Gyles Brandreth’s Diary
Ladies prefer dwarfs – and rate highly the prowess of one-legged men
A couple of days after the death of Charles Aznavour, I was at a party having a drink with an actor friend and we both marvelled at the fact that all the obituaries had made such a feature of the diminutive French-armenian singer’s lifelong success with women. At 160cm (5ft 3in in the old money), Aznavour was known as ‘the sex pixie’.
My actor friend told me that in the 1980s he had appeared in the film Time Bandits with David Rappaport, who had been born with achondroplasia, a common form of dwarfism. According to my friend, Rappaport, 119cm (3ft 11in), was both delightful and a total babe magnet. Women adored him. That reminded me that, when I worked in pantomime, I met a lot of performers who happened to be dwarfs. I know it’s dangerous to generalise but, according to the panto chorus girls, the dwarfs were ‘all as randy as hell’ and ‘so much fun’. Size matters. The shorter the better, it seems.
Is the plural of ‘dwarf’ ‘dwarfs’ or ‘dwarves’? I should know the answer because I am the author of Have You Eaten Grandma?, a little volume just published that aims to answer all your modern English-language queries.
The basic rule for pluralising nouns that end in a consonant or a single vowel plus an ‘-f’ or an ‘-fe’, is change the ‘-f’ or ‘-fe’ to ‘-ves’ – eg calf – calves; knife – knives; wife – wives.
Once upon a time (up until the beginning of the 20th century), the plural of ‘roof’ and ‘hoof’ would have been ‘rooves’ and ‘hooves’. Now, ‘rooves’, though still technically allowable, is regarded as archaic but ‘hooves’ has not been totally replaced by ‘hoofs’: you can use either. The same goes for ‘halfs’ and ‘halves’, ‘scarfs’ and ‘scarves’, and ‘wharfs’ and ‘wharves’. And, as panto season approaches, you need to know that, when it comes to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs or Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, either is allowable, though these days ‘dwarfs’ has the edge over ‘dwarves’. That said, the plural of ‘elf’ is always ‘elves’ and never ‘elfs’.
The plural of ‘chief’ is always ‘chiefs’, but the plural of ‘handkerchief’ can be either ‘handkerchiefs’ or ‘handkerchieves’. And while it’s invariably ‘chiefs’, and ‘thief’ sounds and looks like ‘chief’, it’s always Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Funny language, English.
What do women talk about when men aren’t there? I don’t know, of course. But I can say that once I came unexpectedly into the dining room at home when my wife was entertaining three girlfriends to lunch. I found them talking about the best lovers they’d ever known.
As I entered, the senior member of the group, a distinguished film producer, now in her mid-nineties, was saying, ‘This may surprise you but the best lover I ever had was undoubtedly Al Capp.’ ‘Who was Al Capp?’ asked my wife. ‘The American cartoonist who created Lil’ Abner.’ ‘And why was he so special?’ ‘He only had one leg.’ At this point, another of the party (a noted biographer, now in her late seventies) piped up, ‘I had a uniped once, too. They are rather special, aren’t they?’
‘They’re wonderful,’ cooed the senior lady. ‘It’s well known. You always get a good lay with a one-legged man.’
‘And,’ added my wife happily, ‘the advantage is they’re that much lighter when they fall asleep on top of you afterwards.’
I made my excuses and left.
Some years ago, when I was a Parliamentary Private Secretary attached to what was then called the Department of National Heritage, I took an interest in who got gongs in the New Year Honours and why. The civil servant in charge explained to me that ‘with stage actors, they haven’t really earned their K [knighthood] until they’ve given their Lear’. I mentioned this to my friend, actor and broadcaster Nicholas Parsons CBE, 95. ‘I’m still giving my Lear,’ said Nicholas, proudly. ‘I’ll be touring it again next year.’ Nicholas has devised and performs a charming one-man show about the life and work of Edward Lear. He can recite more than two hours’ worth of Lear’s nonsense verse.
Judi Dench can recite the whole of Twelfth Night – every line; every part. And for an encore, she can give you the whole of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Age is no barrier to learning lines, if you put your mind to it. Thelma Ruby, sometime Oldie of the Year award winner, is appearing at the King’s Head Theatre in north London (www. kingsheadtheatre.com) in Momma Golda, a play about Golda Meir. It was originally presented on Broadway with Anne Bancroft and a cast of 37. Thelma is doing it with just one other actor. She learned the mammoth script by night while filming her latest TV series, Bad Move, by day. Thelma is 93.
And Sir Derek Jacobi is 80! At his birthday party the other day, I discovered three things. 1. 80 really is the new 55. 2. Sir Ian Mckellen, 79, first fell in love with Derek when they were undergraduates at Cambridge 60 years ago. (Nothing happened. Ian’s passion went undeclared.) 3. When Derek became an actor, he didn’t feel his real name had the right ring to it, and, after much cogitation, chose as his stage name – wait for it – Ashley Clinton.