[Chris O'Carroll]

Posting this a bit later than normal. My schedule may be similarly unpredictable next week. Thanks for your patience.

No 4218

Set by Leonora Casement
We asked for confidential testimonials from the servants or staff of well-known people. As an incentive, we reprinted a winner of this competition from back in the 1950s for Henry James, although in this instance we wanted the well-known figure still to be alive: “I’ve worked for Mr James for 20 years. They tell me you might find yourself in one of his books but there’s nothing to worry about. I tried to read one once; too artistic for anyone to know it was you, even if it was.”

This week’s winners
Well done and first off three hon menshes, to Richard Syms for his PA to Simon Cowell (“. . . I receive no pay as such, but I get many perks such as free telephone calls – land line, of course, and only at evenings and weekends . . .”), Basil Ransome-Davies for his butler to Lord Prescott (“As he often remarked, he could have done my job with complete satisfaction himself, were it not for the vital public work he was engaged in”) and G M Davis for her stenographer to Bill Clinton (“'Course, that made some jealous, the way he paid attention to me, but when you work for a great man I guess there are some things you just have to swallow”. £25 to each of the four winners. with the Tesco vouchers going to Sylvia Fairley for extra oomph.

Well-known artist
Been Damien’s studio assistant nearly 20 years; used to be just us, but now there’s so many at the “factory” you’ll have to queue to get in. But he’s an inspiration, done for cows what Stubbs did for horses . . . though the horses were painted, of course . . . Give him a whale or a rotting sheep and it becomes a Work of Art. He pops in sometimes to see how the work’s going, check his accounts, leave an encouraging note for the team. I enjoyed that “diamond geezer” – no formaldehyde, thank God – but, between you and me, the maggots in the decaying barbie weren’t much fun. Still, they created a buzz in the art world. Now it’s the dot-to-dot pics, we’re seeing spots before our eyes! But he treats us well, can’t complain. After a hard day’s work there’s usually a pint lined up for us at The Golden Calf.
Sylvia Fairley

. . . writer
Mr Self is no trouble, now. When he’s at home he confines himself to one room and as long as you don’t unplug his computer when vacuuming, he’s not too tetchy. He has takeaways or supermarket meals and eats out all the time at the sort of place you or I’d go, so there’s never any mess in his kitchen, bless him. I don’t think he could boil an egg, or even know where they come from. He uses streams of long words, which will be useful when he becomes a professor, but doesn’t really expect you to understand; as long as you listen and don’t interrupt him, he’s happy. His books are a bit of a problem; they get everywhere, and need a lot of dusting. He won’t say this about himself, but he’s really a very nice gentleman.
D A Prince

. . . football club owner/oligarch
I worked for Mr Abramovich for a full ten minutes, which I believe is the longest spell of any PA. We developed a good rapport. My first task, following the standard three-minute induction and probation period appraisal, was to prepare for my exit interview and begin clearing my desk. Mr A was always a decisive manager, setting clear performance targets and taking a keen interest in my work. There was never a dull moment. His terms and conditions were always fair: in my ten minutes I was able to take regular breaks and the full 45 seconds pro rata annual leave entitlement. Mr A is also generous with severance pay and I had no complaints about my £13m golden handshake. I would have no hesitation in recommending him to anyone looking for a temping job. I would however, just say that he is not great at remembering names.
David Silverman

. . . columnist
As his cleaning lady, Marta, I can assure you that Mr Lezard is a most considerate employer. While some visitors pronounce my name “martyr”, this is a mere pleasantry. So is calling his residence the Hovel, which simply evokes the pub of that name at Shepperton that he remembers from an unusual Guardian assignment. I keep the place spotless, and Mr L is punctilious in cleaning up his own vomit, which, contrary to the impression he likes to make in his New Statesman column, is not occasioned by strong drink – he takes only Wincarnis – but by the cruel jokes some readers like to poke at him. It is also untrue that Mr Lezard only owns one suit and pair of shoes; as any true artist, he is unconcerned with fashion. Mr Lezard is always the perfect gentleman with me.
Barry Baldwin