 The Celebrity
(B)oor List
Given the nature of my day job, I suppose I almost count as a celebrity. Almost, anyway – I’ve only appeared in one gossip column and my television appearances are few and far-between (and then only when I’ve got a new book to plug). But if celebrity is the state of being someone about whom other people want to know, I just about scrape in. It can be rather odd when someone recognises me and wants to talk about what I do, because making up stories is at heart a solitary profession and while one can talk about the process and techniques that bring them from the strange cobweb-ridden parts of my brain to the printed page the actual writing part is difficult to explain. It’s one of the topics that can come up when one talks to other writers, though, and it’s interesting comparing notes on how we turn these odd ideas we have into something that other people enjoy reading.
About halfway through February I had a chance to do just that: my publishers held their annual extravaganza at which the collected authors of its various imprints are supposed to show up, be charming and quaff a load of free champagne in luxurious surroundings. They spend a lot of money on this: last year we had the Victoria and Albert Museum opened for the night and this year saw us at the Royal Opera House. It’s quite an evening, and filled with people far better-known than I (in that you’ve actually heard of them). Looking back on it afterwards, it made me consider the nature of this whole ‘celebrity’ nonsense, and the baggage that goes along with it.
At a bash like this the general idea is that we, the authors, charm our way around the room and provide a supply of witty bonnes mots for people to remember – making our employer’s guests feel special, I suppose. What tends to happen, though, is that we end up chatting to our friends who are – surprise, surprise – other authors. In short, we all find our own little groups and talk about terribly banal subjects for a couple of hours until the free bar runs out, then bugger off down the pub to see if there are any convenient expense accounts in need of lightening. On this occasion, however, my party left at the wrong moment and ended up having a really good time talking about each other’s work and the stuff we’d read recently that impressed us, with not a single non-author in sight. The one thing that really marked out this foray was its quietness: just a small group of friends with a couple of bottles of pop having a chat.
 This set me to thinking. Why is it expected that people in the public eye behave in a boorish manner? More importantly, why is it considered acceptable that they do so? Consider the scene: a twenty-something goes to a nightclub, gets drunk and proceeds to make a spectacle of himself before falling out of the place at closing time and into a taxi. Were the young man in question a sheet-metal worker, for example, he wouldn’t get as far as completing the spectacle – he’d be out on his ear and rightly so. However were the same young man – identical in appearance, dress and manners – an actor in a television programme, his behaviour would not only be tolerated, it would be recorded in the popular press with a jocular “Oh look, he’s doing it again!” attitude. Something’s wrong here. I am by no means a fuddy-duddy (you should see some of the places I’ve been known to show up in) but I refuse to believe that money or public visibility can excuse making an idiot of oneself. In fact, since people started buying my books I’ve become more aware of my actions in public and the ramifications thereof. I make a point of being pleasant to everyone, just in case, and generally try to ease off the sauce before the effects become too noticeable. If I can do this, and I am by no means a paragon of any variety, why has the complete reverse become the accepted standard?
Most of the rest of this month was occupied by a visitor. A certain gentleman from New York, who is most certainly known to readers of this journal, made a journey across the pond in search of The Godfathers. The interview is elsewhere, but I can tell you that the show was a storming success and I’m now in the process of finding their records. There was drinking, and some marvellous food, and excellent company from the Dorchester to the depths of Soho, but the last night of Jack’s visit was a perfect example of why being pleasant pays off. We’d been out for lunch and that, as such things do, had turned into a roaming tour of London’s drinking establishments – pubs rather than bars this one day, as an example of the better types of beer a fellow can enjoy. At last the evening came to a close, though, and we wandered back to the hotel for one last drink before parting company.
There, stretched through the hotel’s bar, was what could only be a conference.
We stood on the balcony for a while, watching the crowd and finally resting upon a young lady fencing with a gentleman of questionable sobriety. She was clearly trying to evade his attentions but the poor lad could not see this, and we commented as a dodge was intercepted, and distractions ignored, and her very best efforts to be kind failed utterly. Eventually we decide to watch this drama unfold from closer range.
Our table was close to the one she and her erstwhile beau were occupying, and as he went to the bar for more drinks she caught our eyes and made a comment. I forget what it was, but the practical upshot was that by the time the young man had returned the party had become one of four, based at our table – an upshot of which he did not approve. Our support seemed to invigorate the young lady, who now showed considerable wit in her dissections right up until my call for a cigarette break.
I have previously railed against the smoking ban now enforced in Britain but this… well let’s just say that she smoked also, and gave an impression that her evening had improved. While Jack had the unenviable task of dealing with her now clearly jettisoned companion, the young lady and I laughed, joked, and exchanged telephone numbers. Then she asked me to make her excuses to the table, and retired for the evening.
The following night… would have been far more interesting if she’d switched her telephone on. Alas, such things happen in the life of a Cad – and there’s no point worrying about lost opportunities.
|
