Chris Upton: Speaking of a poisoned chalice...
From time to time I get asked to open things...the front door, a stubborn bottle of wine, attachments, a new high interest investment account etc.
I also get asked to open events, in my capacity as a minor celebrity whose face appears in the paper, on TV, on the radio (possibly not), everywhere, in fact, apart from on Facebook.
Actually the latter may not be true anymore. Although I steadfastly refuse to Twitter, tweet or parade my life on any social networking site, I’m unable to police what my students do with my face. Last year I unwisely tried on the housekeeper’s mob cap whilst I was taking the first years on a tour of Soho House.
Teachers should know by now that ill-considered acts such as this will be instantly captured and whizzed around the globe in seconds. So there I was, captured for all eternity as some kind of 18th-century transvestite.
Anyway, to return to the main point, I am sometimes invited to launch things. Only last week I was requested to speak at King Edward’s, Five Ways, at the opening of an exhibition to commemorate the work of a local historian called Frank Jones.
Frank was the archetypal Brummie, self-taught, innately intelligent, good with his hands and fascinated by, and proud of, the history of his city. Like all of his ilk, Frank also had a shed and there he produced impressive little models from metal, a selection of which his daughters brought with them to the evening. As someone who can weld words together and little more, I bow to those who can multi-skill like Frank Jones.
As I said, cutting the ribbon, or declaring something “well and truly open”, is something I do from time to time, and am always honoured to be asked. It can, however, be a poisoned chalice.
Some years back now, I was asked to open the Birmingham Real Ale Festival, which that year was being staged at the Students’ Union at Aston University. “Speak for 20 minutes or so,” they said, “about beer and the history of the area.”
I cannot ever remember being so unnecessary in my life. There were the assembled hordes of real ale enthusiasts, armed with their empty half-pint glasses. Surrounding them were dozens of barrels of beer, all waiting to be sampled, sipped and quaffed. And there was a historian, microphone in hand, whose only purpose appeared to be to keep the drinkers from their drink.
“If we begin in the early 19th Century...” I intoned, and the gap between the drinkers and the drink instantly lengthened to 200 years.
“By the 1870s...” I continued relentlessly, and restless feet began to shuffle, those at least which were not stuck to the floor. The talk ended to thin applause. I put this down to the audience having only one hand free, but they were also setting off at a brisk pace in the direction of the barrels. Valuable drinking time had been squandered by the idiot with the microphone.
I really ought to have given this talk about three hours later, when the audience was incapable of running away.
- Dr Chris Upton is opening the door to his office at Newman University College in Birmingham.
