face, so fearless of received opinion and political correctness, so profoundly unchattering. The man opposite goes on smiling his little smile, but now it simply drives you to bolder and bolder achievements. You denounce Europe – and Asia for good measure. You call for the return of the death penalty for trespassing and being foreign.

  You begin to feel wildly exhilarated. You realise you’re doing something you’ve never done before … Until suddenly it dawns on you what it is.