Beggars Banquet

  Soon after leaving school, however, I found that a lot of the gang had drifted away. Even Black Alec - our leader and mentor - had gained employment as a car mechanic. The merry band had dwindled to a few losers for whom the daily stint at the street corner had become an unwelcome chore. I thought about resitting my exams, going on to college or university. But Black Alec was my next-door neighbour: how could I tell him my plans? He wouldn’t have understood. He’d have asked me to do the walk again, and afterwards his laughter would have had me craving more. More laughter, more acceptance, more of his approval.

  Anyway, things didn’t work out for him as a mechanic. He became a bouncer instead, working at a discotheque in Kirkcaldy. He got into trouble, spent a couple of months in jail, and when he came out he told us he’d just paid a visit to the ‘University of Life’. From now on, he said, nothing would be beyond him. He’d only be satisfied with ‘number one’. At the time, I don’t think we really knew what he was talking about, but we found out soon enough.

  I went to work in a chicken factory. It wasn’t a bad job. The production line was mostly staffed by women, and I kept them smiling. I’d sing a song, do a little dance, whatever it took to please them. They were all married, kept asking me when I’d find a girlfriend. They wore white overalls and green wellies, their hair tucked into white caps. Sometimes, when I met them outside the factory, I wouldn’t recognise them. My first Christmas party was a revelation. They were wearing dresses and make-up, having a drink and a laugh. We’d taken over the back room of a pub in Glenrothes. No management, just workers. There was some entertainment. A couple of the women sang songs. One of the foremen got up and told some jokes.

  ‘Get off !’ the women yelled at him. ‘Our comedian’s ten times better than you!’ They meant me. I was cajoled, persuaded. I found myself up on the stage, microphone in hand. I cleared my throat, cleared it some more, the sound filling the room. Someone called out for me to get on with it, and then somebody else twigged that I was pretending to be the production supervisor: he was always clearing his throat before he gave you bad news. There was scattered applause and laughter.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you all’, I said, ‘that Christmas has been cancelled this year. You lot might not be happy, but I’ve two thousand capons in the back who’re over the moon.’

  Now everyone understood; they’d all clicked into my act. And it felt wonderful. The hair on my arms was standing up. It seemed I’d been up there a couple of minutes, but I was told afterwards I’d done a twenty-minute set. Women were kissing me, telling me I was the best.

  ‘You should turn professional,’ one of them said.

  And eventually, plucking up courage, that’s just what I did.

  I started out at pub talent nights, winning a couple of contests. The publican might then invite me back for a three- or four-week run. I kept up the factory job, but now I had a girlfriend, Emily, who’d sung ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’ at one of the talent shows. I’d asked her about the song. She’d no idea what it was all about.‘Just got it from one of my mum’s Joan Baez albums.’ We had a laugh together. Emily had a day job, too, in a shoe shop. She came up with the idea of me going full-time pro. She said she’d support me till I got rich and famous. She said it wouldn’t take long. Her argument was that with my job, I’d no time to write new material. She was right: I really needed new material. So she became my manager, finding me bookings, and I lay in bed writing jokes and stories.

  It all went well for a while. Then we realised I was just treading water. It was still pubs and clubs.

  ‘You need a portfolio,’ Emily said. ‘Something you can show to agents and the TV companies.’

  ‘What I need are some decent gags,’ I replied.

  The writing wasn’t working. It was never how I’d worked. I was spontaneous, my material came from life. Now that I spent all day mooching around the house, there was nothing for me to write about. If the act was going to go anywhere, I needed to take a few risks. And that was what I did. I invested in a tape machine and other electronic stuff, so I could use funny noises and sound effects in my act. Then I got measured for a sharp suit - blue and sparkly, with shirt to match. I looked ridiculous in it, but then that was the point, wasn’t it?

  I now looked the part. Problem was, none of it came cheap. Emily asked where I’d got the money.

  ‘Savings,’ I told her, lying through my teeth. Soon enough, I knew as I said it, I might not have any teeth left to lie through. Because I’d borrowed the money from Black Alec.

  Black Alec had almost fulfilled his ambition of becoming ‘number one’. He was now one of the most feared men on the east coast. He ran a string of clubs in Fife, owned two pubs in Edinburgh, and had so many fingers in so many other pies, it was a wonder he could pick his nose. He also ran protection, prostitutes and pornography - or so the rumours said. I’d never worked in any of his clubs - he said they were ‘upmarket’, ‘mostly music-oriented’. He said I was low-class.

  But still he loaned me the money. And now, with the act flagging, it was time to start paying it off, beginning with the interest. I knew Emily was broke: the shoe shop had gone bust, and she was on Jobseekers. I knew I didn’t have any money. And I knew it wouldn’t matter to Black Alec that I’d once been his next-door neighbour and personal jester. Nothing mattered to him but repayment and violence against the person. There were those who said he preferred it when people couldn’t pay up. That way, Black Alec got to play.

  Eventually, I broke down and told Emily. I’d been fobbing Alec’s men off as best I could. They’d repossessed the electronics, and soon it would be time for them to start taking possession of my limbs, lungs and lights. So we did what we had to do: went on the run. Thing is, to keep running we needed money, and I only knew one way to make money - keep on with the act, which made it hard for us to stay ahead of the GBH brigade. We’d turn up in a town, and while I tried to hustle a gig, Emily would be checking departure times of buses and trains. I’d do my stint, grab the cash, and we’d make for the station. Up and down the east coast we ran, as far north as Montrose, and south to Eyemouth, finding that the travelling was using up most of the money I made. At this rate, there was no way I was going to be able to pay back Black Alec.

  ‘We’ll go to London,’ Emily said. ‘That’s where the agents and TV people are. One spot on Des O’Connor and you could pay Black Alec ten times over.’

  ‘How are we going to get there?’

  ‘First thing is to talk to Des’s producer.’

  ‘I mean, how are we going to get to London?’

  ‘We’ll hitch,’ she told me. ‘All we need is a bit of money for food.’

  Which meant one last show. There weren’t many places left to try. Word was out that Black Alec wanted to see me. Worse still, the rumour was I was washed up, that I stank.

  But a pub on Rose Street in Edinburgh was under new management, and looking to kick-start a comedy club. They said they’d give me a fifteen-minute spot. If they liked what they saw, there’d be a twenty in it for me.

  Twenty quid: I’d earned more winning talent shows. But I said okay. Of course I said okay.

  That night, when I took the stage in my blue sparkly suit, there were about two dozen punters in the place: a smattering at the tables, most of them chatting at the bar. The last thing they wanted was me up there, spoiling their conversation and meaning the jukebox was turned off.

  But I kicked off anyway. Nobody was laughing. Emily was in the DJ’s booth, supposedly keeping an eye on my mike level so that there was no feedback. Right then, I thought feedback had a better chance of getting a laugh.

  And then Black Alec walked in. Someone had tipped him off, and here he came with three of his lads. They took a table right at the front. Alec not taking his eyes off me, a little smile on his face - it was the first smile I’d seen all night, but it didn’t exactly cheer me up. A bottle of champagne arrived, and just the one glass. Alec toasted me as he drank. Sudd
enly, horribly, my mind went blank, not a single joke in my repertoire could I remember. There were slow handclaps from the bar and cries of ‘Get off !’

  ‘Does your mum let you out looking like that?’ I told the heckler. ‘Look at him, face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.’ The heckler’s pals laughed at this, and I was on a roll. I knew only one thing: the minute they booed me off, I was in for a doing. I had to stay on that stage, and the only way to do that was to be funny.

  And I was funny. Inspiration took hold, and the stories started pouring out. I had stories about working in a factory, about shoe shops and working-men’s clubs, even stories about schooldays. They clapped and cheered. More punters were coming in, and no one was leaving. I’d been on stage about forty minutes, but the owner wasn’t about to signal time-up. The only person in the place not laughing was Black Alec. Even his lads had sniggered at a couple of the routines, but Alec just sat there stony-faced, finishing his champagne.

  Eventually, tiredness got the better of me. I could fall back on lame material, or stop while the going was good. I’d have won an audience and be losing my mobility. Alec looked like he was getting impatient. I never liked to keep an old friend waiting.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said, ‘you’ve been a great audience, even old bulldog-features over there. This set was dedicated to the one thing I’ve always enjoyed until this evening, namely good health. Thank you and goodnight.’

  I came off to applause, whistles, cheers. I walked right over to Black Alec’s table and sat down opposite him. The jukebox came back on. The owner brought me a whisky. So did a couple of punters, congratulating me on the best show they’d seen. The owner wanted to book me a regular slot, maybe hosting the club. And throughout, Alec didn’t take his eyes off me.

  ‘So,’ he said at last, ‘that was your routine?’

  ‘That was it,’ I said. I couldn’t see Emily. Maybe she’d spotted Alec and done a runner.

  ‘It was good,’ he said. ‘Really good.’

  I looked at him. Was it possible. . . ?

  ‘You can warm an audience up,’ he went on. ‘I could do with someone like you.’

  ‘You’re going to take me to one of your clubs and roast me on a spit?’ I guessed.

  And he laughed, the way he’d laughed when we were kids. ‘I’m offering you work, Comedian. That way, I can keep an eye on you while you pay me what you owe me. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds great,’ I said, unable to keep the relief out of my voice.

  ‘The same set should do.’

  And I nodded, while my insides turned to rubber. The same set? The one I’d improvised? I couldn’t remember it, couldn’t recall a single blessed punchline. And then Emily was marching towards me, waving a cassette.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘I taped you,’ she said, leaning down to kiss me. ‘Now you’ve got your portfolio.’

  ‘And my continuing good health,’ I said, kissing her back.

  I used to think comedy came from wanting acceptance, wanting to be liked. Now I know differently. I know it’s all down to fear. Fear, ladies and gentlemen, is the only true comedian in town.

  Herbert in Motion

  My choices that day were twofold: kill myself before or after the Prime Minister’s cocktail party? And if after, should I wear my Armani to the party, or the more sober YSL with the chalk stripe?The invitation was gilt-edged, too big for the inside pocket of my workaday suit. Drinks and canapés, six p.m. till seven. A minion had telephoned to confirm my attendance, and to brief me on protocol. That had been two days ago. He’d explained that among the guests would be an American visiting London, a certain Joseph Hefferwhite. While not quite spelling it out - they never do, do they? - the minion was explaining why I’d been invited, and what my role on the night might be.

  ‘Joe Hefferwhite,’ I managed to say, clutching the receiver like it was so much straw.

  ‘I believe you share an interest in modern art,’ the minion continued.

  ‘We share an interest.’

  He misunderstood my tone and laughed. ‘Sorry, “share an interest” was a bit weak, wasn’t it? My apologies.’

  He was apologising because art is no mere interest of mine. Art was - is - my whole life. During the rest of our short and one-sided conversation, I stared ahead as though at some startling new design, trying to understand and explain, to make it all right with myself, attempting to wring out each nuance and stroke, each variant and chosen shape or length of line. And in the end there was . . . nothing. No substance, no revelation; just the bland reality of my situation and the simple framing device of suicide.

  And the damnation was, it had been the perfect crime.

  A dinner party ten years before. It was in Chelsea, deep in the heart of Margaret Thatcher’s vision of England. There were dissenters at the table - only a couple, and they could afford their little grumble: it wasn’t going to make Margaret Hilda disappear, and their own trappings were safe: the warehouse conversion in Docklands, the BMW, the Cristal champagne and black truffles.Trappings: the word seems so much more resonant now.

  So there we were. The wine had relaxed us, we were all smiling with inner and self-satisfied contentment (and wasn’t that the dream, after all?), and I felt just as at home as any of them. I knew I was there as the Delegate of Culture. Among the merchant bankers and media figures, political jobsworths and ‘somethings’ (and dear God, there was an estate agent there too, if memory serves - that fad didn’t last long), I was there to reassure them that they were composed of something more lasting and nourishing than mere money, that they had some meaning in the wider scheme. I was there as curator to their sensibilities.

  In truth, I was and am a Senior Curator at the Tate Gallery, with special interest in twentieth-century North American art (by which I mean paintings: I’m no great enthusiast of modern sculpture, yet less of more radical sideshows - performance art, video art, all that). The guests at the table that evening made the usual noises about artists whose names they couldn’t recall but who did ‘green things’ or ‘you know, that horse and the shadow and everything’. One foolhardy soul (was it the estate agent?) digressed on his fondness for certain wildlife paintings, and trumpeted the news that his wife had once bought a print from Christie’s Contemporary Art.

  When another guest begged me to allow that my job was ‘on the cushy side’, I placed knife and fork slowly on plate and did my spiel. I had it down to a fine art - allow the pun, please - and talked fluently about the difficulties my position posed, about the appraisal of trends and talents, the search for major new works and their acquisition.

  ‘Imagine’, I said, ‘that you are about to spend half a million pounds on a painting. In so doing, you will elevate the status of the artist, turn him or her into a rich and sought-after talent. They may disappoint you thereafter and fail to paint anything else of interest, in which case the resale value of the work will be negligible, and your own reputation will have been tarnished - perhaps even more than tarnished. Every day, every time you are asked for your opinion, your reputation is on the line. Meanwhile, you must propose exhibitions, must plan them - which often means transporting works from all around the world - and must spend your budget wisely.’

  ‘You mean like, do I buy four paintings at half a mil each, or push the pedal to the floor with one big buy at two mil?’

  I allowed my questioner a smile. ‘In crude economic terms, yes.’

  ‘Do you get to take pictures home?’ our hostess asked.

  ‘Some works - a few - are loaned out,’ I conceded. ‘But not to staff.’

  ‘Then to whom?’

  ‘People in prominence, benefactors, that sort of person.’

  ‘All that money,’ the Docklands woman said, shaking her head, ‘for a bit of paint and canvas. It almost seems like a crime when there are homeless on the streets.’

  ‘Disgraceful,’ someone else said. ‘Can’t walk along the Embankment without stumbling ove
r them.’

  At which point our hostess stumbled into the silence to reveal that she had a surprise. ‘We’ll take coffee and brandy in the morning room, during which you’ll be invited to take part in a murder.’

  She didn’t mean it, of course, though more than one pair of eyes strayed to the Docklanders, more in hope than expectation. What she meant was that we’d be participating in a parlour game. There had been a murder (her unsmiling husband the cajoled corpse, miraculously revivified whenever another snifter of brandy was offered), and we were to look for clues in the room. We duly searched, somewhat in the manner of children who wish to please their elders. With half a dozen clues gathered, the Docklands woman surprised us all by deducing that our hostess had committed the crime - as indeed she had.

  We collapsed thankfully on to the sofas and had our glasses refilled, after which the conversation came around to crime - real and imagined. It was now that the host became animated for the first time that night. He was a collector of whodunnits and fancied himself an expert.

  ‘The perfect crime,’ he told us, ‘as everyone knows, is one where no crime has been committed.’

  ‘But then there is no crime,’ his wife declared.

  ‘Precisely,’ he said. ‘No crime . . . and yet a crime. If the body’s never found, damned hard to convict anyone. Or if something’s stolen, but never noticed. See what I’m getting at?’

  I did, of course, and perhaps you do, too.

  The Tate, like every other gallery I can think of, has considerably less wall-space than it has works in its collection. These days, we do not like to cram our paintings together (though when well done, the effect can be breathtaking). One large canvas may have a whole wall to iself, and praise be that Bacon’s triptychs did not start a revolution, or there’d be precious little work on display in our galleries of modern art. For every display of gigantism, it is blessed relief, is it not, to turn to a miniaturist? Not that there are many miniatures in the Tate’s storerooms. I was there with an acquaintance of mine, the dealer Gregory Jance.Jance worked out of Zurich for years, for no other reason, according to interviews, than that ‘they couldn’t touch me there’. There had always been rumours about him, rumours which started to make sense when one attempted to balance his few premier-league sales (and therefore commissions) against his lavish lifestyle. These days, he had homes in Belgravia, Manhattan’s Upper East Side, and Moscow, as well as a sprawling compound on the outskirts of Zurich. The Moscow home seemed curious until one recalled stories of ikons smuggled out of the old Soviet Union and of art treasures taken from the Nazis, treasures which had ended up in the hands of Politburo chiefs desperate for such things as hard dollars and new passports.