The Ceremony

It went well, thank you for asking. The initial nerves one feels when one is confronted by an audience of one’s peers are magnified exponentially in comparison to the butterflies one experiences when faces the great unwashed. And many of them are unwashed, believe me. I am not being disrespectful to the public when I say sometimes you are up on the stage and the wafts of stale farts, beer, garlic and bodily odours are overwhelming. Like being locked in Leslie Joseph’s dressing room.

The worst thing – if there is a worst thing about accepting an award one is entitled to after many bloody years entertaining the aforementioned stinking rabble – is writing a speech which is not going to offend, upset, disclose anything that would result in shunning/prosecution, anger, annoy or insinuate. It is important to be both exciting and vague. A complex paradox indeed.

After much scribbling to adhere to these rules, I had written a speech which was as moving as it was in English. Nervous, with trembling hands, I read it back. This was to be my speech. My chance to say, in my own words my debt indebtedness to the industry which had spawned and supported me. But was it enough? Was it veiled in difficult insinuation? Did it litter it’s prose with double meanings, dark secondary narratives and thinly disguised accusations? Yes.

But I was aware that this could be my epitaph as well as my speech, particularly if Mr Blessed hears what I have to say about him. So off I trotted to Parker Knowles, my companion in my darkest hour, my Savant of wisdom, my guru who offered me nought but advice and succur in this cold, unfeeling life. He was in bed, but he dutifully arose (got out of bed, nothing like that going on, thank you) and read my speech. “It’s okay, may be a little on the long side” he said, brushing away the cobweb which had formed around him whilst he perused my manuscript.

In short, he recommended the following deletions/addendums:

The story about Jacques Cousteau could go. Although you can’t libel the dead, the Octopus may still seek legal redress.

My anecdote about Lenny Henry would have to be cut. There was simply no way that was even physically possible.

Canterbury was not demolished.

Delia Smith had never, as far as can be determined, been to public school and similarly had little experience of ‘taking a hot muffin’.

Costumiers REDACTED

The resemblance in behaviour, smell and acting ability of redacted makes her likely to be more suited to Brighton Sea World than The Shaftsbury, albeit it with her wooden leg and charity work.

Hospital records indicate otherwise in my case notes.

This cut my speech down from a manageable, entertaining seven and three quarter hours to fifteen seconds, although if I spoke really slowly I could probably spin it out a bit.