Still Spitting at Sixty: From the 60s to My Sixties, A Sort of Autobiography

COPYRIGHT

HarperCollinsEntertainment

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This paperback edition 2006

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsEntertainment 2005

Copyright © Roger Law 2006

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN 9780007182503

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2018 ISBN: 9780008325497

Version: 2018-08-14

Collaborative writer on this book was Lewis Chester.

‘Between [Roger Law and Lewis Chester], they have garnished Law’s jolly life story with diverting details … Law sounds like he’s having far too much fun in the sun to risk a return to gloomy British satire. But his superb illustrations suggest that, should he ever tire of Bondi Beach, another brilliant career awaits back home in the periodicals that spawned his grotesque yet loveable effigies.’

Independent, William Cook

‘Many glorious illustrations … litter this book … [it] is worth buying just for the twin studies of kangaroos. Not that it isn’t a marvellous read. Still Spitting at Sixty is that rare thing, a ghost-written book that somehow distils its “writer’s” essential flavour … Hazlitt said we applaud satirists not out of love but fear. Impossible, though, to read this book and not love its author. Partly this is because it is so pungently amusing, partly because it is so unsickeningly life-affirming.’

Sunday Times, Christopher Bray

‘This is really a sublime autobiography … [it contains] some of the finest pieces of writing about Australia. Much more evocative than Bill Bryson. And the illustrations are wonderful.’

Sydney Morning Herald

‘Highly engaging … a breeze, a pleasure to read, as it leaps from anecdote to anecdote with aplomb and much humour. Like all the best people, Law is a dedicated fan of P.G.Wodehouse, and there are some lovely jokes here, if not the awesomely polished prose of his hero. This is a much more distinctive piece of work than the usual run of showbiz memoirs. And yet there is clearly something going on underneath … great entertainment, and his paintings, which somehow manage to be both bold and delicate, are quite something.’

Daily Mail, Marcus Berkmann

‘Filled with all the lunacy and flair that one would expect from the co-producer and creator of Spitting Image.’

Guardian

‘This entertaining memoir takes the reader behind the scenes at Spitting Image and on to a series of hilarious adventures as a “teenage granddad” in the Outback of Australia.’

Sunday Express

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Richard Bennett, who is as essential to this sorry tale as Jiminy Cricket is to Pinocchio. Why didn’t I listen?

EPIGRAPH

‘I can only see it going one way, that’s my way. How it’s actually going I have no idea.’

With apologies to Nick Wilshire (boxer)

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One: The Lizard of Oz

Chapter Two: Fen Boy

Chapter Three: University Challenged

Chapter Four: Portrait of the Artist as a Young Yob

Chapter Five: The Sixties

Chapter Six: Stars and Bars

Chapter Seven: The Cosmic Couch

Chapter Eight: Luck and Flaw

Chapter Nine: Here’s One I Made Earlier

Chapter Ten: Hit and Miss

Chapter Eleven: Spitting Imperialism

Chapter Twelve: Trash for Cash

Chapter Thirteen: Not Quite Dead Yet

Chapter Fourteen: The Blue Beyond

Chapter Fifteen: Change of Life

Chapter Sixteen: Chinese Takeaway

Chapter Seventeen: Berk and Wimp

Chapter Eighteen: Walkabout

Chapter Nineteen: Home and Away

Chapter Twenty: No Worries

Acknowledgements

Bibliography

About the Author

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

THE LIZARD OF OZ

I put my money on a blue-tongued lizard called Eternal Youth, and lost a packet. To be fair, it had legged it bravely in the early stages of the race, but seemed to lose its way around the halfway stage before completely running out of puff. It eventually came in a distant, and dismal, fifth.

My instinctive first thought was that my lizard had been drugged or ‘nobbled’. Such practices were not unheard of in Eulo near Cunnamulla, Queensland, where the Lizard Race ranks as one of the highest events in the annual sporting calendar. But, on reflection, I think that Eternal Youth simply buckled under the weight of my expectations.

It was perhaps not eternal youth I was after (well, too late for that), but it was true that I had come to Australia in a quest for a new lease of life.

A few months earlier I had joined the ranks of the functionally obsolete – a fast-expanding tribe, composed of people whose main purpose in life has expired through such mechanisms as redundancy, forced early retirement or just sheer bad luck. Yet these are people who still, if the actuarial tables are to be believed, have a lot of existence in prospect. And no clear idea of what to do with it.

I found myself very thoroughly washed up when the satire bubble burst and I was obliged to dismantle the engine of public mockery called Spitting Image which I had spent most of the previous twenty years carefully assembling. For all its faults, some of which I am now ready to admit, and even elaborate upon, Spitting Image was an engrossing way of life. The business of squeezing anarchic, disrespectful humour into a series of high-pressure deadlines meant that I was rarely afflicted with the problem of leisure. If I ever had a day off I can’t remember it because I was either asleep or seeking refuge in tired and emotional behaviour.

The end was not exactly of my choosing, though I always knew there had to be one. Fashions in satire, like anything else, come and go, and ours could be no exception. But when our satirical fad was over it exposed an unusually large number of rudderless satirists with a tendency to live on. Fortunately, most of those who worked for me churning out the puppets and other grotesques in the Spitting Image workshop were lucky enough to be exploited child labourers, fresh out of art school in many cases. When our show was done they were able to go on and find new, and usually more profitable, avenues for their talents in showbiz or the arts. Youth was on their side. But the way ahead for the boss, poor soul, was not so evident. Nobody’s heart bled for him, of course. After all I’d had what is called ‘a bloody good run’. But there I was, jobless at 56, too young to retire and too old to be retrained, and without any discernible talent for domesticity or addressing a golf ball.

As the business wound down, I had naturally explored other options. I did not feel quite ready for the job of marshalling the supermarket trolleys outside my local Safeway (though I have it in mind for later on), so I looked around in what might be called my field of art education. A couple of art college interviews convinced me, and my interviewers, that I could never achieve the level of bureaucratic expertise required these days to bring on the young. I was nonetheless attracted by the Royal College of Art’s suggestion that I might set up a new animation course for advanced students. But developments in animation are now incredibly fast and this, combined with problems of establishing a new set-up, would, I realized, make for a job as taxing as Spitting Image had been. I was just not ready for another ordeal.

I felt fit enough, but mentally I was knackered. It was slowly dawning on me that what I wanted was not so much a specific job but a rekindled enthusiasm. The stuff I had before Spitting Image inexorably turned me into a harassed, ‘kick-ass’ capitalist. The trouble was that I had become way too business-wise for my own good. There were, I felt, artistic sides of me virtually neglected since my art school days which I would really like to develop now that I had the time and opportunity. But the business side of me said, ‘Forget it. There’s no market.’ And was I really prepared to go traipsing round the galleries and art establishments with my folder of fledgling menopausal artwork trying to drum up commissions from people whose fathers might have worked for me, or even been fired by me? The mere prospect seemed fraught with possibilities of satire at my expense. Perish the thought.

To begin again, it seemed I really needed a place or circumstance where I had no reputation and effectively no past to live down or up to. Hence my decision to transport myself to Australia.

As it happened, my day in Eulo was anything but blighted by the poor performance of Eternal Youth. Among those who commiserated with me about my lizard’s lack of staying power was a tall, elderly man wearing a hat festooned with crocodile teeth, who turned out to be the town’s most famous citizen, the Aboriginal writer Herb Wharton.

Author of a string of yarns with titles like Where Ya’ Been, Mate?, Wharton had a Solomon-like reputation. A cattle drover in his youth, he is now a kind of cultural drover, having walked about all over Australia, and a couple of neighbouring continents besides. Sponsored by R.M. Williams, the quintessentially Aussie outfitters, and dressed in their outback best – leather boots, moleskins, check shirt and Akubra hat – Wharton exudes an ambassadorial charm such that he has been known to set off on world lecture tours with just a $20 bill in his back pocket and to return three months later with the same dollar bill still intact.

Herb Warton

Herb, who became a friend, was happy to apply his considerable mind to my situation. If I wanted to experience a new life, he said, I should make a point of getting out of the cities – there were different, mind-expanding worlds to be savoured in the outback. And, now that I had got my eye in by starting to paint again, I should be better placed than most to appreciate this fact. If I wanted to take him up on the offer, he said, he could introduce me to extraordinary parts of Australia, virtually unknown to the white man, that would blow my mind (though he couldn’t absolutely guarantee that David Attenborough had not at one time passed through with a film crew).

Herb later proved as good as his word. But at the time he struck a note of caution, warning me not to expect too much of anything, on account of things being a bit crook for all of us from the very beginning. And the fault, he thought, was entirely God’s. If only he had had the sense to create Adam and Eve as Aborigines, there would have been no such thing as the Fall of Man. An Aboriginal Eve, for sure, would have eaten the snake in preference to the pippin.

CHAPTER TWO

FEN BOY

My original sin was to be born in Littleport, a tiny town-cum-village struggling to keep its head above water in the heart of the Fens on the border between Norfolk and Cambridgeshire. In these days of high-speed motorways and second homes it is hard to imagine just how cut off from the rest of the world the Fens seemed in those days. Or indeed, to imagine how strange the outside world seemed to its inhabitants. My father, who ran his own construction business, would tell me about the time he had taken his workforce up to London to see the sights. This was reckoned to be a great success by the men, who spent the whole day going up and down the escalators at Liverpool Street Station. As a child, the only part of this story that I found improbable was my father ever allowing his workers off site for an entire day.

I was a wartime baby, born on 6 September 1941, but I cannot claim to have shared much in the war’s privations. Living close to the land we never went short, drawing nourishment from the acre of land we shared with an abundance of chickens, ducks, rabbits and a pig. At Sunday lunch it was my father’s proud boast that the only purchased ingredient was the flour to make the Yorkshire pudding. My father was often away in the army but he was not exactly a fund of conventional war stories on his returns to the comforts of home. By all accounts he spent more of his time fighting his own officers than he did fighting Hitler. A high proportion of his military service was spent in the glasshouse.

I have two graphic memories from my infancy. One was of a huge scary effigy of Hitler being burned in the centre of Littleport. That really was impressive, but not quite so entrancing as the visual experience I had when my father had the job of painting the Burnham Overy Staithe windmill. Before applying the pitch to the brickwork, he had me securely strapped to the windmill’s upper balcony. From this vantage I could look far out to sea through the tumbling sails. Magical.

Even as a child in the Fens you had a sense of living on the edge. There was always the feeling that the water might reclaim the land and that Littleport’s 4,000 inhabitants could be engulfed or, if they were lucky, resume their status as an island people. As kids we would go out with poles to certain fields and poke the apparently solid surface of the earth. Three or four feet down it would be like jelly. And if the place did not sink without trace, there seemed a good chance it would be blown away by the icy winds that came howling across the open spaces, straight from Siberia. At almost any time of the year the Fens could whip up a penetrating damp that chilled to the marrow. I don’t think I’ve ever been really cold since I left.

The character of the people was less wintry than the terrain, but it was to some extent shaped by it. From Roman times the Fen country has been a natural refuge for outlaws, as the bogs deterred hot pursuit by the forces of law and order. Hereward the Wake held out against the Norman invaders in the marshes around Ely before he was betrayed by a greedy abbot. In Regency times the Fens were a popular hideout for runaway black slaves, which accounts for some of today’s more exotic physiognomies.

The inaccessibility of the area was also prized by its more law-abiding inhabitants, who could comfortably subsist there by trapping, shooting and fishing the teeming water-lands. When they started to drain the Fens, there was no end of problems with the local labour hired to do the work. They would dig the trenches for money by day, and fill them in at night for free to deter the onset of progress. They were the original Fen Tigers. Eventually Irish navvies had to be brought in.

The works of central government were regarded with distrust, sometimes with good reason. It was a rising in Littleport that sparked the bread riots round the country in the wake of the Napoleonic Wars. These were stamped out with great ferocity. The officer in charge of quelling the disturbances was quoted as saying, ‘Last year the battle of Waterloo, this year the battle of Hullabaloo.’ In 1816 five Littleport men were hanged for their part in the rioting. I was acquainted with many of their descendants.

A sense of being at odds with the world beyond the Fens, even though many people made a living by selling produce to it, was very much a part of my upbringing. One consequence of this peculiar solidarity was that there was not a lot of class feeling, though some were richer than others. Nor was there much in the way of professional arrogance. The ranks of Fenland doctors and dentists seemed to contain an unusually large number of people who had been chucked out of the Royal Navy. Nor, it must be acknowledged, was there much in the way of cultural diversity.

Growing up in Littleport, my first artistic inspiration was Mr Baumber, the sign-writer. The most impressive thing about Mr Baumber was not so much the excellence of his signs but the casual elegance of his way of life. Unlike my father and my uncles, he seemed to exist very much on his own terms. The little work that he did he seemed to enjoy, and the rest of the time he would be pleasantly inebriated. You could say, in modern psychological parlance, that he was my first serious role model.

Even Mr Baumber’s imperfections had charm. It was said that his one serious deficiency as a sign-writer was a tendency to spell in a highly individual way. Thus when he painted the sign for my father’s building business, Law Brothers Building Constructors, his version came out as ‘Law Brothers Building Constrictors’. I later came to feel that Mr Baumber may have grasped an essential truth about the enterprise.

Remnants of past ways of life and death were still in evidence when I was a child. Old people still drank poppy tea to ease the ague and the irritation of mosquitoes. There was also talk of the special brew, the black teapot, which I gathered – I don’t think incorrectly – was designed to help those who had become a burden to their families on their way into the next world. I would have nightmares about this vessel which I managed to exorcise later in life by making one. This black teapot – festooned with poisonous scorpions, spiders and snakes – is now on view in Norwich Castle Museum.

My family’s tradition was essentially muscular. My grandfather, Robert, had an iconic status long after his death, which occurred when my own father was eight years old. He had originally been a blacksmith with a sideline in breaking horses, before making a great success as a general dealer. He invested all his money in cattle and a large chunk of Welney Wash. He prospered to the extent of opening a couple of butcher’s shops in the village and even sold his meat pies in London. His business was then completely wiped out by drought, quickly followed by a foot and mouth epidemic. Soon after, he died a typical Fenland death. A horse and carriage crashed through the ice on the Wash and my grandfather helped rescue the trapped driver. He then went home and died of pneumonia.

He had thirteen children, eleven surviving, and these were farmed out among different families in Littleport, which gave me a tremendous range of aunts and uncles as a child. The Laws were a rather stoic breed, without being dour, and also quite ambitious, none more so than my father.

My father, I often felt, was a driven man, and the drive was to restore the fortune that fate had so cruelly wrested from the grasp of his own father. At various times he had three other brothers, Bill, Jack and Felix, working with him in the construction business, which hugely profited from the post-war council housing boom. But there were absolutely no family favours. The workers were expected to work at the double, but George Law’s nearest and dearest were expected to die for the business.

The more cosmopolitan side of my upbringing came from my mother, Winifred, and her family, the Hiblins. My mother’s parents ran the dairy in Littleport but they were acquainted with a much wider world. They had run a shop in the East End of London and my grandmother Jenny had worked in Birmingham for many years, in a supervisory capacity in the rag trade. She knew all the old music hall songs and was a lot of fun, if a bit sharp with it. Her husband was more subdued, but not unimpressive. Wilfrid had served in the First World War, and had lived to tell the tale, though with some difficulty. While he was on ambulance duty on the front line, part of his jaw had been shot away.

On weekends I would help out on the milk rounds. This involved venturing down tracks with names like Burnt Fen and Coffee Drove to lonely black pitched shacks and Fletton brick bungalows, flagged by a couple of desolate poplars as windbreaks. To survive this specialized work it was necessary to judge, within a gnat’s whisker, the length of the ubiquitous Alsatian’s chain.

My reward was getting to sit with my grandmother on Saturday evenings when, gin bottle to hand, she would do the books at a table covered with piles of coins and wads of notes. With the accounting done I was allowed to work my way through several bottles of Ely Ales from the crate in the pantry. Pleasantly inebriated, I would then listen to grandma’s tales of big city life, and get to sing some of the old songs along with her, the bawdier the better. My all-time favourites were ‘A Little Bit of What You Fancy Does You Good’ and the more intricate ‘Keep Your Hand on Your Ha’penny, and Hold Your Ha’penny Tight’.

My grandparents were also remarkable for being among the first people in the neighbourhood to own a television set, and I can remember, aged 12, being forced to watch a snowstorm on it called ‘The Coronation’ when I wanted to be out in the fields with my dog, Scrap, looking for birds’ nests. This undoubtedly damaged any royalist tendencies I might have had.

There was an unspoken but implicit assumption among the Hiblins that my mother, who had been to grammar school in Ely, had married slightly beneath her station. Apparently my father had wooed and won her by clambering over seven rows of seats in the Empire cinema, Littleport, to be by her side. He was seen as a man of purpose, but perhaps a shade uncouth. Politically, the Hiblins were quite sophisticated and refined, being of the Liberal persuasion.

My father’s political outlook is something I still find hard to define. From the frequency with which he said a problem could be solved by shooting somebody, you might think he was a Fascist. At the same time he had nothing but contempt for what could be described as the professional shooting classes, like the army for example. Military service, to his way of thinking, never made a man of anybody. Soldiers were not encouraged to think for themselves and became essentially lazy. His firmest belief was in work, and it would be hard to find a more instinctive capitalist, or a man more totally wedded to the proposition that people should pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. And his offspring were expected to demonstrate similar convictions. He had some time for Oliver Cromwell, Fenland’s greatest gift to Puritanism, but his real hero was the contractor Sir Robert McAlpine, whose dying words, according to my father, were, ‘Keep the big mixer rolling, boys.’