The World According to Bertie - Alexander Hanchett Smith [152]
99. Humphrey Holmes tells a Joke
They sat at the table, Domenica’s guests, all in perfect agreement, at least on the proposition that the first course was exceptional. At the head of the table sat Domenica herself, anthropologist, widow of the late proprietor of the Cochin Sunrise Electricity Factory, author of numerous scholarly papers including, most recently, ‘Intellectual Property and Piracy in a Malaccan Village’. At the opposite end of the table, in a position which indicated his special status in this house as old friend and quasi-host, sat Angus Lordie, portraitist and occasional poet, pillar of the Scottish Arts Club, and member of the Royal Scottish Academy. On Domenica’s right sat James Holloway, art historian and a friend of Domenica of many years’ standing, whose advice she had sought on many occasions, and followed. On his right, Pat, the attractive but somewhat bland student who had got to know Domenica when she lived next door as tenant of Bruce Anderson, the surveyor – now the fiancé of Julia Donald – an unrepentant, a narcissist, a success. Then there were David Robinson and Joyce Robinson, both old friends of Domenica; her neighbour, Antonia, invited at the last moment out of guilt; Ricky Demarco, that great man, the irrepressible enthusiast of the arts, artist, impresario; Allan Maclean of Dochgarroch, chieftain of the Macleans of the North, and Anne Maclean; and, of course, Humphrey and Jill Holmes. That was all, but it was a good sample of Edinburgh society, and there were many who were not there who, had they known, would have given much to have been present.
Angus looked about the table. He had been charged by Domenica with responsibility for ensuring that everybody’s glass was well filled, and they were. Now, sitting back, he savoured both the timbale and the conversation.
‘It’s a disaster,’ said Ricky Demarco. ‘A complete disaster.’
Silence fell about the table as all eyes turned to Demarco. Was he referring to the timbale?
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The Festival Fringe is in great danger.’
Most were relieved that the subject was the arts and not salmon timbale; David Robinson, in particular, looked interested. People were always predicting the demise of the Edinburgh Festival, he reflected, but somehow it always got better. And the same was true of the Fringe, the Festival’s unruly unofficial partner, which seemed to get bigger and bigger each year.
‘Danger of what?’ asked David.
‘Drowning in stand-up comics,’ said Demarco. ‘Haven’t you seen how many of them there are? They flock to Edinburgh, flock like geese over the horizon.’ He waved a hand airily. ‘Thousands of them.’
Pat picked at a small fish bone that had become lodged in her teeth. She rather enjoyed going to hear stand-up comics, even if there were rather a lot of them.
‘I quite like them,’ she said quietly.
Fortunately, nobody heard her; and she was only twenty anyway.
‘I must admit, for the most part, they’re very unfunny,’ said Angus. ‘Or am I out of touch?’
‘You’re out of touch,’ said Domenica. ‘But you may nonetheless be right about their unfunniness. I find most of them rather crude and predictable. No, I agree with Ricky. These people are getting a bit tedious.’
‘They are,’ said Demarco. ‘And the problem is this: they charge so much, some of them, that they mop up all the ticket money. The Fringe should be about the arts, about drama, music, painting. And all these people do is stand there and tell joke after joke. Just think of it: the world’s biggest, most exciting arts gathering reduced to a motley collection of comedians telling jokes. Is that what we’ve come to?’
Angus looked down at his plate. ‘I wish I found more things funny,’ he said. ‘But I don’t. The only people who can make me laugh any more are Stanley Baxter and Myles Na Gopaleen.’
David Robinson agreed about Na Gopaleen. ‘Yes, Flann O’Brien was a very funny writer. Do you