My hero

One of the nicest things anyone ever said to me was that “when I read the stuff you write, I can imagine you actually saying it.” At least I think it was a compliment. It could have been a backhanded compliment, meaning instead “your writing is as incomprehensible and inarticulate as your speaking.” I doubt it, though. When people don’t like your work they simply say nothing. I like the idea of people reading my stuff and imagine me saying it. That’s the whole point, really.

My very favourite writer of all time is Clive James. He is also my favourite TV broadcaster, too. He is an intellectual step-up from me, I know, and he often writes, brilliantly it must be said, about subjects of which I have little or no understanding. But when he talks to me, when he writes for me, I just love it.

I first became familiar with James when he appeared on a satirical late night BBC2 show called “Up Sunday”. He delivered weekly monologues, usually very topical, with that beautiful Australian drawl. I was quite young when this show was on the telly but even then I got many of the jokes. And even when I didn’t, James was still worth listening to. Later, I discovered he was the TV reviewer for the Observer. I still have compilations of these reviews, some of which were hysterically funny, and it really didn’t matter if you had never seen, nor even heard of, some of the shows. Such was the sheer quality of his writing, the subject matter was almost incidental.

Later, he appeared in “Clive James on TV”, which was generally good but didn’t stretch him enough. However, he still showed his TV greatness on two other shows. His annual review of the year on the BBC was arguably my favourite show of the year. It was sharp, acerbic and, above all, hysterically funny. James would barely waste a word. And there were his Postcards. Postcard from Berlin, New York, Cairo, Paris and many other places. Never the tourist, James embraced the culture of wherever he was and became the butt of every joke. An hour was never long enough.

James is still with us. He is in the latter stages of life and has been for many years. But his writing in particular is still prolific. One of the greatest essayists of his generation and one of the greatest poets as well. If I had to spend a TransAtlantic flight with anyone, it would be him.

Once you have heard the voice, when you read the words you can hear him speaking them aloud. What an incredible gift that is. Lesser figures from the arts have received major gongs. If we are to celebrate excellence, how about rewarding this great writer and broadcaster while he is still with us? I’d knight him tomorrow.