Why I’m A Writer

It’s an odd calling. Frustrating at times. I’ve often thought it would be nice not to have a creative streak. I’d love to be able to spend a day doing nothing and not feel guilty about it. But I feel a deep, entrenched shame whenever a whole day passes without any words making it from my head to my word processor. For those fortunate enough not to be afflicted by this curse of creativity it’s probably hard to imagine what it feels like. Perhaps if you imagine you’re still at school and you go to bed having failed to finish your homework, and you know the teacher’s going to make you regret your laziness the next day. It’s a bit like that feeling. Conversely, at the end of a productive literary day the endorphin rush is immense. There’s no greater feeling than knowing your book has taken a giant leap towards completion. That’s the force that motivates me to write.

I’ve thought of myself as a writer since Lady Di haircuts and leg warmers were the height of fashion. I haven’t actually been a writer during every one of those intervening years. Some years would go by with no creative output at all. Others would see plays, books, songs, sitcoms, or other literary products taking shape. Some went nowhere other than the filing cabinet (and later, the virtual filing cabinet of the computer); others saw publication, production or recording. By the age of 15, I had a folder crammed full of ideas for books, plays and films that I wanted to write, and almost 30 years later I still have that folder and I still haven’t had time to work on them. It doesn’t really matter now: I think the time for topical satires about Thatcher’s Britain and sketches written for Frankie Howerd may have passed. But the failure to complete the unrealistic mountain of ideas for writing projects I had in my youth is yet another source of irrational regret.

Being a writer is emotionally tough. It’s a self-punishing existence that demands anti-social hours and which rarely pays a return that bears any relation to the number of hours worked. So why am I a writer? That’s not easy to answer with words, even for someone who thinks they’re a wordsmith. I think I can answer the question more fully with a photograph. Last Tuesday was Pancake Day. I’ve always loved pancakes, but this year was the first time I ever attempted to cook my own pancakes. They’re great, those little flat discs that flip so beautifully in the air and taste delicious with maple syrup. Here is a picture of the first pancake ever to come from my batterie of culinary skills:

And that is why I’m a writer. Nuff said.

My new manifesto

With Britain now in political limbo and party leaders starting to kiss their opponents’ derrieres instead of slagging each other off, I think it’s time for me to suggest the policy I would require them to take up if they want to work with me to form a government. My new policy would be called the National Treasure Bill. Unlike the novel I’m writing at the moment it has nothing to do with archaeology. The National Treasure Bill is designed to create a framework for determining the people of Britain who are regarded as national treasures and applying laws to ensure that the country treats them like treasures in the interests of the population at large.

Why do I want to see a National Treasure Bill added to the statute books? Simple. This country has lost too many great people over the years. How great would it be to have Arthur Lowe still around, or still to be able to enjoy the mellifluous tones of John le Mesurier in Homepride adverts? If the nation had taken proper care of Benny Hill’s weight and heart issues he would still be entertaining now us with his same old joke, well into his eighties. If the nation had declared actor Desmond Llewelyn (Q in many of the James Bond films) a national treasure, he would have been provided with a safer car, a police escort, and a chauffeur, and he wouldn’t have been killed ten years ago in a road accident. If the nation had forced Peter Cook into rehab early enough it might have prevented his premature demise. If Kenneth Williams’ mental health issues had been taken care of he could still be delivering nasal-enhanced double-entendres on Radio 4 today. And so the list goes on… Eric Morecambe, Tommy Cooper, Frankie Howerd, Princess Diana, Douglas Adams. All would have qualified as national treasures and should have been taken care of as such.

So what would the nation have to do to look after these special people? I propose the following measures:

1. Give them safe cars to drive. Airbags everywhere, radar activated emergency brakes, that kind of thing. A big Volvo, basically.
2. If possible, give them chauffeurs.
3. Give them bodyguards. Not to protect them from attack, so much as to look out for their best interests at all times – ensuring they put on their seat belts, making sure they don’t cross the road without stopping, looking and listening, and always watching out for any sign of excessive alcohol or drug intake.
4. Provide them with fast track medical care including pre-emptive scanning and regular testing to catch any diseases early.
5. Give them chefs to provide nutritious food.
6. Make them visit psychiatrists to keep them sane.

Of course, there will be people who object to the nation spending money on looking after celebrities who are all millionaires anyway. But we’re supposed to be a first world nation, a wealthy country who can afford the odd indulgence. And what better than to invest in the people who are loved by the nation in order to preserve them for our future enjoyment? These celebrities can’t be trusted to look after themselves no matter how rich they are – history has proven that time and again. So we need to take action to preserve these scarce resources for future generations. Let’s get this bill made into law and start taking care of Elton John, Stephen Fry, John Cleese, Stephen Hawking, Dawn French, Norman Wisdom and all the other hundreds of famous comedians, actors, thinkers and great people whose obituaries we’re not yet ready to read.

And let’s not forget, of course, the writers of archaeological thrillers: national treasures all of them.