This article by Tom Sharpe was published in the Daily Express on 31 March 1989.
Tom Sharpe, satirical author of Porterhouse Blue, hates solemn occasions but loves a good dinner party
I particularly dislike authors who think that people should read their books, that they ought to. Why should anyone read what someone else has written, for God’s sake? My only aim in life is to lure people away from the box occasionally — that’s the really difficult part.
I do watch quite a lot of television myself, but mainly news and investigative programmes. Soaps make me hit the button straight away. Maybe I’m a boring old sod but I don’t find them interesting at all, even though my children watch Neighbours every day, and I mean every day.
One of the awful things about appearing on television is that everyone is supposed to make instant judgements. When I’m asked a question I want to go away and think about the answer for a couple of hours, or even a couple of days. The time they give you on television is too short. You can’t tell what people are really like from seeing them on television either. Take the example of Norman Tebbit. He’s set himself up as a sort of death’s head Aunt Sally, but he’s probably a very nice chap at home.
On the whole it’s usually my behaviour to other people that I hate. Afterwards I’ll think, “Oh God, how could you have said that, how embarrassing!” Embarrassment is really the English version of sin, it’s the one thing that makes us feel guilty, which is really pretty damn stupid.
One of the things I hate, I mean really detest, is the Americans’ lack of irony. One of my books, Riotous Assembly, starts off with: “For all the members of the South African Police whose lives are dedicated to the preservation of Western Civilisation in South Africa.” That dedication had to be removed from the American edition. Americans just do not understand irony, no way baby! Maybe it’s one of their Germanic qualities.
I think that cats, dogs and gardens enhance the quality of life. Dog-fighting strikes me as being positively evil and hunting otters is pretty filthy, too. I’ve shot for the pot myself and can understand the thrill of a moving target and all that, but I could never get worked up about it. I don’t hunt, though. I suppose where fox-hunting is concerned I would far rather these supposedly upper-class people went around chasing foxes and tearing them to bits than have them chasing and beating up the peasants.
Having a dinner party here at home with close friends, preferably those I haven’t seen for some time, makes me happy. Good conversation is super and I hate large gatherings. They remind me of church because my father was a Unitarian minister and had a real capacity for pulling in a big congregation. So my earliest memories are of sitting in that church with lots of people. The only happy memories of that church are of me going round the back and pulling out the plug on the fire extinguisher.
I hate solemn occasions. It was Charles Lamb who said that something about funerals always made him want to giggle. I’m even worse than him. I can’t stand solemn silences, I always want to break them.
I used to love snuff. I would get through a pound a month. It was all over me all the time and I had awful brown dribbles coming from my nose. But I’ve had heart trouble and I gave up on September 15, 1987. A Spanish cardiologist told me I must stop immediately so I handed him my box. He asked me if I wanted to keep it, for sentimental value; I said if that stuff in the box has been killing me for the past 25 years, I have no sentiments towards it except the most malign. You can keep the bloody box.
I no longer eat things like cheese; I’d be a fool to gum up my works any further. But I get by very well on a diet of oatmeal and I love muesli. I used to lust after bacon and eggs but not any more. Many is the man who has tucked away a couple of large slices of bacon, two eggs, fried bread and mushrooms, then sat back and said “that was great” — and bang! — that’s it.
I hate the idea of death and the process of dying. Oblivion strikes me as rather a waste of time, wouldn’t you agree?
Tom Sharpe expostulated to Jody Tresidder.