His eyes were shadowed and he was silent for too long.
So, I think I have made my point: the Gervases in literature are well connected, but not very nice.
When I met the third speaker at the literary luncheon, the bestselling novelist Margaret Dickinson, author of such cracking reads as Wish Me Luck, The Miller’s Daughter and Chaff Upon the Wind, I suggested rather facetiously that she might like to name the hero of her next novel, Suffragette Girl, a Gervase, and use my second name, Richard, as his surname. To my surprise and delight, she agreed. True to her word, the novel features a young, dashing military hero called Gervase Richards.
The Critic
‘I think Mr Phinn will agree with me that his books won’t win a Booker or a Pulitzer prize for literature, but if you want a light-hearted, entertaining, easy holiday read you need go no further.’
That was the introduction to my talk at a recent literary festival. Damned with faint praise, I thought. I know none of my books will ever rank amongst the great works of literature or become set texts for ‘A’ level, but the comments did, I have to say, rankle a little.
Those who write books, however, have to accept that some critics will be less than generous in their opinions and should not get too upset about it. If you present your work for public scrutiny, you have to take the rough with the smooth. Authors and poets should follow the advice of Lord Byron, in his clever and amusing English Bards and Scotch Reviewers:
‘To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss.’
Of course, authors sometimes entertain wicked thoughts about their critics but to enter into a slanging match with a mean-minded reviewer can do a deal of harm to that writer’s reputation. If I receive a letter criticising some aspect of my work, I never reply. It will irritate the sender to think that their efforts have been wasted and their opinions ignored.
Recently, the philosopher Alain de Botton became apoplectic when he read the review of his book, The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work, by the critic, Caleb Crain. He accused Crain of being ‘driven by an almost manic desire to badmouth and perversely depreciate anything of value’. He went on to wish his critic ‘nothing but ill will in every career move you make,’ and to declare, ‘I will hate you till the day I die!’ He really was upset.
Nicci Gerrard, writing about the novelist Jeanette Winterson, wrote somewhat cruelly that: ‘She has come a long way from playing tambourine in a missionary tent in Lancashire; she’s the ultimate self-made woman – self-taught, self-improved, self-produced, self-invented and oh-so self-confident.’ Miss Winterson was so angry she turned up one evening on Gerrard’s doorstep and confronted the critic with the words: ‘Never come near me or my writing again, do you hear?’
In reviewing Piers Morgan’s book, God Bless America, Giles Hattersley, rather than focusing on the content of the book became rather personal in his attack when he wrote that ‘being Piers Morgan these days sounds exhausting – naff parties, D-list squabbles and pictures of your wobbling moobs splashed across tabloids’. Morgan’s retort to Hattersley was equally personal, branding his reviewer as ‘a Norton-esquely camp, pint-sized toe rag.’ Let us hope they don’t meet each other at one of the ‘naff parties’.
If writers must respond to critical reviewers it is best done with humour. I was speaking at another literary lunch with a very popular and successful author of romantic fiction. There is a great deal of critical and patronising clap-trap about what are dismissed as ‘pot-boilers’, that the characters are shallow and the plots predictable and far fetched, but those who write these massively popular stories know their audience, research their subjects and produce entertaining reads. Those quick to criticise should have a go at writing one of the novels. I asked the author at the literary lunch if she felt upset and angry with the critical reviews of her work.
She smiled. ‘I sell more books than any Booker prizewinner,’ she told me, ‘and laugh at my critics – all the way to the bank.’ Then she added, ‘And after all, critics are like eunuchs, aren’t they? They like to tell you how to do it but are incapable of doing it themselves.’
The Campbells Are Coming
I was asked to speak at the Scottish Education Conference in Glasgow. There was a stipulation: tartans will be worn.
I was recommended ‘Scotland’s Premier Kiltmaker’ in Glasgow, and duly paid the shop a visit to get kitted out.
The delightfully friendly and somewhat mature lady enquired of my clan. I explained that my paternal grandmother was Margaret Helen Macdonald, a fearsome and zealous matriarch who hailed from South Uist. My grandmother maintained she was a direct descendent of the famous Ranald Macdonald, who fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie. I guess many have laid claim to this but, if my turn comes to be on the television programme which traces ancestry, I will know one way or the other.
‘I’m minded to have a pair of trews rather than a kilt,’ I told the proprietor.
‘Turn roond,’ she said, and proceeded to examine my nether regions. ‘Aach no!’ she exclaimed. ‘Yev no the buttocks for the trews. They have to be small and well formed – like two duck’s eggs in a handkerchief. You see, the short Bonnie Prince Charlie jacket exposes everything at the rear. Yours are far too big and flabby.’ She was nothing if not blunt. ‘Better a kilt to cover things up.’ When I tried on a kilt she was rather more complimentary. ‘Aye, that’s better. You’ve the legs for a kilt.’
My Granny Macdonald married an Irishman, John Finn, but, wanting to retain her proud Scottish name, and being a bit of Patricia Routledge’s Mrs Bucket aka Bouquet, changed the name to Phinn, and styled herself, rather grandly, Mrs Macdonald-Phinn. Like many a Macdonald, she had little time for anyone bearing the perfidious name Campbell. It was they, she reminded anyone inclined to listen, who massacred the poor defenceless members of her clan at Glencoe. She would never countenance anything in her house with the word ‘Campbell’ on – cans of soup and meatballs bearing the dreaded name were banned.
I guess Granny Macdonald spun in her grave when I went to work for a head teacher called Mr Campbell. One February morning I arrived at school wearing a black and white tartan tie of the Menzies Clan. Sister Brendan, a teaching colleague, commented how nice it looked.
‘I don’t wear this to look nice, Sister,’ I said mischievously, ‘I wear it on this day in memory of those who died at Glencoe, those members of my grandmother’s clan who were massacred by the Campbells.’
‘Good gracious,’ said the nun, visibly shocked, ‘whenever was this?’
‘The thirteenth of February, 1692,’ I told her.
‘That was a terrible long time ago, Gervase.’
‘It was, Sister,’ I said, ‘but we have long memories and when Mr Campbell, the head teacher, sees this tie, he will feel suitably ashamed of what his clan did.’
‘Surely it’s time to forgive and forget,’ she said.
After assembly that morning, Mr Campbell approached me about some inconsequential matter. Sister Brendan watched with interest.
‘What did he say?’ she asked in hushed tones as I headed for my classroom.
‘He apologised,’ I said loftily.
An Interpretation
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ said the Director of Education, ‘but we have some foreign visitors with us this evening.’
I was the after-dinner speaker at a large education conference entitled: ‘Education: Where are we going from here?’ Frankly, when I saw the foreign visitors, a pretty large delegation of Eastern-looking principals, education officers and university lecturers, I felt like going home.
‘They do speak English, don’t they?’ I asked, trying to reassure myself.
‘Very few of them,’ said the Director of Education, smiling.
‘I am afraid they won’t understand a deal of what I say,’ I ventured.
‘They won’t understand a bloody word,’ said the helpful head teacher on my right, ‘not if you start talking about all
those Yorkshire children and the things they say. I have difficulty with some of your material myself and I’m from Lancashire.’
That’s understandable, I thought to myself, but I didn’t say anything.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the Director of Education, ‘there’s an interpreter. He will translate what you say.’ I felt my heart begin to sink. ‘I’ve told them you are a very amusing speaker and that they are in for a most entertaining evening.’ My heart had now sunk into my shoes.
I joined a group of head teachers at one of the tables. ‘Do you speak Japanese then?’ asked one, a large bearded individual who would have looked at home as a bouncer outside a club.
‘No, I don’t,’ I replied.
‘I’m going to enjoy this,’ he said, ‘watching their expressions when you get going. Their faces will be a picture.’
‘I don’t think your material will easily translate into Japanese,’ another Job’s comforter told me.
‘And the Japanese sense of humour is very different from our own,’ added another.
I can’t say that my address was a resounding success. The foreign visitors sat politely, with bemused expressions on their faces, while the interpreter struggled valiantly to translate my anecdotes. After the first five minutes, he threw in the towel and joined his colleagues in observing me with the same inscrutable expression on his face.
After twenty minutes or so, I too threw in the towel and decided the poor Japanese visitors had endured quite enough of me rattling on about children and schools in Yorkshire.
‘Most enjoyable,’ said the Director of Education, in a rather lukewarm tone of voice, as I prepared to make a hasty exit. ‘Do come and say hello to our foreign visitors. I am sure they would like to meet you.’
‘My son Matthew lives in Japan,’ I told a most distinguished-looking man in thin gold-rimmed spectacles.
The interpreter informed him what I had said with an expressionless face.
‘He loves Japan,’ I continued, ‘the people, the culture, the scenery, the food.’
The interpreter translated.
‘Matthew has been there for five years now, in Hiroshima. He’s an artist in residence there.’
The interpreter translated.
‘He has fallen in love with your country.’ I was now getting rather effusive.
The translator gave a small sympathetic smile. ‘We are from China,’ he told me.
‘Aah . . . so,’ I said, smiling weakly. ‘China?’ I hoped that the floor would open and swallow me up. All eyes were focused upon me. ‘My son Dominic lives in China, you know,’ I said cheerfully. ‘He is the General Manager at the European Chamber of Commerce in Nanjing. He loves your country, the people, the culture, the scenery, the food . . .’
After the Brigadier
I like Rotarians. They are invariably friendly, good-humoured and kindly people with a great sense of fun and, after the Women’s Institute and the Townswomen’s Guild, they are my best audience.
One bright Sunday morning, I was in Bournemouth to speak, at the District Governor’s autumn conference, to over a thousand Rotarians and their wives or partners. I was greeted warmly at the entrance of the venue by the Sergeant-at-Arms, a jolly red-faced man dressed in a striped blazer and straw boater, and sporting a large yellow sash.
‘You’re speaking after the Brigadier,’ he told me.
‘Really,’ I said cheerfully.
‘Have you heard the Brigadier speak before?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I haven’t.’
‘You are in for a real treat. I’ve been coming to these conferences for years and I’ve never yet heard a better speaker – amusing, informative and challenging and not a note in sight.’
My heart sank.
‘I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes,’ he vouchsafed.
I was taken to meet the District Governor, a distinguished-looking, heavily bemedalled individual.
‘You are speaking after the Brigadier,’ he told me.
‘So I believe.’
‘Have you heard the Brigadier before?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I said.
‘The Brigadier was speaking at our conference a couple of years ago, and is back by popular demand. Quite a brilliant presentation.’
My heart was now thumping away in my chest and my stomach was doing kangaroo jumps.
I have followed many distinguished, charismatic and amusing speakers in my time – Simon Weston, Barry Cryer, Sir John Mills, Lord Snowdon, George Galloway, P D James, David Mellor, Andy McNab and others – and it is a frightening experience because the audience feels so let down if you are not as good, which invariably you are not. Now here I was, speaking after the British Army’s answer to a cross between Oscar Wilde and Winston Churchill.
Backstage, the sound technician, fiddling with my lapel microphone, whispered, ‘Have you heard the Brigadier before?’
‘No, I have not!’ I snapped irritably. ‘And before you tell me, I do know what a brilliant speaker he is.’
My outburst was overheard by an attractive woman, a little younger than myself, dressed in an elegant grey suit and pristine white blouse. She was standing in the wings.
‘Good morning,’ she said, giving me a disarming smile.
‘Morning,’ I muttered.
‘Are you one of the speakers?’ she asked.
‘Yes I am,’ I told her.
‘You must be the school inspector.’
‘That’s right. I’m following this bloody Brigadier when he deigns to show up.’
The woman smiled even wider. ‘I’m the bloody Brigadier,’ she said.
Him Off the Telly
It is you, isn’t it?
Him off the telly?
I thought it was.
I said to my friend
Look, I said, there’s that man off the telly,
The one with the hair and the fancy ties.
The comedian,
The one who makes people laugh.
I just knew it was you.
I said to my friend,
I said, it’s him all right,
I recognise him,
Him off the telly,
The one with the jokes and the cheeky smile,
The comedian.
The one who makes people laugh.
I’ll pop over, I said
And have a word.
No don’t, she said.
I am, I said.
I said, he’ll be used to people
Pointing him out and going up to him.
It’s part of being a celebrity,
Of being on the telly.
Anyway, I just thought I’d have a word.
And tell you –
That I don’t think you’re all that funny.
‘It’s a Funny Old World’
Health, Life and Death
The Facts of Life
The cleaner at York Teachers’ Centre was pulling a face when I arrived to direct a poetry course.
‘They’ve got someone talking to the teachers on sex education in Room 4 this morning,’ she told me, shaking her head. ‘Why in the world do children need to know about that? It will give them ideas. There’s too much sex on television as it is. I mean, when we were young we knew nothing about that sort of thing.’
‘No, we didn’t,’ I agreed, recalling that ‘the facts of life’ when I was growing up in Rotherham was something of a soiled phrase. ‘No one ever talked about it.’ Perhaps they should have, I thought.
‘I mean,’ continued the cleaner, ‘I didn’t know what a homosexual was until I married my husband.’
The Government is now bringing in guidelines on sex education which all schools will be required to include on the already crowded curriculum. England has one of the highest rates of unwanted pregnancies in Europe, and this initiative is to warn youngsters of the dangers of unprotected sex and the looming menace of HIV.
Of course, ideally it should be the parents who take on the responsibility
of explaining things to their offspring. Christine and I tried, but with little success.
When Dominic was seven he asked the question we were expecting. He was always a very inquisitive child so when he asked casually, one day, ‘Daddy, where do I come from?’ I was not surprised.
‘I’ll get your mother,’ I told him.
Christine and I sat him down between us on the settee.
‘You know, Dominic, that Daddy loves Mummy,’ I told him.
‘Yes,’ he replied, his little brow furrowing.
‘And that Mummy loves Daddy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you are here because we love each other.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Over to you Christine,’ I said.
‘No,’ replied my wife, ‘you are doing very nicely.’
I took a breath. ‘Well, Dominic, inside Mummy’s tummy is an egg.’
‘An egg!’ he exclaimed.
‘It’s not a big egg. In fact it’s a tiny little egg and you can’t see it.’
‘I’ve got more than one,’ interrupted Christine.
‘You have a go,’ I told her.
‘And down there,’ said Christine, vaguely gesturing to my nether regions, ‘Daddy has a sort of little tadpole.’
‘I have 400 million,’ I told her.
Dominic’s eyes widened. ‘Wow!’
‘And when Mummy and Daddy have a very close cuddle,’ continued Christine, and the little tadpole meets the little egg, then a little baby forms.’
We continued with our explanation until I finally asked our wide-eyed son: ‘So does that explain where you come from?’
‘No,’ replied Dominic simply. ‘I just wanted to know where I come from. David comes from Halifax.’
When I was a school inspector, I observed a lesson where a young woman teacher was explaining the facts of life to a group of eleven-year-olds. She had informed me, prior to the lesson, that she found the task daunting, and predicted that one notoriously naughty boy would no doubt embarrass her by asking a tricky question at the end. She pointed out the said child: a frizzy-haired boy with a face full of freckles and a cheeky expression.
Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill Page 22
