So I’m sitting in a really boring meeting and a sketch comes to me, perfectly formed, in one solid mental lump

I don’t have any use for sketches at this time. Especially not ones like this, which must be filmed at a plush restaurant and feature a fairly large cast. It wouldn’t work any other way. Put it on the radio or cram it into a studio and it simply would not be the same. It’s slow, it’s hushed and it’s probably not very funny but it amused me at the time. Not laugh out loud amusement but a quiet, warm amusement that lingers as I write this some hours later. The whole thing is played in very low voices as it is set in an almost silent dining room. Muttered conversation and the sounds of dinner are all that can be heard. A nice, middle class couple have been seated by the headwaiter and are about to be served with menus. A waiter approaches them and it is blatantly obvious that this man is smartly dressed but covered in manure. We follow his dung-covered arm as he passes the menus across to the husband and then a second one to the wife. We see their stunned faces and maybe even see some blobs of muck fall onto the table. The couple mutter to each other about how one of them should say something but they don’t like to make a fuss. The waiter brings their meals, again leaving traces of fertiliser behind on the plate, on the table and even on the couple themselves. Finally the husband plucks up the courage to say something when he sees the headwaiter walk past.

Husband : Excuse me.

Headwaiter : Yes sir?

Husband : I… er… that is to say… we… couldn’t help but… well… notice…

Headwaiter : Sir?

Husband : The waiter.

Headwaiter : Waiter, sir?

Husband : He’s… well, he’s…

Headwaiter : He’s?

Husband : He’s… covered in shit.

Headwaiter : Shit, sir?

Husband : Yes – absolutely covered in shit.

Headwaiter : One of our waiters is covered in shit?

Husband : Yes.

Headwaiter : Which one, sir?

Husband : Which one?

Headwaiter : As you can imagine, we have a large staff here.

Husband : The one that’s covered in shit.

Headwaiter : So you allege, sir, but it would be helpful to know whom you are accusing of being, as it were, coated in shit.

Husband : I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name.

Headwaiter : Very careless, sir.

Husband : I was too busy noticing that he was covered in shit.

Headwaiter : Perhaps, sir, if I were to point out each of our waiters in turn, you could indicated if and when I locate the one whom you claim to be enclosed in shit.

Husband : That sounds fair.

Headwaiter : (points to a normal waiter)

Husband : No, not him.

Headwaiter : (points to another clean waiter)

Husband : No.

Headwaiter : (points to a third spotless waiter)

Husband : Not him either.

Headwaiter : (points to the waiter covered in manure)

Husband : Ah yes – he’s the one that’s covered in shit.

Headwaiter : Would you excuse me for a moment?

Husband : Of course.

Headwaiter : (goes off and has a quiet word with the dungy waiter and the two return) Excuse me sir, Maybury here has something he wishes to say.

Maybury : I would like to take this opportunity of apologising for being covered in shit. I assure you this is the first time this has ever happened to me and I will take every precaution to ensure that it does not happen again.

Husband : That’s quite all right.

Headwaiter : Is everything else to your satisfaction, sir?

Husband : Yes thank you.

Headwaiter : Maybury, under the circumstances I think the lady and gentleman deserve one of our celebrated deserts. Compliments of the management, naturally.

Husband : That’s extremely generous.

Headwaiter : Maybury, fetch two generous helpings of chocolate mousse.

Maybury : Yes, Mr Badcock.

Husband : That really is awfully kind of you.

Headwaiter : Not at all sir. (walks away)

Husband : Excuse me.

Headwaiter : Sir?

Husband : You’ve got a little bit of shit on your sleeve.

Headwaiter : Thank you sir.

I’m not sure why the idea amuses me – possibly it’s the thought of posh people saying “shit” repeatedly or maybe I’m just weird. But it brightened an otherwise turgid day.

Before I leave this debut, some say premiere, column I’d like to mention the name. It’s not a misprint or a typo or a moment of madness. At least not on my part. It comes from an episode of the stellar Radio 4 panel game “Just a Minute” with the living legend Nicholas Parsons. It think this incident stuck in my mind because it’s possibly the only recorded instance of Sir Stephen Fry making an error of language. When given a subject that I’ve long since forgotten he blundered over his opening words and was instantly (and correctly) challenged by writer-cum-traveller Pete McCarthy.

“He said ‘I nothing like I better to do’” announced McCarthy and earned himself a point. Now, perhaps ten years later, this long forgotten phrase returns to the world at the head of a fairly dull column. That’s the way the biscuit breaks.

13th October 2003