Viva Brighton Issue #59 January 2018

COLUMN
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John Helmer
Gimmick
Illustration by Chris Riddell
I’m at the private view of an exhibition of Viva
covers with my brother-in-law, who has featured in
this column before.
“Why does John call you Foghorn Leghorn?”
someone asks.
“BECAUSE I TALK IN A VERY LOUD VOICE,”
he bellows. The level of conversation dips in the
room. People look round. “It’s my gimmick,” he
stage-whispers.
Somehow we get onto the subject of height, and I
start telling Foghorn about some research I read that
shows tall males are disproportionately represented
in executive boardrooms.
“We’re all just animals really, aren’t we?” says
Foghorn, and starts doing his impression of a gorilla.
“LOOK, I’M A SILVERBACK,” he calls to Kate
and Siobhan, our respective wives.
“Oh God,” they groan, turning away.
“We’ve run out of drinks tokens,” I point out. On
entry we were each issued with
two, which
predictably
we’ve got
through too
quickly.
“Don’t
worry,” says
Foghorn, who
has a plan. He
points to one
of the staff manning
the makeshift bar.
“That is Medieval
Tom: he’s a
friend of my
son’s.”
“Doesn’t look
very medieval
to me,” I say,
clocking his
horn-rimmed spectacles; “more 1950s.”
“You know these kids today, a bit hazy on historical
periods.” He hurries off to the bar and, sure enough,
returns a few minutes later with a fresh round.
Meanwhile I’ve fallen into conversation with an
editor who works for the famous book publisher
Bloomsbury. He is scanning one of my Viva columns.
“I can see it’s got a beginning a middle and an end,”
he says, “that’s not always the case.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to let this go to my
head.
“Do you get much fan mail?”
“None.”
“Well I suspect that’s the end of our conversation.”
I notice the glasses have become empty.
“Medieval Tom?” I say to Foghorn.
“He’s your man.”
I slope over to the bar. “Could you manage a few
extra drinks for Charlie’s dad?” I ask Medieval Tom.
“I like the way you’re using code words to blag
drinks,” Tom says.
“It’s my gimmick.”
At this point Kate and Siobhan decide it is time to
go. There is a lot to do in the morning. But then the
book editor, who is not drinking, donates his tokens
and we have another round.
Time passes, and suddenly people are getting their
coats.
“It’s definitely time to go home,” says Kate, looking
round at the thinning crowd. Apart from all the
stuff there is to do in the morning, she is sensitive to
another danger. What remaining lustre there might
be to the never-exactly gleaming name of Helmer
threatens further diminution from my persistent
tendency to be the last to leave.
At which point Medieval Tom and his cohorts
advance, bottles in hand. “Look, we’ve got all this
booze to get rid of: everybody has to have another
drink.”
With resignation, we proffer our glasses.
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