C.J. & C.J.

When I, appropriately enough, read recently that Clive James was terminally ill, it was with a grave and unhappy sense of imminent loss of such a towering and much-admired wit and, whilst it quite ruined my day to hear about it, I’m sure that Mr James’ perspective of experiencing it is far more troubling, although, according to everything that I’ve read and heard since, he seems to be dealing with it with his usual dry wit, good humour and urbane manner.

Clive James career as a broadcaster and raconteur is, of course, legendary, and would be fairly indelible even without his association with “Margarita Pracatan” or the introduction to western audiences of the Japanese game show “Endurance” which now seems rather tame in comparison to what followed, but to me, first and foremost, Clive James is a writer, and it is to his writing that I want to concentrate my attentions now.

Anyone, and I do mean anyone, who has any interest in any form of writing with anything approaching a certain amount of intellect, charm and humour should go out right now and get themselves at least one of his books because he truly is a giant of the form. Just a quick look at the creaking and groaning bookshelves around my own cluttered hovel is enough to remind me just how many of his works I have accumulated since I first discovered his writing whilst I was still naught but a teenaged spotty oik, so this seems as good a time as any to tell you about a few of my favourites.

I first encountered his writing when I was a teenager and bought myself a copy of “Visions Before Midnight” and remember howling with laughter (which was both painful and delightful) as I read out some of the extracts from his “Observer” television column to a friend of mine as we shared accommodations in a holiday cottage somewhere in the top left hand corner of Wales.

I remember the tears of joy streaming down my face and being in such convulsions of  merriment that I could barely get the words out. I’m sure I was being tediously over-enthusiastic in that way teenagers can be, and that my companion was rather hoping that I would just shut up and go to sleep, but for me at least, that evening remains a cherished and fond memory.

Later on, I would also acquire the follow-up volumes “The Crystal Bucket” and “Glued to the Box” which retained their sharpness despite the increasing number of years on the job, as well as pummelling a lot of quotes and expressions into my forebrain, many of which I still blurt out occasionally today for no very good reason.

Little phrases like “Watelroo” or “Hang, hang, hang… and there’s the explosion!” are two that immediately come to mind and which probably mean absolutely nothing to anyone else but remain indelibly lodged in my mind and I occasionally dust them off and bring them out to the general bafflement of anyone bothering to pay me any attention.

Clive James’ five (and counting) volume occasional volumes of autobiography, starting with “Unreliable Memoirs” which tells the story of his life as a young lad in the outback who loses his father in the war, are masterworks of the form, too. Mr James himself modestly describes them all as being works of fiction, but that is only, I imagine, to address the simple truth that all autobiography is fictional to a certain extent. Those books continued through “Falling Towards England”, “May Week was in June” and “North Face of Soho” which are all pretty good reads if you ever get the chance. Sadly, despite it lurking in the ever growing book pile next to my bed for the best part of two years, I’ve still not got around to reading volume five, “The Blaze of Obscurity” because there’s just too much else to get through and really so very little time, but, since the announcement, it has got itself bumped back up the pile and I intend to read it very soon.

Another work of genuine fiction was his novel “Brilliant Creatures” which I read such a long time ago that I barely remember it now, but even so, certain ideas and phrases from it still stick with me to this day. That’s the thing about Clive James writing; there’s always a brilliant turn of phrase that just stays with you. I can, for example, vividly recall the description of the diminuation of speed of an Inter City 125 train through a mathematical progression via 12.5mph and 1.25mph (Perhaps “progression” was the wrong word there…?) which was so appropriate and witty that I’ve frequently nicked it and used it in conversation many times since I first read it, just to show that I am indeed a plagiarist and a scoundrel and not remotely witty myself at all.

A couple of other personal favourites are  “Fame in the Twentieth Century”, based on his own TV series of the same name, which I’ve quoted from before, and “Flying Visits” which is a breathtakingly superb piece of travel writing. Sadly, the hardback house brick that is “Cultural Amnesia” is only a volume that I’ve dipped in so far despite my delight at receiving it one Christmas. It’s still brilliant, of course, but, ah… who has the time…?

There really are few enough people whose work I genuinely admire, and CJ is one of them. I know that sometimes people don't “get” that you can be genuinely upset to hear about the misfortunes of someone whom you’ve never met and who aren’t even aware that you even exist, but as I get older, I’m finding that more and more of those people who made some bits of the final product which I (occasionally) “like” to think of as “me” who he is seem to be slipping away... and whilst it is, of course, inevitable, it also well and truly sucks... Still, I suppose that by announcing to the world what’s going on this way, Mr James does at least get to read and hear all of the terribly nice things that people have to say about him before it’s too late...

Not that it’s all that much of a comfort, I’m sure.

On a not completely unrelated note, of course, on that very same day, midsummer’s day, I also found out about the death of the actress Caroline John. It obviously wasn’t turning out to be a great day for fans of the C.J.s of this world (or, to be honest, the C.J,s themselves…), although she had actually slipped away a couple weeks earlier as the family wanted the information to be kept private until after the funeral.

Caroline John might not have been a household name in recent times, but for fans of “Doctor Who” she was our one and only lovely Dr Elizabeth “Liz” Shaw (a name that will resonate with anyone who’s recently seen “Prometheus”), a rather brilliant scientist brought down from Cambridge and seconded to UNIT as their “scientific adviser” who rather suddenly found herself having to hold test tubes for another scientific genius who just happened to show up at precisely the same time.

For one colourful, glorious and, to some of us at least, unforgettable year from 1969-1970, she accompanied Jon Pertwee as the Doctor through his first four and, some would argue, some of his very best adventures, as he was brought down to earth, and had to get a job.

Unfortunately he took hers.

Happily, she seemed to enjoy the experience and adventure and stuck around for that year before heading back to Cambridge (or “motherhood” as the real world would have it), much to the relief of the Producer, Barry Letts, who, despite liking Caroline John, seemed to dislike the character of Liz Shaw. Somehow, having someone far too clever and who wouldn’t keep on asking “But what is it, Doctor?” for the benefit of any confused viewers seemed a step too far into the future for audiences of the early 1970s.

But there was more to Caroline John than just “Doctor Who”. She was a fine classical and stage actress for over forty years, a wife and a mother, and she will be much missed, and so, sadly once again I find myself raising a pipette of fine spirits to add to a handy test tube and raise a toast in memory of another lost link to my own youth.