Tony Parsons on Life, Death and Breakfast. Tony Parsons
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– decades after the vicious japes of childhood are past – the terrible truth sinks in.
Someone is always hiding your trousers.
How can a grown man be humiliated? Losing something you were planning on keeping – your wife, your job, your underwear – these are the classics.
In the personal realm, being dumped by a woman you love immediately makes you feel as though you are five years old and some snickering bastard just stashed your short trousers in a secret hiding place. In the professional realm, losing your job is an infallible shortcut to humiliation.
Those two million unemployed will one day forget the sickening practicalities of unemployment – struggling to pay the bills, and confronting a cashpoint machine that has learned to say no. But they will never ever forget the feeling of not being wanted. They will never shake off the shame of being surplus to requirements. Bills get paid and bruises fade. A good woman can be replaced by a better woman. But the sting of humiliation stays with you forever.
Yet we are so ill equipped to deal with it. Humiliation – the ability of the wicked world to steal our trousers – always seems to sneak up on us.
The hard knocks of the working world, the fickle nature of romance, even the subtle betrayals of our body as we age-we see all these coming over the horizon and slowly marching towards us. But humiliation always feels box fresh.
At the end of an American book tour I sat in a radio station in California listening to the most loving introduction I had ever heard in my life. ‘Tonight,’ said the DJ, ‘we have a man in the studio whose work has touched the lives and the hearts of literally millions … a man who is just a man and yet – through the power of his work – unlike other men … Yes,’ he said, ‘Michael Douglas is coming into the studio later. But first … someone called Tommy Perkins.’
The cliché of the American book tour is that they have not read your book. The humiliating reality is that they rarely know you have written a book. From sea to shining sea, I have had hundreds of witless, white-toothed morons in assorted American radio and TV stations ask me, ‘What’s the item?’
They usually ask you about ten seconds before you are live on air. It means – Why are you here, dirt bag? And exactly why were you born?
You may fret about the night you could not get an erection, or that unfortunate flirtation with premature ejaculation, or when your mum caught you masturbating over the bra ad in her Littlewoods catalogue – especially if it was all on the same day – but you have not really taken a masterclass in humiliation until you have been on an American book tour.
I once did an event in Boston where, in the middle of a crowded, bustling book shop, I faced row upon row of empty seats. Only two people came – and one of them was a homeless person who woke up the moment I started speaking and spent the rest of the event trying to sneak out without hurting my feelings. It was very thoughtful of him. But it was far too late. This was gold-medal humiliation – mortification as an Olympic sport.
And I was humiliated again when only one woman turned up in Dallas. And I was humiliated when the only books I shifted in Atlanta were the dozen or so that were stolen by the same smiling young man. And I was humiliated in Chicago when the only question from the audience was from a mental little old lady who was obsessed with the British Royal Family.
‘Do you know Prince Philip?’
‘No, unfortunately I have never met the Duke of Edinburgh. Anyone else? Yes, the same lady …’
‘How about Prince Charles?’
And so it went on – from the next in line to the throne all the way down to the Duchess of Devonshire. And it was … humiliating.
But not quite as bad as being eleven years old, and realising that there was a girl in my class that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
Far too shy to actually talk to her, I cunningly waited until Valentine’s Day and then left a soppy, heart-covered card on her desk, with my name written in big black letters. And when I walked into the classroom on the morning of 14th February, there she was, holding my card, surrounded by her friends – and my friends too! – and they were all wetting their regulation school knickers, pointing at me and laughing themselves sick.
From the womb to the tomb, from the cradle to the grave, the humiliation just keeps on coming. And it often kicks you right in your wedding tackle just when you were starting to think that you have the hang of this life thing.
Humiliation is life’s way of telling you that, somewhere deep down inside, you will always be that scared little boy who couldn’t find his trousers, or who was so naïve that he gave his Valentine card to the class heartbreaker, or made the terrible error of not being Michael Douglas when he was passing through California.
You think you grow out of being humiliated, but you never do. The job goes. Or the woman. Or perhaps you keep the job and the woman but somehow misplace your dignity – and that can hurt as much as all the rest.
TV is ripe for humiliation. I have seen people go on Question Time and shake so much that I hid behind the sofa. And I have seen people appear on Have I Got News for You and be so terrified that they never managed to say a full sentence – let alone exchange cutting, Oscar Wilde-level banter with the regular presenters. And then there was the poor sap who went on Mastermind and only managed to get two questions right in his specialist subject. How the world howled at his humiliation! The Daily Mail had a double-page spread on the humiliated thicko – AND YOUR SPECIALIST SUBJECT IS … PASS!!
I have done my unremarkable stints on Question Time and Have I Got News for You and Mastermind. And every time I left the studio I heaved an enormous sigh of relief. Because-while I had hardly set the world on fire with my wit, or intelligence, or knowledge – I had managed to avoid being totally humiliated.
And yet it comes to us all. It doesn’t really matter if you never know the horror of the American book tour or finding yourself unable to stop shaking on Question Time. Life will humiliate you elsewhere. Humiliation is wonderfully democratic like that.
I remember the first public speech I ever made. Those who know me as an accomplished after-dinner speaker, always equipped with a stream of gags and an amusing jar of cock rub, would have been shocked to see my total humiliation on my debut speaking engagement.
It was the last century. George Michael was twenty-four years old and so naturally it was time to write his life story. George and I were doing the book together. He talked and I tarted it up. Our publishers threw a big party for us at the Groucho Club. And I was asked to give the keynote speech. And it was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. Because my speech stunk the place out.
I did not realise at the time that you can’t just write a speech and then read it out loud. I didn’t realise that if you do that then every single time you look up, you completely lose your place. And have to find it again. And then you stutter, and sweat, and feel like crying as George Michael and all these publishing big shots look at you but can’t meet your eye, just in case humiliation is contagious.
These days, I can speak in public until the audience soaks their Tiramisu with tears of mirth. And if we are ever in a changing room together, don’t even think about hiding my trousers because I never let them out of my sight.
But so what? Life will find some other way to humiliate me. We all get humiliated. The question is – what are you going to do about it?
Humiliation can be a springboard to greatness. When Muhammad Ali fought Joe Frazier in Madison Square Garden on 8th March 1971 they were both undefeated, and those of us who had grown up watching Ali firmly believed him to be unbeatable. Ali no doubt believed it too.
But Smoking Joe not only beat Ali – he broke his jaw. Joe quite literally shut Ali’s big, mocking mouth – the mouth that never tired of talking about how ugly Frazier was, and what an Uncle Tom he was, and what an inferior black man (despite Frazier’s skin being far darker than Ali’s). Ali was abjectly humiliated in Madison Square Garden that night.