A Minister of Culture

It would be nice indeed to have a Minister of Culture in this country – or even more, to become the Minister oneself. I was thinking the matter over the other day when I saw a strange procession approaching me – a group of schoolteachers, housewives and civil servants, led by a rather splendid pipe-band. I could not hear a thing they said, because of the noise of the pipes – a noise in which I am always able to drown happily, perhaps because some of my ancestors did the same. But when the pipes were silent, I began to hear what the leader of the group, a hefty schoolteacher with glasses, was saying to me.

‘We’ve decided, Mr Baxter, that we want a Minister of Culture. We put it to the Government in a petition, and the Prime Minister told us there was nobody cultured enough among the MPs to hold the job down. They’re all practical men, he said – they have to keep an eye on the wool-prices and the possibility of invasion from the South Pole – an American observer down there has reported there’s a definite possibility of the penguins going Communist. They’ve beenwaving flags and holding mass meetings. . . . Well – I’m getting off the point a bit, Mr Baxter. The Prime Minister said he was all for culture, though he’s not quite sure what it means, that is, if we could bring forward a suitable candidate who wasn’t an M.P. And we held a meeting, and decided by a majority of fifty-seven to fifty-four to come along and ask you to represent us. We may not agree with everything you say – but we’re all agreed you are a cultured man, Mr Baxter.’

The sweat began to run down inside my collar, though it was a cold Dunedin day. ‘What would the pay be?’ I said.

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The spokesman frowned a little. ‘That’s not quite the kind of question I’d expect a cultured man to ask,’ he said. ‘But the pay would be all right. It would be the equivalent of an average headmaster’s salary.’

‘Lord, that’s terrific!’ I shouted. All the members of the group began to look at me a little strangely. I sobered up again. ‘I’ll take it on – yes, I’ll take it on if I possibly can. Tell me now – what would the Minister have to do?’

A stalwart woman at the front of the crowd spoke up. She looked like some kind of nurse. ‘One thing we’re all agreed on, Mr Baxter,’ she said – ‘we’re absolutely sick of having the radio and TV programmes interrupted by soap ads! You settle down to something nice and cultural in the evenings – a talk on modern housing, or that lovely Russian in ‘The Man from U.N.C.L.E.’ – and bang in the middle of it you’re being shown the latest detergent. We propose to limit all advertising to a special programme at 2 a.m. in the morning.’

‘That’s what I want too,’ I said. ‘You’re my kind of people. I’ll have the job on!’ I began to have a splendid vision of a country where advertising had been muzzled like a savage dog – quiet teen-agers no longer pestering their parents for mini-skirts and leather coats – the abolition of hoardings so that you could actually look at the sea and the sky – a country where all those inane cardboard faces had vanished out of chemists’ windows – a country in which it was possible to feel and think. ‘What else? What else would I have to do?’ I asked eagerly.

‘We want more culture,’ said the spokesman. ‘Loads of culture. Bigger and better art galleries. Bigger and better libraries. Theatres that put on the best overseas plays. Verse readings in the town squares . . .’.

‘My word, yes,’ I said. Not long ago I joined in a verse reading in the town square at Palmerston . . .’.

A small, neatly-dressed man in the middle of the crowd interrupted me. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I was present at that reading. And I am one of the fifty-four who will under no circumstances vote for you, Mr Baxter, as our Minister of Culture. I heard the verse that you yourself read on that occasion, and you can take it from me that I didn’t find it either funny or edifying. I’d gone along in hopes of some cultural entertainment. What I heard from your lips was the language of the gutter . . .’.

‘Not the gutter,’ I said – ‘it’s the language I use in speaking to friends.’

‘That may be so,’ said the small man. ‘But the reading was a public event – and I’m certainly not going to stand by and see the minds of our youth corrupted . . .’.

The spokesman coughed heavily. ‘We’ve already heard your views, Mr Podsnap,’ he said. ‘To some extent I think they’re justified. But if you’ll remember, our problem was the chronic shortage of people who were quite obviously cultured and who didn’t already have a job either in the universities or on some Council or another. Mr Baxter plainly is cultured. He’s also the only man who might conceivably be prepared to represent us. We may have page 687 to put up with a trace of sand in our sugar – after all, literary men have their peculiarities . . . But I’d like to hear from Mr Baxter himself. What is your opinion, Mr Baxter? How could we best endeavour to make our country a home of true art and culture?’

‘Well,’ I said – ‘that’s a hard one. I’m not sure.’ I began to think hard. And I seemed to hear a kind of spiritual groaning noise coming from underground – as if a million prisoners locked in cellars were calling out to me to free them. ‘Well,’ I said – ‘the first thing I’d do would be to get rid of the present barbarous laws against adult homosexuals. Some of the best decorative artists in our community are either living in chronic anxiety or already behind bars. I’d like to see them free to get to work without being bothered by the cops. And then there’s the drug traffic – I’d make sure there was a clear distinction made in our laws between the sale and use of dangerous drugs like heroin, and a moderate sale and use of marihuana. And then there’s that bad matter of the age of consent – people are growing up quicker these days – it could be knocked down a couple of years . . . Oh yes, and I’d abolish Flower Festivals and institute bull fights instead. I’m sure the Department of Agriculture could provide some magnificent fighting bulls. It might be hard on the bulls; but at least people wouldn’t be dying of boredom in our streets. And the laws regarding private grogshops – why should we have to drink in large white-tiled concrete sewer-pipes instead of . . .’.

I was getting quite enthusiastic. I didn’t notice that the crowd was gradually melting away. When I did look up, all I could see was the pipe band still standing grimly at attention, and one nondescript scruffy man who looked as if he had a bit of liquor on board. He wandered over to me and breathed beer fumes in my face. ‘You’re right, sport,’ he said heavily. ‘You’re dead on centre. Anyone that uses his loaf knows that you can’t have art in a country that still thinks the Devil is located below each man’s belt. I didn’t vote for you. I knew darned well they’d never have you as Minister unless you thought the way they do about things. Culture!’ He coughed and spat on the ground. ‘Culture is just another spare wheel on the Government wagon. Culture is culture and art is art and never the twain shall meet.’ He coughed again and wandered away towards the Captain Cook Hotel. The pipe band struck up, moved into line smartly, and strode off with the big drones blaring. It did me good to hear them – but the wind was very cold.

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