Best of British

"You've got a bit of a thing about Frank Spencer, haven't you?" asks
Jessica. "Because I don't know you that well, but you've mentioned him
a couple times to me already." Jessica runs a gift shop in South
London. I make stained glass windows and assorted items, and for the
past few weeks I've been bringing her glass mobiles and mirrors to
sell. It can be a hard slog selling your own artwork, battling the
competition and resisting the temptation to take a nice, safe teaching
job with a nice, safe salary.

Jessica's right, of course. I don't know her that well, and I have
mentioned Frank a few times in her presence. In fact, I've just told
her about the conversation I'd had with Joel, an American friend. He'd
come to meet me off the plane when I flew to LA, and to demonstrate his
knowledge of British culture, said to me

"Hey girl, we get some of your Brit humour over here on cable, like
Benny Hill. D'ya like him?"

"What is it that you lot like so much about Benny Hill?" I asked him.
"Now how about 'Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em'. Seen that?" He hadn't, and
so I proceeded to impersonate Frank Spencer at his imbecilic best,
trying to get across his half-wit appeal, while maintaining that the
splendour of the strange man in the berry was his refusal to be beaten.
And if there's anyone who appreciates a non-quitter, it's got to be an
American.

Jessica looks at me. "And did you like this guy?"

"Who, Frank? Absolutely, he's a survivor" I reply.

"No Emsk, not Frank. The guy who met you at the airport."

"Well, yes" I blush.

"So do you think that was a good idea, imitating Frank Spencer? I mean,
he's not very sexy, is he?" she says, pertaining to be helpful after
the event.

"Listen Jessica, it's not about being all sultry and mysterious,
y'know, it's about making them laugh."

Frank Spencer would be the last name on your Christmas card list. You'd
never invite him to a dinner party just to make up the numbers. If
workmen turned up at your house and brought their work experience guy,
you'd pray it wouldn't be Frank. He's a walking disaster, an accident
waiting to happen time and time again, until you put him away for the
safety of the public. You'd hope that he wouldn't get a job in which he
was entrusted with any degree of responsibility, like sorting out the
children's admission to the school of your choice. Or manning the
inter-continental ballistic missiles that protect our shores.

To say that Frank Spencer infuriates all with whom he comes into
contact is like saying that the Israeli army have damaged a few garden
gnomes in Arafat's front yard. He's exasperating, he's tear-jerking and
he's happening right now! He would cause a multi-juggernaut pile-up
just by setting foot on a zebra crossing, then turn and smirk inanely
at the damage. If air traffic control knew that Frank was on board an
incoming plane, they'd demand that the pilot circle the airport
indefinitely for the greater good of the populace on the ground. If
Spencer was the priest giving your daughter her First Holy Communion,
there'd be a good chance that she'd leave the church as a Muslim, he's
so hot on the art of the cock-up. And after all's said and done and
we're dropping to the floor in a state of nervous, twitching emotion,
Frank straightens his mac and says

"I've got another idea."

And so undeterred, Frank continues to blaze a path of unrivalled
catastrophe, his actions spanning the simplicity of putting up a few
shelves to inputting into a governmental computer bank. You know it's
going to end in a grown man crying, and that man will be the one who's
given Frank the chance in the first place. He drills through walls,
narrowly missing live cables, and he whizzes on roller skates, narrowly
avoiding a train on the track. When his brain does catch up, Frank
looks round, puts his finger to his lips and exclaims

"Oooooooooh!"

Despite the fact that he's several coupons short of a pop-up toaster,
Frank still manages to look affronted when confronted. How dare you
look at me like you're better than me, he quietly seethes, pulling
himself up to his full height. Do you know who I am? Sadly only too
well, weeps his neighbour, his boss, his priest? and his wife.

For Frank would still be at the starting block, looking around for the
source of the sound when the linesman popped the pistol, if it weren't
for the attention of the long-suffering Betty. She loves him and she
believes in him. She's loyal and defends him to the back teeth. Deep
down she must know that she could have done better, but she's standing
by her man.

You see, Frank's not a bad bloke, and sometimes I wonder if it isn't
everyone else who has the problem instead of him. He's a loving husband
to Betty and a good father to baby Jessica (bet the woman in the gift
shop is pleased!). There's something touching about him taking Betty's
hands in his and vowing to try harder, to give her everything that she
wants. He never strays - though let's face it, he's not very likely to
jet an extra-marital jump - and he tells his little girl stories every
night. I mean, I've got girlfriends who shed tears on my shoulder,
asking me questions that I can't possibly answer. Why is my boyfriend
always looking at other women? Why didn't that guy call me after he
told me what a good time he'd had? And how come my man doesn't know how
I feel? Frank would never letch and he'd ask you lots of questions to
build up a complete picture of your psyche. And most of all, he'd call
you the minute you walked in the door after your date.

And again. And again. And again.

But it's not for these reasons that I bring him up in conversation so
much. It's the spirit of Frank Spencer that walks tall, away from the
collapsing scaffolding that he's tapped with his foot, and the car that
he's been polishing, which rolls into the river. He never gives up and
he wont stay down, and like Scarlett O'Hara, he understands the essence
of standing up against insurmountable odds. He makes living amongst
disaster a lifestyle choice and causing it an art form, and he'd put
you on Valium for sure. But like Scarlett, he still manages to brush
himself down, get up on his hind honkers and tell us that tomorrow is
another day.

So raise your glasses ladies and gents, to a unique British champion.
And pray they broke the mould!