High (Status) Anxiety - The Racketeers in Edinburgh

Well thank you Alain de Botton. You have no idea of the trouble you caused.

There was no inkling of what was to come when Julie, from Penguin London, met us that airport. Or even as we filed into the main theatre in Charlotte Square to hear you expatiate on Status Anxiety. But your words descended on us like some biological agent and unleashed a cyclone of dissent and personal ambition to which I alone was immune. Status anxiety soon led to status envy, and where previously the Racketeers had progressed and prospered under my stewardship, now suddenly there were envious glances cast. Huw seemed worse afflicted and foolishly sought to establish his intellectual dominance.

“Status anxiety is merely a western luxury,” he opined, with typical imprecision.

“Status anxiety,” I amended, “has its origins in the over production and over consumption of commodities in advanced technological societies.” He fell to silence.

We left shortly after you Alain. But even reaching the pub was problematic. Richard and Mike, each claiming a higher status local knowledge than the other, insisted on heading for the Café Royal. When we passed Murrayfield for the second time I realised things had going hopelessly wrong. Someone had to take a grip on matters.

 “All we need is a pub,” Huw proclaimed, as we approached yet another.

Once more I was moved to correct him. “What we need is a public house licensed to sell intoxicating liquor of a type that matches our taste and which boasts a congenial atmosphere.” The effect of my generalship was immediate, the others moving to the bar even as I spoke. We visited several others before finally lighting on the excellent Café Royal. It’s a sad fact I have to report Alain, that the unease which you created led to high levels of drinking among us that night.

Inexplicably Pete woke up without a hangover the following morning. A deep sense of personal failure afflicted him and it took many words of encouragement from me to convince him he nothing to be ashamed of. Mike, on the other hand had clearly endured some sort of trauma during the night. At breakfast the kippers looked infinitely healthier than he did and he was to remain mute and intolerant to physical touch for the rest of the day.


The Racketeers have coffee with Judy Moir

At mid-day we met Julie and Judy Moir, Penguin’s Scottish Editor, for coffee in Charlotte Square. We swam in a sea of bliss as the literati ebbed and flowed around us.

 “There’s Martin Bell,” I said.

 “White suit. Obvious,” Huw snapped, “You didn’t spot Georgia Byng then?”  

I saw through the ruse immediately. Children’s author. Photo on back of books. How low, to exploit one’s own children’s reading material for personal advantage. This should have served as a pointer to the others of an opportunistic nature. Unfortunately they were heedless of it, distracted as they were by the celebrity traffic.

Next was Desert Island Books. Julie and Judy led us to front row seats, from where we were entertained by Alan Taylor, Kate Adie, Robert McCrum and Frank Delaney. It was especially pleasing for me to be able to inform Frank that his choices of favourite children’s book (Treasure Island) and his desert island book (Ulysses) were correct. This made him very happy and must have been a boost to his self-belief as he spoke with great confidence thereafter. Kate Adie later presented us with a scroll to commemorate our victory and we were applauded by an adoring audience. Richard’s tentative suggestion that perhaps Kate was the object of its adoration was gently dismissed. No surprise that his status anxiety is acute.

We removed to the book-signing tent where we were to be joined by the authors. As we took wine, Huw slipped away to get some books signed by Georgina Byng in a pathetic attempt to ingratiate himself with his children. Such was the persecuted mind that ranged itself against me. In the meantime we were joined by Frank, Robert, Kate and Alan. I confess we were somewhat intimidated, and little ice breaking was necessary.  An opportunity soon presented itself when Kate held forth on education. “I may sound a little old-farty here,” she said. A minute or so later, Stuart agreed that, on this particular issue, she did. We held our collective breath. Richard quaked, visibly. George grabbed a bottle of wine ready for a quick exit. Pete grabbed two. But all was well. Kate smiled. Stuart offered his point of view. We discussed it. And that’s how it was. For the next couple of hours we were in literary heaven. When Julie insisted we go for lunch it fell to me to break the news to our guests. “It’s been wonderful talking to you,” I said, shaking Kate’s hand, “but we really do have to go.” I sensed her bitter disappointment at our departing, but battle hardened as she is, she concealed it with majestic ease.


Lunch at the festival restaurant

Lunch was accompanied by piano and cello duo in the festival restaurant, and more wine of course. It was approaching the perfect day, except for some kind of age segregation Huw was engineering, with the younger members of the group seating themselves on the same table as Julie. My heart went out to her. She was clearly uncomfortable with the arrangement and looked enviously at Judy, who was at that moment enraptured by my description of the motorway system around Greater Manchester. “It’s as though I were there,” she said, dreamily.

Jonathan Coe followed, discussing his biography of B.S. Johnson. Meaty stuff. Coe, who was suffering from a cold, even declined the opportunity to discuss his new novel. “This is more interesting,” he said, instantly elevating himself to cult status within our group. I bought his book, asked him to sign it. Jonathan didn’t look as thrilled with my request as I thought he might have been. I put this down to his unfortunate illness. We’d lost Richard and Mike by this time.

Our near perfect day still had time to run. After a period of rest and recovery the remaining six of us reconvened at an Indonesian restaurant, then repaired to a decent pub. At midnight we lost Dave to an early night and a carton of Ribena, took a bottle of Laphroaigh to my hotel room and proceeded to do battle with it. By one thirty Pete was holding forth on the indispensability of algebra, and on Russell’s Mathematica Principia.

 “Three hundred pages just to prove one plus equals two,” he said.

 “But why? “Stuart asked, “Who doesn’t say one plus one equals two?”

“Spaniards,” Pete averred, “among others.” Huw rose, left the room, the heady aroma of philosophical debate proving too much for him. (But Alain, before you judge too harshly, wouldn’t even you have had a twinge of anxiety in such company?)

In a very close contest the Laphroaigh succumbed just before we did. It was the first of two near death experiences I was to survive in relatively close succession. By morning Pete had disappeared and we were down to five. I’d started to wonder if we’d stumbled into an Agatha Christie novel, especially when Dave and George embarked on an unspeakable and unexpected act of treachery that nearly did for me. Claiming high terrain experience, they led us to the summit of Arthur’s Seat. If the ascent brought on severe cardio-vascular distress, the descent was suicidal, particularly as we were tackling the Scotsman crossword at the same time.  We were abseiling without a rope down a near vertical face, and it was only by volunteering to lead a distressed Stuart off the peak via a safer route that I survived this desperate bid to end my stewardship of the group. When I looked down on them from the newly regained summit I felt only pity as, with Bush-like bravado and a similar level of intelligence, Huw trailed after George and Dave. On our way back to the hotel we completed the Scotsman crossword against an undercurrent of mistrust, Stuart and I exchanging knowing nods when Huw said he almost had two down.

 The flight back to Manchester found us in reflective mood.

 “I’ll remember this for a long time to come,” George said, nostalgia already drawing its veil.

But for some, status anxiety persisted. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that yesterday was a perfect day,” Huw said, with breath-taking presumption.

“On the contrary,” I rejoined, “The day prior to this contained ninety nine point nine nine nine per cent of that which an otherwise flawless day….”

At this point I noticed my companions were no longer listening. Indeed they slept. It was as though the cabin had suddenly filled with nerve gas. Ah well, it had been a long weekend and tiredness had inevitably set in. I myself drifted towards slumber, counting authors, giving thanks, to Kate, to Frank, to Robert, to Jonathan, and to you too Alain, despite my near demise. To James Joyce, to Milton, to Shakespeare and to Chaucer. To Penguin, and to Orange, thank you, thank you .….