The Light’s On At Signpost
From the author of the ever-popular Flashman novels, a collection of film-world reminiscences and trenchant thoughts on Cool Britannia, New Labour and other abominations.In between writing Flashman novels, George MacDonald Fraser spent thirty years as an "incurably star struck" screenwriter, working with the likes of Steve McQueen, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Cubby Broccoli, Burt Lancaster, Federico Fellini and Oliver Reed. Now he shares his recollections of those encounters, providing a fascinating glimpse behind the scenes.Far from starry-eyed where Tony Blair & Co are concerned, he looks back also to the Britain of his youth and castigates those responsible for its decline to "a Third World country … misruled by a typical Third World government, corrupt, incompetent and undemocratic".Controversial, witty and revealing – or "curmudgeonly", "reactionary", "undiluted spleen", according to the critics – The Light's on at Signpost has struck a chord with a great section of the public. Perhaps, as one reader suggests, it should be "hidden beneath the floorboards, before the Politically-Correct Thought Police come hammering at the door, demanding to confiscate any copies".
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THE LIGHT’S ON
AT SIGNPOST
GEORGE MACDONALD FRASER
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 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
CONTENTS
“One for All, and All for Fun”
Fourth Afghan
Law for Sale?
With the Tudors in Hungary
The Westminster Farce
Orcs and Goblins
Gene Hackman Should Have Blown up Vesuvius
The Europe Fiasco
Act of Settlement
“Not a Bad Bismarck, Was I?”
The Day of the Pygmies
A Writer, a Soldier, a Comedian, a Football Hero, a Beverly Hillbilly
The Truth that Dare not Speak its Name
To Scotland, with Love
“Phlam with Cheese” for the Stars
Crime and Punishment
No One Did it Better
“Thirty Years in Hollywood and You can still Learn Something New”
Pictures of Russia
The Defeat of the British Army
Special Relationship
Everywhere but Hong Kong
How to Encourage Race Hatred
Not According to Lady Bracknell
“You Want to Put Bond in a Gorilla Suit?”
The Perfect Premier
“Forget Fellini!”
This Unsporting Life
The Ones that Got Away
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.
