I, for one, would listen to Mr. Harding — at any given moment on any given subject — practically indefinitely. He is an excellent host, brilliant conversationalist, hideous opponent and — in a way — a poet. At once a phenomenon and a horror-child of the entertainment world.

His views on particular subjects at this particular moment are as follows. Do you agree with any of them at all? If not, do you think you would be prepared to argue the toss — to his face? And maintain your objections under fire from that alert legal brain, or charming humorous coercion? (And not knowing which you’ll get!)

I gave up. Being too entertained, stimulated and generally bemused, I just went on asking questions. Mr. Harding, in a sunny mood, went on answering. I enjoyed myself vastly. Mr. Harding got exceedingly hot. We parted good friends — he liked my hat.

Mr. Harding’s views on:—

People. I like all kinds of people for no particular reasons. There are a great many people who are very pleasant but whom I dislike intensely. And there are a great many people who are very unpleasant and I love them.

Public Figures. I admire some — envy others — and pity most. Dislike (for no particular reason) popular clergymen and evangelists. I hate people who pretend to pedal salvation.

Books. I like all books. Read practically everything except what I’ve outgrown. But the more I read modern novels, the more I find I go back to Jane Austen and biographies, histories, and books on travel — but I go on reading them.

Poetry. Oh yes. I’m very fond of poetry. And am firmly convinced it should be read aloud. Even by yourself. Apart from the steady romantics, Keats, Shelley, Tennyson, Byron, I’m extremely fond of the poetry of John Betjeman and John Pudney, and of Dylan Thomas and Louis MacNeice.

Paintings. Hmmm. Very partial to paintings. One of the few ways in which I have grown up is that I now tend to buy new ones rather than reproductions of old ones. I never say a painting’s bad — but sometimes that I can’t understand it. (I loathe formal “coloured photograph” painting and am unable to appreciate modern portrait painting, over which most people enthuse — but I put that down to lack of information.)

Sculpture. Same goes for that. And without understanding why at all, I’m very addicted to the works of Henry Moore — they fascinate me.

Dress. Don’t mind as long as it’s colourful and attractive. I’m talking of women’s dress. I’ve a great dislike of trousers and “cloths” worn round the head; can’t bear them. Men? Wish they would be more colourful and less conservative, but suppose it’s too late to worry about that.

Manners. My own are so bad that I dislike having to put up with the bad manners of others.

Newspapers. Read them all, with very few exceptions. I think, in general, the so-called “popular press” displays an unpleasant and quite often unhealthy curiosity about what can’t possibly concern it or anyone else.

Social Occasions. I detest all kinds of parties, especially the all-too-common kind of so-called cocktail party. To which too many people go, and make too much noise in too little space and drink far too much far too quickly, or what’s not worth drinking anyway. I can’t understand why it is that people aren’t content to spend an occasional evening at home with a few friends, instead of acquiring a headache in an hour and a half in a room full of strangers.

Houses. All I ask of a house is that it should be comfortable, have more than one water-closet, and that the plumbing should be intelligent. Oh — and a gas cooker.

Food. Like all food. Hot or cold. Not luke-warm. I like my own plain cooking and other people’s fancy cooking. I’m a very good cook.

Drink. Like all drink. I will drink anything provided there’s enough. But I find myself drawn particularly to the light wines of the Moselle, and in an extravagant mood, to the vintage Clarets and big Burgundies. I’m also a devotee of — though not an expert on — port.

Dancing. I’m just old enough to remember the time when one could enjoy dancing very much — really enjoy it. When there was grace and movement in the exercise, and one could waltz and foxtrot to rhythmic music with room to move around. Now, the sight of more and more people crushing and shaking about almost stuck together by their own sweat on a floor the size of a postage-stamp makes me wonder if we don’t deserve the atom bomb.

Laws. My blood-pressure rises several degrees when I think of the licensing laws (which I consider iniquitous) and the Lord’s Day Observance Act. Nor do I understand why I should not be allowed to buy a piece of cheese, without buying a packet of cheese, after certain times of night. Ridiculous nonsense!

The Theatre. I like to hear what people say without difficulty. I’m not deaf, but they won’t speak up. I regret that the plays of Mr. Christopher Fry don’t appeal to me — they drive me barmy. But I happen to be erratic and low-brow. I long to see the time coming when a long-suffering and high-paying public will rebel against paying for programmes, and against the hours and inefficiencies of the bar arrangements.

Films. I just don’t understand how people can make some modern Certificate A films like Prince Valiant; and I find it even more difficult to understand why anybody goes to see them. I really like French films. And I adored Henry V and still regret the death of Raimu.

Restaurants. They depend on mood, don’t they? I like the splendid or the obscure kind — all I ask is that they should be honest. Was it Swinburne or Gladstone who said: “I loathe luxury but adore splendour”?

Games. Bridge and Calypso.

Sport. Not much interested. I dislike cricket very much but enjoy going to Lord’s if someone’s got a box — I don’t mind watching in comfort. But can’t imagine why anyone wants to run a mile faster than anyone else—or swim the Channel — or climb mountains (when they’ve only got to come down again). I admire athletic men though. Healthy, decent chaps.

Do You Do The Football Pools? When I do, I hope I shall be locked up by my friends in a loony-bin.

Architecture. I dislike — loathe — Regent Street. It’s just the sort of architecture I detest — and Piccadilly Circus. Whereas I like Carlton House Terrace and Regent’s Park, and all Queen Anne things.

Sense of Humour. I’m amused by slapstick comedy, and subtle dry humour — as long as it’s not over my head. I dislike very much: jokes about deafness or deformity of any kind, physical or sexual, and jokes about mothers-in-law. And have a violent hatred of jokes at the expense of racial or religious minorities.

Prejudices. I hate all prejudices, including my own, which are violent and unreasonable. Loathe people who, because their skin is a different colour, or their nose a different shape, or their creed a different melody — think they’re better than anyone else.

Faces. The only face I’ve really detested was that of Himmler. I abhorred it on sight without knowing whose it was. And I have never seen anything so repulsive before or since.

Ambitions. I envy carpenters and bargees. And should like to have been a lawyer, barrister. Cardinal, happily married man with a family, actor, steeplejack… oh, so many many things.

World Affairs. No views. They puzzle me and fill me with despair.

Progress. Don’t know anything about it. When I think about our modern international misunderstandings, I don’t think about progress, but go back to Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar and deliberately misquote: “Judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts and words have lost their meaning.”

Heroes. I’ve changed so often… As a boy there was Buffalo Bill, Sexton Blake. Sherlock Holmes, Rupert of Hentzau… and so on. I NEVER wanted to be Oliver Cromwell, OR George Washington. I really don’t know which of them was the worse.

Heroines. Ah yes, now I feel very strongly about heroines, and have many of them; amongst them, if I may say so, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother. My first was Kate Barlass (the Scottish woman who used her arm as a doorbolt), then there was Florence Nightingale (in spite of Lytton Strachey). Mrs. Pankhurst — a wonderful woman. The Empress Theodora (Justinian’s wife). She was a tart, and an actress, then a mistress, then became Mrs. Justinian and an Empress — she didn’t do too badly one way and another. Lastly, Marlene Dietrich is an idol of mine.

Snobbery. On that subject I’m very clear — got that all sorted out years ago. A snob is a person who thinks he or the other person is worth knowing, for no particular reason other than wealth or title. I’m very sorry for snobs. I’m very sorry for inverted snobs who don’t like them for no particular reason other than wealth or title. I myself am a snob in as much as I revel in the society of prelates, poets and princes.

Unfavourite People. Edith Summerskill. And Queen Elizabeth I. I can just tolerate Bunyan because of one line: “The trumpet sounded for him on the other side.”

Taboos. The noise of other people’s wireless sets. Litter. Lipstick stains on cigarettes and cups. People who comb their hair in public. People who talk with cigarettes or pipes in their mouths. Parents who quarrel in front of their children. Beetroot in salad. Sugar-tongs. Refinement. Cruelty.

Tastes. I like everything else. It’s all been said far better than I can put it — by Rupert Brooke: “I love all beauteous things, I seek and adore them” — and that includes babies, “dear old things,” and everything in between.

* * * *

Thank you Mr. Harding!

Well — if you are prepared to battle with him I admire your courage, deplore your decision, and refuse to pick up the pieces afterwards. It is only fair to warn you, however, that the most formidable weapon wielded by this magnificent and monumental outrage (excuse me Mr. Harding) is a baffling sincerity when you least expect it. May I wish you a happy and unbloody death.

For myself, I prefer “for no particular reason” not to enter the lists. Believing that “vintage Harding” to be savoured and relished, but not disputed. It’s delicious! as Mr. Harben would say.

SO. MR. HARDING, I AM YOUR MOST NON-COMBATANT “FAN.”

The post Gilbert Harding Speaks Out appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

And so I set out for their home near Marble Arch, which was open house to the Services during the war. It was known to the boys as the House with the Blue Door, and now here I was with my finger on the bell. Suddenly the blue door was open and Richard Lyon greeted me.

“Hiyah,” he said, smiling. “The folks are upstairs. I’ll be right back.” In I went — and off he went, shutting the door after him with a crash that shook the house.

Ben’s voice came from above. “Who’s just gone out? Richard?” No one answered. “Why can’t he learn to shut the door quietly!” roared Ben, I walked along the hall past the gallery of photographs marking Bebe and Elen’s long career from Hollywood to Broadcasting House. At the foot of the stairs I paused. A portly, comfortable figure was making its descent — backwards. The descent was slow and dignified.

The figure reached the bottom safely — turned, looked at me and breathed: “It’s my legs, dear. I always come downstairs that way. It’s my legs, see?”

I saw, I nodded, then went upstairs — frontwards. Such was my brief encounter with the daily help.

Ben greeted me in the living room. “Hallo, there. Bebe is upstairs — she’ll be down in a moment.” Ben was wielding a spray-gun. “Say, you’re just the person to help me. I saw a moth fly under this armchair. Now, if I tip it forward, will you hold it? That’s fine. Dam that moth!” And Ben sprayed vigorously.

A cloud rose. I sneezed. Ben sneezed. Bebe walked into the room. “Hallo, you two. What’s going on?”

“Moths,” sneezed Ben.

“Well,” said Bebe, “that’s a fine way to get rid of them—sneezing on them.'”

We put the armchair back in position and sat down.

Peace at last

Bebe was holding some papers. A new Life With The Lyons script? Yes — Bebe started working on the new series after their holiday in July; and it is true that she often works far into the night.

“Sometimes,” said Ben, “I get worried about her.”

“You needn’t, dear,” said Bebe. “I work better that way. The house is quiet; the telephone doesn’t ring; Barbara and Richard don’t keep bursting in and out; and someone doesn’t come to me to tell me the iron is broken.”

“Is Bebe as scatter-brained and as vague in real life as she is on the air? ” I asked Ben.

“No,” said Bebe.

“Yes,” said Ben.

“Well, sometimes,” countered Bebe.

“Quite often,” said Ben with finality. “I’ll tell you. One day, Bebe locked up a trinket box, then she locked the keys in a cupboard — then she lost the keys of the cupboard!”

But their light-hearted approach to life is combined with one of the most successful and happy husband-and-wife home and business partnerships.

As Bebe and Ben talk, you realise that Life With The Lyons is very true to their lives. “We just exaggerate it,” says Bebe.

Does Ben get into as much trouble at home as he does on the air?

“Yes,” said Bebe, “especially when he starts fixing things.”

So realistic is their show that after one programme, when Ben got into a mess trying to fix the sink, a plumber sent round to ask if he could be of any help.

Presently, Barbara joined us. Her greeting of “Hi” was followed by the phone ringing. “I’ll get it,” said Barbara, and she returned to announce: “It’s for Richard. Where is Richard?”

As if in answer, the door downstairs crashed like thunder. Bebe winced, Ben closed his eves.

“Your brother,” said Ben with slow deliberation, “has just come in.”

The personalities of the Lyons seem to fill the house. Richard breezes in and out; Barbara wanders around with account books.

“Bebe and I gave the kids a choice of looking after the accounts or shopping,” explained Ben thoughtfully. “Barbara chose the accounts — Richard the shopping.

“We wanted them to get a real sense of the value of things and money. For a time, like most kids, they imagined money came out of a tap. But they’re learning fast — and enjoying it.”

Family of cooks

The Lyons are great home lovers. Over lunch we talked about food. The entire family can cook.

“You should taste my hamburgers,” said Richard.

“I taught you how to make them,” Ben claimed.

“I know, Pop,” agreed Richard, “but do you remember the day you left the angel cakes in the oven…? ”

“That’s enough. Richard.” retorted Ben. “Everybody makes mistakes.”

Barbara laughed. “Now my angel cakes.” she began…

Ben looked pained. “Can’t we forget angel cakes?”

I had wondered about Richard and Barbara — were they spoiled through their fame on the radio ? I can answer that right away: they are not.

Barbara is an extremely pretty girl who bubbles with good humour. When she laughs everyone laughs. She is smart in her choice of clothes and knows the meaning of “grooming.”

Sophisticated? Only in the sense of being up-to-date. One of her great assets is inherited from her father and mother — natural charm and sincerity.

And Richard? You feel he, too, has a personality that is heading in the right direction. He is alive with questions, eager to listen and learn, eager to discuss his views.

In the dark

One of his interests is photography. Keen to show me this achievement he swept me down to his basement darkroom.

“What do you think of this?” he said, “isn’t it great!”

“Great,” I replied, “except that I can’t see a thing.”

“You’re not meant to — I painted the windows black and lined the door with felt. I bet you can’t see a pinprick of light.”

“Not a pin-prick,” I agreed.

“Now,” said Richard, “look!” And he switched on the light to reveal negatives hanging from bent wire coat-hangers, huge brown bottles containing chemicals, and a lot of developing equipment. “Would you like me to take your picture?” he asked.

“Very much,” I replied, and I was swept up to his attic studio — and photographed.

Another member of the household is Skippy, the Siamese cat.

One day another cat came into Skippy’s life.

“It was a little tabby,” explained Bebe. “The poor little thing was so hungry, we fed it and let it stay. We realised, too, she was going to have kittens.

“One morning, Barbara came down late for breakfast — looking, her father said, as if she had been up all night.

“‘I have, daddy,’ said Barbara, ‘with the little tabby. She had her kittens.’

“Then on top of that, Barbara bought herself a poodle. So we had a poodle, two cats and three kittens,” said Bebe.

What happened to the kittens?

“Barbara and Richard got friends to adopt them,” explained Bebe, “but the tabby stayed with us.”

The family is involved in another exciting venture. Life With The Lyons is to be filmed. Preparations were in full swing. Bebe had to choose some new clothes for the event. Would I care to go with her?

On the way. Bebe gave me some of her views on the subject. “I like dresses to have an elegant and simple line—no fussy bits.” She loves tailor-made suits.

What did she think of the new Dior hemline?

“Well,” and Bebe laughed, “I always choose hemlines that suit me. I guess many women do the same thing.”

That front door!

It was a busy afternoon. Back at the house again, we sank into armchairs and drank tea. Ben and Richard were out.

Barbara joined us — she had been studying the script for the coming film.

“This is my first film,” she told me, “and I want the family to be really proud of me. Richard has been in pictures before — in Hollywood.”

Without any warning, the front door slammed.

“Richard?” I asked.

“No, Ben,” replied Bebe. “He bangs the door louder than Richard. Ben!” she called loudly.

“Yes, honey?” called back Ben.

“Nothing, dear — I just wanted to make sure it was you, that’s all.”

Then we heard another noise—a dull thud and a plaintive cry of “Help!” followed by the sound of Ben racing down to the kitchen.

“What’s happened?” exclaimed Bebe, and we went down to investigate.

“Don’t come in here,” shouted Ben, “you’ll get smothered.”

We stood at the kitchen door. It was like a snowstorm — with white clouds everywhere.

“Everything happens to us!”

Ben was grappling with a fire extinguisher spurting foam. The “daily” stood in the middle of the kitchen shrouded in white.

“I only tried to move the thing,” she wailed, “and it slipped out of my hands and went off — look at it all over everything.”

Ben at last got the spurting extinguisher into the garden, then came back and looked round.

“Everything,” he sighed, “happens to us — and we’ve just had the kitchen painted.”

“Never mind, dear,” said Bebe, “at least we know the dam thing would have gone off if we’d ever had a fire.”

There was a crash from the front door. Bebe winced. Ben closed his eyes.

“When,” he roared, “will Richard learn to shut that door quietly?”

When I left I shut the door with hardly a sound. That probably startled the Lyons more than any crash.

The post A Day With the Lyons appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.