Sorry, but banter has to be mutual

WE DON’T know what Sir Philip Green allegedly spent half a million pounds covering up. The people who signed non-disclosure agreements can’t utter a syllable. Sir P, on the other hand, seems oblivious to the idea that NDAs are supposed to cloak all parties in silence and is spouting at every opportunity. Cornered by reporters outside the Arizona health spa where he has taken refuge, he announced: “I’ve been in business for more than 40 years. There has obviously from time to time been some banter, but as far as I’m concerned that’s never been offensive.”

“AAH!” sigh all who read his words. “That’s the problem, right there.”

Here’s the thing about the “b” word: it takes two. Banter is all about parry and thrust, lob and volley, a game of two halves. It has to be mutual. Banter is a dance of words, a verbal quickstep. You can’t clamp a rose between your teeth and attempt the Argentine tango solo, likewise you cannot, in any circumstances, banter all by yourself. If you fling an insulting/rude/reductive/ sexist/racist remark at someone else and they blush, turn away, flinch or pretend they haven’t heard, that is emphatically and unequivocally not banter. If you launch a comment that reduces someone to a quivering lump of jelly, that could not be further from banter. If you are a hectoring bully hurling abuse and casual nastiness in your wake, you are simply a churlish boor.

There’s another essential element to banter. It has to erupt between equals. The world’s most legendary banterers, Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn, captivated audiences because they both gave as good as they got. It was a level playing field.

Tracy, the chap, never once had the upper hand over Hepburn. She was smart, sassy and up for linguistic jousting. He was witty, dry, droll but never overbearing. We loved their quick-fire wit, bathed as it was, in good humour.

BANTER cannot be inflicted by one individual on another. It most certainly cannot be meted out by a boss upon an employee. If your boss calls you names, alludes to your weight, casts aspersions on your sexual orientation, that’s not a cue for banter because you cannot respond in kind. In fact, you cannot respond at all. It would be more than your job’s worth to reciprocate. You might be forced into a semblance of false laughter. You might just manage to shrug with feigned resignation. That’s it. Letting fly with a hurricane of reciprocal quips at his/her expense is out of the question.

We should all be wary of invoking the “b” word. “It was just banter” can mask a morass of unpleasantness. Those who have experienced bullying in the workplace testify that they were afraid to raise the alarm lest they be accused of a sense of humour failure, lacking team spirit and failing to recognise that their tormentor was merely indulging in a charming spate of banter. I confess an unsuitable torrent of unprintable “b” words springs to mind. THE Archbishop of Canterbury approves of the evangelical charity Scripture Union seeking to avert the “dark side” of Halloween by persuading children to dress up as saints and distribute biblical tracts instead of trick or treating. Frankly I’m with the Archbish. I am baffled by the allure of fake blood, eyeballs and severed heads. I struggle to comprehend the parental urge to dress your toddler as a corpse bride or your 11-year-old as a cadaver bedecked with gaping wounds and garish scars. My grandchildren are so disturbed by the scary bits of Disney films we have to fast forward the Wicked Queen.

Attempting to explain death, decay, ghosties, ghoulies and dicing with the Devil to I’VE always wondered why parents schlep nannies along on family outings. Isn’t the point of a nanny to care for your children when you are otherwise engaged and isn’t the point of a family outing to spend it with... your family?

Pictures of Victoria Beckham, with Cruz, 13 and Harper, 7, at Manly Beach in Sydney offer an explanation. Posh, clad in extraordinarily uncomfortable stilettos and clutching a rather formal matching red handbag, stays safely on the concrete as Nanny capers about in the sea with the kids.

Occasionally Mrs Beckham snaps photos of the fun on her phone. So that’s the reason for carting Mary Poppins along. She stands in and you stand aside. SO FAREWELL then Seann and Katya – you committed the cardinal sin of failing to realise Strictly is sacrosanct. The nation adores it. We thrill to the tulle and organza, the romance and the rhythm. We want to be swept up in the programme’s embrace, whirled around the floor and returned to our sofas in a bedazzled daze.

We want to suspend our disbelief. We have no interest in being reminded of the dancers’ bunions, the back-stage strops, the zits beneath the make-up or the pads soaking the sweat from dripping armpits. As the nights draw in we want to be transported into a glittering wonderland, not subjected to a short, sharp reality check.

You, Seann and Katya, punctured our pleasure. You ejected us from our comfortable cloud and hurled us into the pouring rain. We didn’t want to see you snogging. It was a horrible interruption. The extra cast of browned-off girlfriend and cuckolded husband was more than we could stand. You upset us. For that reason, and because your cha-cha-cha sucked, you had to go.

I’M STILL SURPRISED HOW SCARY HALLOWEENS HAVE CAUGHT ON

pre-schoolers doesn’t strike me as light entertainment. I fondly remember the days when we dismissed Halloween as an uninvited US import that would never catch on. Boy, how wrong we were and I still can’t work out why.