George Fraser - The Light’s On At Signpost

GEORGE MACDONALD FRASER

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollins Publishers 2002 Copyright © George MacDonald Fraser 2002

George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007136476

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2012 ISBN: 9780007325634

Version: 2016-11-24

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Foreword

Shooting Script 1

“One for All, and All for Fun”

Angry Old Man 1

Fourth Afghan

Interlude

Law for Sale?

Shooting Script 2

With the Tudors in Hungary

Angry Old Man 2

The Westminster Farce

Interlude

Orcs and Goblins

Shooting Script 3

Gene Hackman Should Have Blown up Vesuvius

Angry Old Man 3

The Europe Fiasco

Interlude

Act of Settlement

Shooting Script 4

“Not a Bad Bismarck, Was I?”

Angry Old Man 4

The Day of the Pygmies

Interlude

A Writer, a Soldier, a Comedian, a Football Hero, a Beverly Hillbilly

Angry Old Man 5

The Truth that Dare not Speak its Name

Interlude

To Scotland, with Love

Shooting Script 5

“Phlam with Cheese” for the Stars

Angry Old Man 6

Crime and Punishment

Interlude

No One Did it Better

Shooting Script 6

“Thirty Years in Hollywood and You can still Learn Something New”

Interlude

Pictures of Russia

Angry Old Man 7

The Defeat of the British Army

Interlude

Special Relationship

Shooting Script 7

Everywhere but Hong Kong

Angry Old Man 8

How to Encourage Race Hatred

Interlude

Not According to Lady Bracknell

Shooting Script 8

“ You Want to Put Bond in a Gorilla Suit?”

Angry Old Man 9

Dumbing Down, Down, Down …

Interlude

The Perfect Premier

Shooting Script 9

“Forget Fellini!”

Angry Old Man 10

This Unsporting Life

Shooting Script 10

The Ones that Got Away

For the Record

Conclusion

Keep Reading

Index

About the Author

Other Works

Autobiography

About the Publisher

On the Isle of Man, where I am lucky enough to live, we have a saying: “The light’s on at Signpost”. I’ll explain it presently; sufficient for the moment to say that it’s a catchphrase about the island’s famous TT (Tourist Trophy) race, the blue riband of world motor-cycling, and the nearest thing to the Roman circus since the hermit Telemachus got the shutters put up at the Colosseum. Riders come from the ends of the earth every June to compete on the thirty-seven-mile course, hurtling their machines over mountain, through town and village, round hairpin bends, along narrow, twisting stone-walled roads where the slightest misjudgment means death at 150 m.p.h., and on straights where they dice for position with each other and the Grim Reaper.

Inevitably there are deaths. Never a year passes but the TT or its companion races claim their victims, but still they keep coming, for it is the ultimate test of the road racer’s skill and daring, and the man who wins it, be he an Italian six-times victor with a mighty organisation behind him, or a humble garage mechanic, has nothing more to prove. He is the best in the world, and needs his head examined. But there it is: the TT will last as long as there are crazy men on machines – Germans, Italians, Irish, Swedes, Japanese, and every variety of Briton, including of course the Manx themselves.

That the race was world famous I had always known, but I was astonished when the late Steve McQueen, of Hollywood fame, who had never been to the island, talked of the TT course with the familiarity of old acquaintance. He was motor-cycle daft, to be sure, and even kept a bike, an old Indian, in the living-room of his penthouse in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, and at some time, somehow, he had plainly informed himself about the course and its more celebrated features and hazards – the Verandah, Ramsey hairpin, Creg-ny-Baa, the Highlander where the bikes touch 190 m.p.h., and the rest – and I was properly impressed. He must come to the island, I said, and ride the course for himself: thirty-seven miles in less than twenty minutes.

He considered this in that calculating blue-eyed silence which captivated audiences round the world, smiled his famous tightlipped smile, and shook his head. “I’m forty-eight, remember. You can drive me round.”

I never had the chance. The light was already on for him at Signpost – and it is time to explain the saying. The TT is six circuits of the course, and each time a rider passes Signpost Corner, about a mile from the end of the circuit, a light flashes on at his slot on the grandstand scoreboard, to let spectators know he has almost finished a lap; when it lights up on his last lap, they know he is nearly home, the end is in sight, as it was for McQueen that afternoon when I said good-bye to him in Beverly Hills. Not long after, he was dead, and the movie in which he was to star, and which I had written, was never made. But whenever I hear that saying, which the Manx, with their Viking sense of humour, apply to life as well as to the TT, I think of him, chewing tobacco and spitting neatly into a china mug, making notes in his small, precise writing as we went through the script.

But that’s by the way for the moment, and I have dropped McQueen’s name at this point because I know that nothing grips the public, reading or viewing, like a film star – and we shall meet him again, and many others, later on. And another reason for introducing that fine Manx saying is that it applies to me, too; at seventy-seven, my light is on at Signpost – mind you, I hope to take my time over the last mile, metaphorically pushing my bike like those riders who run out of fuel within sight of the finish.

So I’m turning aside from the stories with which I’ve been earning a living for more than thirty years, to tell something of my own. In itself it may not interest more than a few people (those kind readers of my books and viewers of my screenplays who have written to me, perhaps), but apart from telling a bit of my own tale there is something else I want to do, not just for myself, but for all those others whose lights are on at Signpost, that huge majority of a generation who think as I do, but whose voices, on the rare occasions when they are raised, are lost in the clamour of the new millennium.