This Much Is True

William Saroyan wrote: ‘Everybody has got to die, but I have always believed an exception would be made in my case…’ Given its inescapable nature, therefore, I want to do it well. In interviews now, I’m always asked, ‘Are you scared of Death?’ Of course, I fucking am! Absolutely shit-scared most of the time. But death itself is just the end of things; it’s the dying that’s the problem. The last two years have been particularly difficult to bear. As a fat, old person, the threat of the pandemic is immediate and real. During lockdown, I wouldn’t even leave the house to go to a shop; I was too nervous. That may be why I’m so rude and noisy a lot of the time — I’m trying to keep the Grim Reaper away. And so far, it’s working.

When I became the patron of the Coffin Club, based in Hastings, they persuaded me to try their one-size-fits-all coffin to prove the lid would stay on, even over my enormous breasts. It did. I am happy to confront the things that many people prefer to overlook. In The Life and Death of Peter Sellers, my lovely stand-in, Margery Lyons, awkwardly asked me if I’d mind actually getting into my character’s coffin as she couldn’t face it. I didn't mind at all. I will mind when it’s no longer optional, however.

Let me tell you though, I’m not even close to being done. At eighty years old I’ve kept (most of) my marbles and my career is still going strong. And if my work has entertained people, that makes me happy. I’m determined to keep stretching myself. I mustn’t fall back on the easy things. That’s my main aspiration, because after a certain point, people think you can’t do it, so you have to prove you can. So, for instance, while I love reading biographies, I left writing my own till this year and it turned the house arrest of lockdown into a great adventure, remembering all the people and experiences, good and bad, naughty and nice, I’ve come across in the last four score years.

One of the problems about being old today is that with the advances of technology, if you’re not computer literate you are excluded from modern life and thereby disenfranchised. A lot of my friends don’t use Zoom, WhatsApp and the other connecting technology because they don’t know how to — some of them can’t even turn on their smart televisions. My pet project, which I’ve tried to start a few times, is to present a government-run initiative on TV, to help older people use computers. I believe, in addition, that there should be a nationwide army of young people who volunteer to go in and help us oldies to set up our technology and teach us to use it properly. ‘Sponsor a Nanna’ is what I’d call it. It’s vital to have some technology for everyday life and it’s scandalous that those big, rich tech giants haven’t started one. If you read this, Bill Gates or Mark Zuckerberg, get in touch.

I’m still new to a lot of technology but for an eighty-year-old I’m not bad. I have a desktop computer, a laptop, and an iPad. I have my own website and I visit Facebook; it’s proved useful in my genealogical quest, allowing me to track down distant relatives. And, of course, being stuck in Italy during the pandemic, I was an enthusiastic Zoomer; at the moment I’m doing twenty Zoom calls a week. It’s difficult to keep track sometimes.

I won’t have anything to do with Twitter, though. Limit myself to 280 characters? Ridiculous.

As long as my body holds out, I would love to travel the British Isles, tracking down as many of my old friends as I can, not descending on them — I’d find a hotel — but just seeing again the people I’ve loved and worked with. I want to do more dockos in Australia and I’d love to visit the elephants and rhinos I’ve adopted in Africa and give them a hug. And I long to make a programme about Israel and Palestine, getting enemies to meet and discover their humanity together.

Yes, as I hurtle towards incontinence and immobility, there is still fun to be had. Extraordinary proof of this was given to me on my eightieth birthday this 18th of May. I had intended to spend it quietly, with Mahnaz, my dear friend of over sixty-five years, and have a delicious Persian supper and a videocall with her sister, Shanaz, in Vancouver. After the meal Saleem, Mahnaz’s son, connected his computer to my TV. Shahnaz appeared, we had a grand talk and then, quite suddenly, without warning, eighty-five of my closest friends bubbled up right in front of me on the screen,^[25] all laughing and talking at once (try telling actors to mute themselves). I couldn’t believe it, especially when Richard E. Grant made an adorable speech, everyone shouted ‘Hear hear’, then Bobby Crush tuned up his piano and Stephen Fry led the crew into a heartfelt (if not wholly tuneful — it’s very hard for eighty-five people to sing in time) chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ and I overflowed with happiness and realised that my life’s achievement was there on screen, in the friends I’d made and kept through the years.