A world of his own
Alexander Waugh
PETER SIMPLE'S DOMAIN by Michael Wharton New European Publications, 412.99, pp. 250, ISBN 1872410294 my father, Auberon, never read a book to me in all his life, nor did he ever encourage a love of books in his children. The only literary education we ever had from him was Michael Wharton. It was 'Michael Wharton this' and 'Michael Wharton that' from the age of three onwards. Old and loyal readers of this magazine may remember his encomium from 'Another Voice' in March 1992:
It becomes easier and easier to imagine that Peter Simple — or at any rate Michael Wharton, his creator — is God: not just writing the history of our times, but in the particular sense of continuous creation, that we all exist only as reflections of his benign imagination.
If you are tempted to laugh at Waugh for stretching Bishop Berkeley's flawed philosophy to an even dafter height than it had already been stretched by Berkeley himself, think again. You must read Michael Wharton's latest collection, then you will understand. My father learned his trade at Wharton's knee. Wharton, in turn, acknowledges Evelyn Waugh as one of the strongest influences on his comedy. It was always my father's highest professional ambition to succeed Wharton as the Daily Telegraph's Way of the World columnist and he managed it in the end, despite a much derided interregnal hiccup from Christopher Booker. When Wharton retired from Way of the World, removing Peter Simple to the Sunday Telegraph, my father was momentarily disconcerted to find 'dear, dear Booker', as he so often called him, 'grimacing and gibbering on the sacred ground'. Booker was soon removed, which is just as well, for Waugh had only ten years to live, Booker was NBG and, in any case, Michael Wharton had already signed a codicil to his will bequeathing to my father his column 'and all its inhabitants, with their lands and flocks, electronic gadgets and their Boggs Oafmobile motor cars'.
This book contains a touching tribute to Papa, published on the day of his funeral, in which Simple eloquently describes a country in mourning, as the departed jour
nalist 'among sombre tombs and banners' is enrolled into the 'Great Hall of Heroes'. Wharton is now in his 91st year and still one of the funniest men alive. We hope (since he is so godlike) that he will live for ever, regaling our descendants with ingenious squibs for generations to come, but we cannot count on it. When the dread time approaches, those great hall doors will undoubtedly be open to receive him, and the highest of the heroes' perches will be his to sit upon.
I write of the intricate layers of influence that lie between Michael Wharton and my partly in the hope that it will interest and partly, it has to be said, from dread fear of having to dish out the obvious — that is, having to quote chunks of the book with the implied observation, 'See that's really funny, isn't it?' Wharton is funny, very funny, but like P. G. Wodehouse much is lost in the brandishing of isolated quotations. A. N. Wilson makes a hash of it in his introduction, describing Peter Simple as 'truly conservative' with a 'truly lyrical vision'. 'so truthful', 'truer than all the works of his contemporary journalists put together'. All that truth makes Wharton sound a dull dog, which, of course, he isn't. Those who know his work already will be delighted that a new anthology is out; for the rest I am loth to cite random examples in the hope of showing, in a few brash blasts. Wharton's infinitely subtle, chimerical humour. Those who have never read him must buy the book on trust.
Oh, all right then, just one. Here are some typical messages attached to the railings of Kensington Palace with bunches of flowers at the time of the death of Diana, Princess of Wales: 'We want a proper Diana memorial — and we want it now' Royal Family — what have you done with all the money we contributed?' Cough up, Charles, or take our undying curses — this is a final warning — from Mum, Dad, Auntie Pam, Auntie Seanette, Doug, Dwayne, Garry, Barry, Tosh. Trish, Kim, Garlene, Dagmara, twins Girder and Stuka and the rest of the caring Gloat family of Stretchford.'
Michael Wharton, we who are about to laugh, salute you!
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