Desert Island Discourse

DESERT ISLAND DISCOURSE

"Audio Diary - Tuesday 29th January 2002

I'm changing my agent. Or maybe I'm murdering her. Whichever, the
minute I get back to civilisation, Angie Mann-Gunning is dog's meat.
You'll be wanting to know why.

"Birn, darling man," she gushes down the phone at me just before
Christmas, "I bring you tidings of great joy."

"Something divine?" I ask, tongue in cheek, being immune to Angie's
build-ups. Usually the more she gushes the smaller the resulting pay
cheque.

She ploughs on regardless. "The BBC wants you, Birnham Wood, thespian
of this planet, for Desert Island Discs - their diamond jubilee
edition. And my love, this one's something special. Not only do you do
the Lawley interview but you get to spend a whole month on a genuine
desert island to boot."

"How much?" I ask suspiciously. She gives me a figure that makes my
jaw drop, for once not in horror.

"How come?" I ask even more suspiciously.

"Sponsorship, Birn, Now that the Beeb has finally gone commercial
their budgets are burgeoning, This island is the personal property of
some big cheese at Lever Brothers. All you've got to do is stay there
for a month, record an audio diary for a future tie-in programme that's
part of the deal, and the money's ours. Darling, I've got it all sewn
up. Go have a wild time and leave little old Angie to look after the
details."

She makes it sound simple. She always does. I'm broke and in need of a
holiday so I stop asking the questions I should ask, like where's this
island then?

I'll tell you where this island is. Shetland bloody Isles, that's
where, just short of being the most Northerly bit of land in Britain.
That honour belongs to some place called Muckle Fluga, believe it or
not, according to Terry the helicopter pilot. Big bloke, Terry. Hand
picked, I reckon, to prevent me getting back on board again when I see
where they're dumping me. Gives me a cheery little grin and a wave as
he lifts off. I'll get even with the bastard - when I've finished with
Angie, that is.

So I'm alone on this freezing, God-forsaken lump of rock with nothing
but my Desert Island Discs allowance. To wit, one pile of eight vinyl
records, one geriatric wind up gramophone, one copy each: Bible, Bard's
complete works and Baden-Powell's "Scouting for Boys." Oh, and my
luxury item - the double bass.

I'd better come clean about this double bass. That was bullshit I told
Sue Lawley - about being forced to abandon my beloved instrument as a
child in the interest of pursuing more scholastic studies. In fact, I
was so musically challenged that I was even excluded from my lower
school orchestra's percussion section - mastery of the triangle being
judged beyond my scope.

No, I've other plans for the double bass, but if I'd explained what I
had in mind they'd never have allowed me to have it. I'll explain
later, but right now I'm cold, a mist is falling and I'm thinking that
sixty years ago today, Roy Plomley's first castaway, comedian Vic
Oliver got off his desert island, straight into an all expenses paid
taxi and back to a warm home - the lucky sod. Those of us less
fortunate are off to find a cave!"

"Audio Diary Thursday 31st January 2002

It's nearly midnight. I'm talking to you from the fireside in my leaky
cave. Excuse the hoarse voice. I guess that's the result of two days
without talking to another soul. Two days not wasted, though. After my
first recording I located a passably deep hollow in the cliffs where I
could shelter my possessions and myself. Happily, nearby I've fresh
water, supplied by a cataract trickling down the rock-face.

Next I consulted "Scouting for Boys" apropos campfires and other
life-saving advice. Latrine digging features high on old B.P.'s list of
priorities - but without a shovel they'll have to wait. I've settled
instead for another, smaller cave downwind of mine, where I've left the
complete works of Shakespeare for the purposes of personal hygiene,
calculating that six hundred individual pages should see me through the
month - diet allowing - without necessitating desecration of the Bible.
Not that I'm religious, but I'm sure you'll agree it's best not to
tempt providence.

Following B.P.'s instructions, I built a campfire by the mouth of my
cave, which I've managed to keep alight ever since. That first night
its cheerful glow did much to lift my initial mood of panic and
depression. By its light, accompanied by the rousing, echoing strains
of "Land of Hope and Glory", on the gramophone, I read my little manual
and like a good scout, prepared myself.

Yesterday I went beachcombing, collecting driftwood, netting, some
sharp flints and a useful collection of aluminium Chinese takeaway
containers and polythene detergent bottles. I also found the
ingredients for my first meal. In a series of rock pools, cut off from
the tide, I netted two fat crabs. On the way back, high on a rocky
outcrop, I spotted a hanging garden of rock samphire, just like my
Welsh auntie Anwen used to harvest, cook and force down my throat on my
holidays in Aberystwyth. Believe me, samphire and crab soup tastes like
ambrosia when you're really hungry - but so, I guess, would pot
noodles.

I spent the morning dismantling the double bass and reconstituting
some of its by-products. I made strong fishing line by joining the
horsehair from its bow with a succession of fisherman's knots and
fashioned a crude hook from a bird's jawbone that I'd pocketed. Then
till nightfall I fished off the rocks - without success - which was
comforting, like being at home in Brighton.

There's meat out here, so today I worked on my arsenal. I've set
double bass string, running-noose snares for all the rabbits sitting
snug and succulent in their numerous burrows. As for the goats that
I've seen on the cliff tops - my flint tipped spears flew straight and
true in practice and I'm working on my bow and arrows. Another double
bass string attached to a flexible branch with two clove hitches
provides the most exquisite tension. It can't fail to work. I can't
wait to try it. The fire is crackling and "Jerusalem" reverberates
around the cave - Bring me my sword - oh, clouds unfold!"

"Audio Diary. Possibly February 9th or 10th, but I've broken my watch,
so I'm uncertain."

I'm proud to report that after days of eating nothing but rabbits and
shellfish, today I stalked and shot my first goat with my bow and
arrows. Now I intend to perfect my lasso technique and capture a live,
milking nanny.

I was disappointed that Baden- Powell had nothing to say on the
subject of treating goat's hide. Perhaps I've outgrown the great
man."

"Audio Diary. Sometime in February 2002, I think, although who's
counting?

Why am I talking to you, whoever you are? What do you know about life
and death and hunger and loneliness as you listen to me from your comfy
armchair or the plastic cocoon of your company car? Why should I share
my feelings with you? What have we in common - Mars the warrior and
Gordon the moron? Bollocks to you, I'm going hunting."

"Bloody machine

I'm switching this on because a helicopter's landed. People are getting
out - waving at me. The woman - I recognize the woman - Angie - I don't
like Angie. Why don't I like Angie?

There are two strangers with her, an acne-ridden kid with a video
camera and a shorter grey-haired old boy with a red, leather
book.

"What's that? I can't hear you over the motor."

"I said - Birnham Wood, actor and castaway tonight THIS IS
YOUR?"

"Angie - for his own sake, get him away from me!"

"But Birn, He's Michael Aspel. It's part of the deal - a TV special
commemorating fifty years since lever Brothers first distributed "This
is Your Life" in America. They're paying good money. Pull yourself
together man, and for God's sake stay down wind of me. You smell like a
yak and look like the wild man of Borneo. Why are you looking at me
like that, Birn? Stop! - Terry, don't let him get on board!"

"Mr. Wood, sir, I can't take off and just leave them - can I
now?"

"Don't worry, Terry. Between them, they've got all the potential for
making a really interesting documentary feature. You're grinning at me
again, Terry. I didn't like it last time and now that I find myself
with this spear in my hand I find I care for it even less. So be a
sensible chap, Terry and push a button or two to get us out of
here."

"Anything you say Mr. Wood, sir. Where to then?"

"Hmmm - it must be an island. Somewhere nice and quiet and a bit
warmer, this time of year. Tell me, Terry, have you ever tasted puffin?
No, neither have I. So just point her south, old lad and
tally-ho!"

END