Dear Fatty (35 page)

THANK YOU for showing such strength in the face of the inordinate amount of racism you experience. Knowing you has shown me a whole raft of mainly insidious, quiet racism that I had no knowledge of before. Those tiny, constant snidey jokes at industry gatherings, like ‘I know the invite said black tie, Lenny, but that’s taking it too far, sonny’ from a much respected older comedian. Strange how the reference to you as ‘sonny’ is the more painful dart in that jibe. I remember you being interviewed on radio by a presenter who consistently referred to you as ‘this little black boy from Dudley’ throughout. Stealth racism. Fast and low and quiet. And
always
present. The references to me in the papers as ‘his blonde girlfriend’. I’ve only ever been blonde once, for three weeks. It meant ‘his
white
girlfriend’. Of course, we have had the big showy stuff too, the excrement smeared on the front door, the scratching of racist names on every panel of the car, the lit petrol-soaked rag through the letter box, starting a fire on our doormat at 3am. Luckily, I smelt it in time. The many letters with lurid racist obscenities sent to both of us. The most memorable of which came to you at a gig, threatening to kill you after the show because ‘you are a filthy cone’. Racists can’t spell so well, it seems. Remember when a Jiffy bag dropped through our door and it contained a broken
tile
with the image of a knight on one side and on the reverse it said, ‘You have been visited by the Ku Klux Klan’? No we hadn’t. We hadn’t been visited. Visitors make themselves known. And stop for tea and cake. People who drop something hateful through your letter box and scurry off into the night aren’t called visitors. They’re called cowards.

THANK YOU for knowing that, although I am usually resolute, sometimes my strength fails me. Thanks for sensing when.

THANK YOU for coming to Cornwall with me. It’s not your home, it is mine. You will inevitably be the only ‘black in the village’ and you are a long way from the beloved bustle of the city. We will, of course, have dollops of that, when we need or have to, but mostly we will be together quietly, in what I genuinely believe is the most beautiful place on earth, and where I truly belong. It didn’t help, did it, when we were first thinking of settling down there and I took you to Padstow to seduce you with delicatessens and Rick Steinyness and great pubs and great music and art and stuff. My heart sank when locals regaled us with stories of their famed annual celebration of ‘Darkie Day’ … where they black up and dance in the streets …! I knew it would be difficult to reverse out of this arcane cul-de-sac with any iota of reasonable explanation. I tried a pathetic attempt at: ‘It’s ancient, it’s to do with fertility, it’s not racist, it’s tradition.’ ‘Yes,’ you replied, ‘traditionally racist’. But, but, but … There is no decent defence. We had some silence. Then I ventured: ‘It’s a bit like the Black and White Minstrels – you know, sort of odious and outdated but with nil malicious intent.’ I had you at that. The Black and White Minstrels? Hadn’t you been the
first
genuine black man to perform with them? I know you hate being reminded of it. I know it’s a hideous blip in your past, I know we don’t have it on telly any more for VERY GOOD REASON, and Cornwall might be some way behind when it comes to catching up with PC ancient rituals. But … you said, ‘OK, so what do I do on annual Darkie Day? Do I have to stay indoors? Or will I be burnt for the amusement and general warmth of the gathered townsfolk?’ We have yet to see, but anyway thanks for risking life and limb.

THANK YOU for loving me so very well, and for being an all-round tip-topmost chap.

I DON’T KNOW
because I wasn’t there, but apparently, there was a man who had an orange for a head. Can you begin to imagine how awkward that would be? Could he see? Could he hear? Was it from Seville or South Africa or Florida? Could he drink the refreshing tangy juice of his own head or is that just too revolting and cannibalistic? Anyway, anyway, anyway, he must have been thirsty because he popped into a pub for a drink. Presumably NOT orange juice, but I don’t actually know for sure. Seemingly, as he was ordering this drink, the barman was transfixed by the whole orange-instead-of-a-head thing, and ventured to ask him how it had come to be thus. I think that’s a
bit
rude, and I wouldn’t have been so nosy, but I’m glad he did, because there was quite a comprehensive answer to his somewhat intrusive question. The orange-head man explained that once upon a time, when he had what’s referred to by a narrow-minded society as a ‘normal’ head, he had been walking down a street, probably on his way home or maybe to work, but I don’t know that sort of detail for sure, so don’t take it as gospel, and he came across a magic lantern. It was at this point that I began to suspect this story was some kind of elaborate ruse, because honestly, have
you
ever seen a magic lantern? Come on! It just sounds silly and bogus, doesn’t it? And how many times do we hear about bloody magic lanterns being the answer to everything? They’re not, they are utterly implausible. Anyway, anyway, anyway, shelve the doubt
for
a second because what happened next was very interesting. The man rubbed the lamp – how predictable. (Would you? I wouldn’t, I would try to sell it to a junk shop or on TV to David ‘Chips’ Dickinson.) And lo and behold, a genie appeared! Right before him. Now, OK. I accept the genie, they have as much right to appear from a magic lamp as anyone, but why oh why is it ALWAYS them? Would it be so very wrong if just occasionally a civil servant, or a refugee, or someone who works for Hewlett-Packard, or an orthodontist, appeared from a lamp? Or an Eskimo? They might even be more use. But no, yet again, this was a genie, as usual, ho-hum, and of course, yep, you’re there before me, he only goes and grants the man three wishes, doesn’t he? Did you know, by the way, that the unwritten rule about being granted three wishes is that you are forbidden to use any of your wishes to ask for more wishes? I see exactly why they’ve done that. Very clever. Otherwise you would, wouldn’t you – just endlessly top up on your wishes, sort of wish-as-you-go, save one wish back always to use for future wishes. Yep, that would really clog up the remaining, unused wish-availability numbers, and would likely also encroach upon other people’s wish quota, never mind the amount of genies who would be out of work. No, it would be chaos. it would never do.

Anyway, anyway, anyway, the man very quickly decided what his three wishes would be. Maybe he was so ready with his choices because he’d always fantasised about it. The way people fantasise about being asked on
Desert Island Discs
. They plan it ahead so’s not to be caught out. I haven’t personally done that because I have a genuine allergic reaction to Sue Lawley, she actually brings me out in a raised, itchy, angry rash, and I’m not the only
one
. Of course it’s not her any more, is it? Mmm, might be more interesting to consider doing it now it’s Kirsty Young who’s much cleverer, and frankly, not a twot, but I still don’t walk around with a ready list of discs in my head … Except … Who would I choose? Well, of course there would have to be Alla, probably singing ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas’ – love that. Louis Prima would be in there with ‘Embraceable You’, maybe Ella Fitzgerald, Gavin Bryars’ album with Tom Waits where the old tramp sings ‘Jesus’ Love Never Failed Me Yet’ over and over again. Mirelle Mathieu, Stevie Wonder, Jessie Norman, Prince, Paolo Conte, Elton John with that amazing ‘I Want Love’ song where the video was all in one shot with Charlie Chaplin mouthing all the words. Not the real Charlie Chaplin, don’t be silly, Robert Downey Jr, the fine actor and former drug addict, of course. Would
have
to have Toots and the Maytals and the Weather Girls with the original ‘Raining Men’, Eric and Ernie singing ‘Bring Me Sunshine’ and Joan Armatradings’ ‘Willow’. And Sinatra, and Elvis of course, ooh but what about Joni Mitchell and Fanny and Dean Friedman and the Beatles and the Fleet Foxes and a bit of Bach and Maria Callas and Jasper Carrott’s ‘Funky Moped’? It’s too difficult. I’m not going to bother with finalising it now. I just can’t.

So, anyway, anyway, anyway, the man told the genie his three wishes. First, he wished for his family to be rich as Croesus and they suddenly were. Amazing! Second, he wished for peace in Ireland and there was. Fabulous! He hesitated a little bit before his third and final wish, so the genie asked him why he was deliberating so hard. I wonder if the genie spoke in Arabic. What is the native tongue of genies? I expect they are magically able
to
make themselves understood in the language of the lamp rubber. There must be some system because it’s been working for thousands of years and to my knowledge no one has ever complained of incomprehensible genie babble. So anyway, anyway, anyway, the man answered the genie, explaining that he knew full well what he wanted for his third wish, but that he felt reluctant to say because it was such a selfish wish, something he had always dreamt of, something he had always wanted but never been able to have, till possibly now. The genie encouraged him to say it, to wish for it, after all, he had been a hard-working, good man his whole life, and he had also just donated his first two precious wishes for the benefit of others. He was a truly altruistic human being, the genie told him, so go on, have something for yourself, crack on. The man was eventually persuaded to speak the wish that would make all his dreams come true, that would give his life meaning. In a faltering, trembling voice, he said, ‘What I would really truly like, just for myself … I would love to have … an orange for a head.’ Can you believe that?

I’VE NEVER HAD
a sister, but I always wanted one. Badly. Then my brother married you and suddenly I had one!

Here’s what I want to say to you. You are quite simply the best person he could possibly have chosen. He is such a spontaneously emotional man, and when he was younger, I sometimes feared he would let his impetuosity get the better of him and he would choose someone wildly wrong. But he didn’t. He chose you. And you are so perfectly right. Your tolerance, your patience and your optimism are the gifts I’m so grateful to you for, because inside your love, my brother has come to know and trust how loved he truly is. He carried a heavy load at too young an age from the moment our dad died, and with you he can share that and be lighter. You have been there, side by side with him, through lots of potentially scary decisions. I know your support gives him courage. Please don’t ever for a second think I don’t notice that. Can I thank you, too, for making my favourite niece and nephew and letting them come out to play with me so often? How sublime it is to know that we will all be there for each other whatever happens … (Unless of course you murder someone, in which case I won’t be there for you at all. I will show no mercy or forgiveness and I will reject you and all your family in a heartbeat. Otherwise, I’ll be there for sure.)

I thank God for you, and I love you.

Your sister-in-law

BEEN WATCHING THE
news? Big hoo-ha about the possibility of female bishops for the Anglicans. Obviously there are those for whom the notion is abhorrent, a monstrous offence against God. They’re probably the same protestors as last time, who then couldn’t deal with the idea of female vicars. Remember them? They were the ones who were furious about our series, quite often sending me tracts promulgating the sin of women being allowed to speak in church
at all
, citing verse 35 and the like. I could never have anticipated receiving hate mail from Christians.

Of course, they were a tiny minority and I guess their fear was that you might write something funny enough or popular enough to normalise this new situation in the way that television so easily can. In that respect, their fears were well founded, because I think that’s exactly what you did. You and Paul Mayhew-Archer together posited the idea of female priests as a natural and sensible state of affairs. That as the given, you were then free to write a sitcom about a vicar who landed in a village of mutants, which was by far the funnier and more traditional premise. Only occasionally did anyone object to the fact, or even notice, that she was a woman, in the series. Mainly, Geraldine just got on with the job of ministering, didn’t she? Along with plenty of snogging and chocolate scoffing of course, which ought surely to form a large part of any decent vicar’s life. Thanks, by the way, for all the choc. I know it didn’t often figure in the
original
plot but was crowbarred in as an added component for my delectation. Some actresses might have objected to the large quantities that were required to be eaten on camera, but in that respect, I am extremely fortunate because I have such an active metabolism that I can scoff tons of chocolate and it doesn’t seem to show on me at all ...

I can’t remember exactly, but I think it was sometime around 1992 that you first mooted the idea to me of
The Vicar of Dibley
. I think you’d been to a wedding where a female lay preacher had officiated in some capacity and I knew you thought it made total sense, seeing as it’s nearly always our mums we run to for support and guidance in times of emotional or personal need. Anyway, I remember you giving me an outline of an idea which I think I read on a plane – maybe on the way up to the Edinburgh Festival? – I can’t quite recall. I do remember, however, thinking that this was a very Richard Curtis kind of a project. The idea of a parish council full of odd bods, most of whom were no doubt based on people you knew or knew of when you were living, as you were then, in a tiny little cottage with wild roses round the door in a village in Oxfordshire. I couldn’t understand why quite so many men of your age working in telly lived in Oxfordshire until it eventually dawned on me, like the dolt I am, that, of course, you’d all been to Oxford and sort of stayed there. A bit like modern day lost boys.

At the time, I didn’t really have much to do with you Oxbridge lot. We at the Comic Strip regarded you as the privileged, old-school-tie brigade who would, naturally, be propelled into top jobs at the BBC because all your mates and forefathers and everyone you ever knew were already there, ready and willing to
usher
you in through the back door while oiks like us from less prestigious unis or, God forbid, polytechnics or stinky art schools were prevented entry. Although founded in a certain amount of truth, this theory was laced with bitterness and chippiness, which didn’t make for great relations between you, the toffs, and us, the proles. You, of course, ignored the general wrath, in true Curtis-style, and crossed the divide when various of our tribe like Rik and Robbie Coltrane appeared in
Blackadder
and when almost all of us did various bits ’n’ bobs on the very first Comic Relief stage show and subsequent video, and every Comic Relief event ever since.