“Pass the salt And the pepper, please —
If love is the cure Then what’s the disease?”
From The Riddles of Bachchoo

By the time this column appears it will all be over. I don’t mean the London Olympics. They went out with a whimper on August 12. The city will get back to normal and a select band of us will proceed to a famous restaurant on Friday evening to celebrate by means of a surprise party — the 80th birthday of Sir Vidia Naipaul.
In the last week, the country has been constantly rallied by British Prime Minister David Cameron and mayor of London Boris Johnson to applaud the achievement of the triumphant athletes of Great Britain such as Mohammed Farah and Chris Hoy.
I don’t suppose any telegram will arrive at Vidia’s door from 10 Downing Street or the mayoral palace wishing the only living British Nobel laureate for literature a happy birthday.
Running and cycling are, we now know, part of the fabric of a nation’s civilisation. One would have thought so were the nation’s language and its literature and those who purified the language and contributed to the perception of the tribe would be worthy of the same sort of attention.
Of course, it’s true that Mo Farah and Chris Hoy have this week won their medals and have provided the nation with fresh news and pride. That being said, I remember that in the year after the millennial celebrations when V.S. Naipaul was awarded the Nobel, Tony Blair was Prime Minister and he most certainly had someone who held a “culture” portfolio. Not a peep from them.
No note to acknowledge the fact that a British
citizen had been granted the highest universal accolade of the world of letters.
The BBC did call Vidia in for an interview. But in lieu of celebration they brought in some Islamic pipsqueak to attack his work. By thy pettiness shalt thou be known!
I don’t suppose V.S. will be waiting up for those acknowledgements from the establishment for most of which he has a deep and reasoned contempt.
He won’t know about the party till I or Lady N suggest going out for a quiet dinner and we drive out to the designated restaurant where the guests and champagne will be waiting.
Friends will arrive from America and from other parts of England. His stepson and daughter will turn up.
The flowers, with a fair sprinkling of white ones — lilies perhaps or gladioli — will be arranged around the room and the cake which will consist of replicas of the first-edition jackets of a lot of his books will take centrestage.
Then the particular surprise, as the guests are asked to settle in their designated places for dinner, will be sprung. A trio of musicians — a tenor, a pianist and a violinist (Danyal Dhondy — you will excuse me adding — who is also the composer and conductor) will troop in and occupy their corner to sing a tribute in operatic mode, which has been hastily composed on a short order from Herself.
Just to convey the tone of the mixture of seriousness and frivolity, here are the lyrics:

Pean to Vidia on his 80th
(No pun intended)
Sir Vidia,
We thought at first
We’d sing the birthday song
And invite your friends to sing along
But how predictable was that?
The same wretched rabbit out of the hat?
So instead we thought
We’d come one better
And sing you an operatic birthday letter
This journey began on Miguel Street
Where rogues, rascals and colonial misfits greet
Each other with
“What happenin’ Hat?”
You answered the
question
In enchanting prose
Virtually saying that
Nothing much was
happening.
Not in those islands
Through which you took a passage,
With their stagnation, turmoil,
Human traps!
What ambition grows on that soil?
Just a House of one’s own perhaps?
There was more to come
Three-cornered files
Were sharpened to kill
Without reason, without rhyme
In the service of a
guerrilla
Pantomime.
And all the while other continents called
You. India, Africa, questions, stories,
The uncomfortable truths
And histories which appalled
Those who couldn’t bear
Too much reality.
Of course the truth caused a fuss
Once pronounced it couldn’t be denied
Though we know there were those who tried.
(Er... Where are they now??)
But Vidia, for many of us
The attraction of your stylish prose
Exposing what existed right under one’s nose
Had the charm of the new
You were the child who cried
“This Emperor hasn’t got many clothes!”
Each book was different
We shan’t presume
To present a blurb
And there isn’t much room
To summarise the matchless oeuvre
So friends, now I propose we move
To the episode of recognition
We rang you with the champagne popping
You said “You’ve heard of my little spot of luck?”
Little spot of luck?
Call that modesty?
What the f—ffinal accolade
(Though some of their choices, leave one stewing
This time the academy knew what it was doing.)
Literature will always make its way
Witness the acclaim for
Fifty Shades of Grey
OK, I’m sorry, I withdraw that last
And now having made allusion to your past
We look forward to the works to come
And also having run out of time
I guess we should round off with the birthday rhyme
So!
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Etc.

There will be toasts and, one hopes brief, speeches and I know there will be decent wine.
But back to the theme of national accolades. Numerous TV programmes have this week argued that the Olympics, with their hugely manifest support of the nation for black, white, Scottish, Welsh and Irish athletes have redefined “Britishness”. Strange then that the same Great Britain and its Broadcasting Corporation acknowledged Harold Pinter and William Golding when they won the Nobel for literature but couldn’t find the intelligence or generosity to greet V.S.
(Mr Cameron has not been invited to the birthday party.)