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But there would be one more demand—“It was the deal-breaker as far as Andy was concerned,” said Shapiro. “Without this, he wanted nothing to do with the show.” Weinberger took Shapiro’s call and listened: “George said that Andy now insisted that in at least two of the five shows that he didn’t work on, we would have to hire the acting services of Tony Clifton. If we wanted Foreign Man, we had to take Clifton. I laughed. George laughed. We took Clifton. I mean, what the hell.”

One week after Town Hall, here at last was British Man on the live Saturday Night broadcast, bedecked in effete plumage (black waistcoat and tie and tails and peach ruffled shirt), pacing behind host Art Garfunkel, who introduced Andy Kaufman. British Man then bent over his phonograph and tested the needle on the record of marching music which began to play, but he removed the needle and, in his thin and brisk accent, greeted the audience, which he complimented on the many bright smiling happy faces therein and starchily proceeded to inform—“They told me that since there were only about twenty or twenty-five minutes left in the show tonight, since I’ve been on several times before, they said that they trust me, the producers and the people who run the show said they trust me very much and that they would let me do anything I want and I could have the rest of the time, if it takes that long. So I was wondering what to do, what could I do to fill up this twenty, twenty-five minutes—could I sing a song? Do a dance? Then I thought, well, you know, before I’ve been on the show and I’ve done characters like the little foreign man, the foreign immigrant who goes tenk you veddy much I am veddy happy to be here, you know, and then I’ve done this American character —Hi, I’m Andy! and hello how are you oh the cow goes moooo…. But I thought instead of doing that, why don’t I just come out and be straight with you and be myself. Then I thought, well, what should I do, what should I do? I was at a loss. And so I saw this book … and it reminded me of when I was in school, when this literature teacher gave it to me to read, said it was the greatest American novel ever written. I take issue with that—I don’t believe that it is. But what I’d like to do tonight is to read it to you and then perhaps you could point out some subtleties that I might have missed—in case, if we have time to follow for discussion. It’s called The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald and here it is—‘Chapter One …’”

Audience coughing spasms began at outset of fourth sentence. Derision gained in surliness by last word on page, which visibly perturbed B.M.—“Now look, let’s keep it down please! Because we have a long way to go and I am pressed for time!”—then by top of second page groans of exquisite agony tore through studio—“… ‘Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt….’ Now look! If I hear one more word I’m going to close the book and forget about the whole thing!”—and they cheered, and B.M. walked off, then walked back, resumed reading as insurrection mounted, to which he responded in lecture—“I think what we need nowadays is more discipline! You know, when I was your age I used to have to walk seven miles to school! Spare the rod and spoil the child is what I say! Good half-round in the woodshed would do some of you very good!”—Lorne Michaels now approached and whispered into his ear and retreated—“What?! Well, I have been asked to leave, ladies and gentlemen! And I resent it!”—and his indignation rose and he indicated that, after the reading, he had planned to reward them by playing a music record, which the audience seemed to want now, so he said that he would play it—after he had finished reading—and he reopened the book and was met with screams and after further futile negotiation he stalked over to the phonograph and set down the needle and waited through protracted hisses and skips until the sound of his voice issued forth—“‘… Only Gatsby, who gives his name to this book, was exempt…’ ”—and he stood beside the