Tony Parsons on Life, Death and Breakfast

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. And yet somehow his greatness springs from that moment.

‘Everybody loses,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Probably be a better man.’

And so it proved.

And as Ali digested the humiliation of his first defeat, his face broken and swollen, those of us who loved him had never loved him more. Because he faced down humiliation like a man.

Frank Sinatra was the official photographer for Life magazine at that fight because he could not get a ringside seat. You might think that would be demeaning for one of the biggest stars in the world, but Sinatra’s legend is built on the way he dealt with humiliation after early success.

Before Sinatra landed two contracts – to play Private Maggio in From Here to Eternity, and a recording contract with Capitol records – he was all washed up. What we think of when we think of Sinatra – the concept albums with Nelson Riddle, the Oscar-winning acting – only came after the world had humiliated him. In 1952, after being dropped by Columbia and MCA, Frank Sinatra did not even have a recording contract. Humiliation indeed – but greatness was just two contracts away.

It would be comforting to believe that humiliation is invariably the gateway to glory. Unfortunately, losing your trousers – literally or metaphorically – is rarely the cue for winning an Oscar, or beating Smoking Joe in Manila. Despite all the humiliations that life brings, true greatness eludes us. But deep down inside the lowest moments of all is where you know yourself at last.

It never really ends. If childhood is ripe for humiliation, then so is puberty. And young manhood is stuffed with humiliating moments – losing a fight I remember as being particularly humiliating. It might not have been the Thriller in Manila, but it mattered desperately to me. Yet being beaten physically is nothing to the damage you receive psychologically. Sticks and head butts can break your bones, but it is the abject humiliation that really hurts.

What must old age be like? An endless series of doctors peering up your back passage and asking you to cough and telling you to put your trousers back on.

But you can’t!

Because the doctor has hidden them!

Seven Tough Guys Get Facials

In the never-ending battle to be the best a man can be, the twenty-first century male is confronted by the same question again and again – where to draw the line?

Laser surgery to correct imperfect eyesight, cosmetic dentistry to give you a perfect smile – this is now the kind of routine self-improvement that we get done in our lunch break. But-where does it end? Or doesn’t it?

Over the last year I have had two red-blooded heterosexual males inform me that they plan to invest in a bottom-lift – which is exactly the same as a face-lift, but south of the border, down Mexico way. And to me – sorry – that just feels like a self-improvement too far.

Yet there is no denying that men are missing out on a lot of the things that women take for granted, and that make them healthier, happier and lovelier. And don’t men have the right to be healthier, happier and lovelier too?

What about the facial? To many men – for example, me – the facial has always been on the dark side of what is acceptable for a man. A bit too poncy. A tad too girly. Which just goes to show how far men still have to go.

Your dad and uncles would have reacted to a man-facial with distrust. Well, I have been to the mountain, and I have had a facial – and I see at last what I have been missing for years.

This just in – real men get facials.

As fallible, neurotic, profoundly messed-up human beings, we all have an insatiable appetite for self-improvement.

Or is that just me?

I am shocked and disturbed to discover that for every Penguin Classic or slim volume of poetry on my shelves, I seem to own many more books on getting rich, getting laid, getting fit, losing weight, winning fights, raising daughters, stopping smoking, starting a language and treating your own knees. I am a sucker for self-improvement, a junkie for self-help, a crack whore of self-motivation.

Or is that just my library?

But everywhere I look there is evidence of a pathological obsession for being richer, tougher, thinner, smarter, fitter and – above all – better.

There are books by world-renowned experts here. Captain W.E. Fairbairn’s 1942 martial arts classic Get Tough! How to win in hand-to-hand fighting as taught to the British commandos and the U.S Armed Forces. And oh look – there is the babe-magnet bible, How to Get the Women You Desire into Bed by sex guru Ross Jeffries. And right next to it I see How to Get Rich by Donald Trump. There’s The Prince by Machiavelli and Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, books about Neuro-Linguistic Programming and Creative Visualisation and how to end a street fight with just one blow.

But do I really need this stuff? And has it done me any good? Does it do anyone any good?

Not all the self-improvement texts I own are by some certified genius in his field. I also have a large collection of books by charlatans, nutjobs and nobodies. I own books about getting rich by people who are not rich but in jail. But when it comes to improving myself, I seem disturbingly willing to suspend belief. I am like a country hick queuing up to see the bearded lady, the mug punter who can’t see when the cards are marked, a sucker for that snake oil.

I am even starting to doubt the experts. Captain W.E. Fairbairn invented the Fairbairn Commando knife and is the father of modern hand-to-hand combat. Anyone with fire in the blood should own a copy of Get Tough

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