The Mind Of Kenneth Williams:

Today, marks what would have been Kenneth Williams 97th birthday.  in April, it will also have been 35 years since what; in many senses was an untimely death.  I recently finished a copy of his diaries (published in 1993, currently out of print).  He kept them, on and off for 47 years.  Russell Davies waded through what amounts for 4m words. You can look at the whole collection in The British Library, if you wish.

A major feat, especially as the author is continually derided and insulted throughout them (IE a disgusting slob).  

Of course, the thing that looms largest over Williams' career was The Carry-On films.  Out of all the actors in them, he made the most appearances over twenty years.  He's continually ruminating on whether to appear in another.  In a way, they appear to him to be comedy hurricanes - massively damaging at the eye, but beautiful at a distance.  But he really enjoys them when they're on TV.  And of course, he is always the best thing in them. 

There's also that darker side to his personality.  And I know now, we can dismiss racism and right-wing politics as archaic.  But if bigotry is the language of people with no opinions; it's becoming the national tongue. 

So, within Williams' diaries you'll find references to that brave woman Margaret Thatcher and the marvellous man Norman Tebbit. You'll also find the worst examples of racist language, even in the published edit. Two thankfully outmoded terms for anyone who isn't white, the cockney rhyming slang for Jewish people. See also: the admiration for Enoch Powell, a man who cloaked his own hatred in references to classical literature.  Powell was right.  They should have deported the lot of them.  All they have done is imported alien cultures and poverty.

And it's incredibly easy to dismiss this as a man who was a product of his own East End upbringing.  The Great Lives profile on Radio 4 in September 2020 certainly did that.  But we can trace that poisonous, acidic line from then to now... it was becoming socially unacceptable then, it would certainly put a firebomb under any career now. Or possibly get him a spot on the cheap sofas of GB News.  

And for a man who inwardly felt those views, put the ink to paper; there is still that cognitive dissonance.  He loves working with Floella Benjamin.  Lenny Henry is one of the few decent talents around at the moment.  Work that one out.  

Williams' sexuality is the real grey/gay area here. It was always a subject for speculation.  And the diaries really don't provide a definitive answer.  There's that Maslovian need for a partner.  But no real, hard (ooh) evidence of whom it might have been.  Instead, there is references to the odd, inconsequential fumble.  Being approached by gay men on the streets.  His regular holidays in Morrocco, with mild incidences of S&M.  Catching crabs. The use of Polari terms such as naff and Marconi. The cockney rhyming phrase The Barclays, which is usually the end of a perfect day.  

His celebrity crushes appear to have been varied, ranging from Kevin Keegan to John McEnroe, to Dirk Benedict, to Gary Wilmot. But his masturbatory activities generally involved fantasy, or even himself. As Peter Cook said, "Ken's not interested in sex, he'd rather have a wank and a Mars bar".  To which he replies in the diary, "I don't eat Mars Bars."

The end of his career comes with a painful diversification.  He's proud of being on Equity's council, but at the same time becomes a regular face on TV chat/game shows; he can even note which anecdotes he's going to use.  He makes one successful foray into directing - Loot, by his late friend Joe Orton.  He appears in the first production, which is disastrous.  Come 1980, he's directing it - even starring in the lead using Orton's playscript; when the actor playing it gets mugged.

At the end of his life, he's the proverbial tear-stained clown.  Literature, poetry and classical music lift him up.  Back pain, a stomach ulcer and caring for an elderly mother push him down.  He's cultured enough to regularly quote Ode To A Nightingale by Keats ("To cease upon the midnight with no pain"), but the most quoted phrase is "Oh, what's the bloody point?"

And that is the final entry in his diary. His death is recorded as an open verdict. 

And where would he be today?  For a man who often referred to other gay men as queue, often dismissing them as poofs, queens or queers, he might be surprised to find societal acceptance of the latter as no cause of shame.  He came from a time when Frankie Howerd was closeted, but in a steady relationship.  Maybe, this would make him a stranger in a strange land.  Would he appear on a chat show with, for example Tom Allen (a huge Kenneth Williams fan)? What would be his thoughts on his lifelong friend Stanley Baxter outing himself at the age of 93?

Like all hypothetical questions, there is no answer.  See also, attempting to contextualise someone 35 years dead.  Williams was a mass of contradictions; as much as he was a talented individual.  He belongs to history, but like all legends - he'll never truly die.