RSS

Contact us

Wednesday 8 October 2008

Diary

Diary

Barry Humphries on his week

I love wandering around Mayfair even though the picturesque streetwalkers of yesteryear no longer lend charm to Shepherd’s Market. All my favourite haunts were in this neighbourhood: barber, bookshop and record store (the lamented Discurio). Then there were the clubs, open between pub hours and closing late. Yesterday I walked past my old bed-sitting room in Park Street behind Grosvenor House where Margaret, Duchess of Argyll, in the Mayfair spirit, entertained her Ouida-like guardsmen. When I lived there, there was still a whiff of Michael Arlen haunting those little rural streets (Green, Hay, Down, Hill, Half Moon) and instead of immersing myself in yet another underprivileged Irish childhood, I’ve ignored the Booker winner and reread The Green Hat, Arlen’s huge bestseller of 1924. Arlen, the Savile Row Armenian trying to write like De Quincey, though often absurdly dated, still has wit and vitality, and if there is too much risible melodrama, it’s no more than may be found in Fitzgerald’s over-esteemed The Great Gatsby. Anyway, why should ‘dated’ be a pejorative? No one says Dickens or Jane Austen are dated. When Joseph Stalin’s wife committed suicide the old monster desperately sought for the reason. He thought he had found it on his wife’s bedside table: a book she had been reading just before she died. It was Michael Arlen’s The Green Hat.

Eating out in London is almost always disappointing and it’s increasingly hard to avoid chorizo sausage, which gets sprinkled in everything. Other overrated dishes include French onion soup, which I ordered without thinking last Tuesday, only to burn my mouth and get tangled up in a cat’s cradle of tasteless cheese. When I was in Australia a few months ago I went to one of my favourite cities, Darwin, in the Northern Territory. I checked into the hotel late and tried to order a meal from room-service. ‘There’s only soup and sandwiches,’ the desk informed me. ‘What kind of soup?’ I asked. There was a loud sigh on the other end of the line and the clatter of a telephone impatiently dropped on to the reception desk. I heard the sound of retreating footsteps. He was away for a very long time while I listened to a phone ringing plaintively in the distance; no doubt an importunate guest. But I was hungry so I hung on for what seemed like 15 minutes. Finally I heard the shuffle of approaching footsteps, and the concierge at last came back on the line: ‘It’s soup of the day.’

On Wednesday I drove to Heathrow to pick up an old family friend who had been living in India for most of his life. He hadn’t seen London since the mid-Thirties though the smoking room (now the non-smoking room) at the Oriental Club is probably still unchanged. He is a wonderful old boy and I watched him peering out of the car window in horror at the London streets, shabbier and more crowded than the noisome thoroughfares of Calcutta. We passed a big advertisement for the Simpsons movie. He evinced a sudden interest. ‘I didn’t know people still spoke of Wallis!’ he exclaimed in real astonishment.

More articles from: Barry Humphries | this section

Print this article  |  Email to a friend  |  Permalink  |   Comment

Post this entry to:   del.icio.us | Digg | Newsvine | NowPublic | Reddit

Advertisement

Spectator Business | Apollo Magazine

Corporate | Advertising | Privacy | Terms

Spectator, 22 Old Queen Street, London, SW1H 9HP

All Articles and Content Copyright ©2008 by The Spectator | All Rights Reserved