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Even so he might be too strong for me in which case I will accept defeat gracefully A man must

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Even so, he might be too strong for me, in which case I will accept defeat gracefully A man must know how to lose. Besides, after his poor showing in all our tourneys so far, what kind of person would I be if I begrudged him victory on a ping-pong table?. I recall reading some article once in which he boasted of his ping-pong prowess, describing the joy he felt at the moment of pouncing on the ball and smashing the living daylights out of it Not a subtle or delicate touch player, then More a Bill Sikes than an Erik Satie. Berkoff himself would not want it said of any of his plays that he is not Shakespeare but what the hell! - since he means to write drivel for morons he's succeeded.But let ping-pong decide it Word is, he can play a bit Don't ask me whose word His, I suspect. Readers of this column won't be surprised to hear me affirm a strong aversion to the "he never claimed he was Shakespeare" defence, when Shakespeare was never the yardstick in use.By the most modest and undemanding standards of literacy and humanity, what Jeffrey Archer writes is bone stupid, an affront to the living, that is more or less my position. Introducing the genre of "pulp thriller" assumes a criterion of valuelessness and therefore begs the only questions that matter.

Secondly, he thinks I am judging Jeffrey's shortcomings as a novelist inappropriately, as he never "claimed to be Kafka or even Dickens" but wrote "pulp thrillers for a readership that thrived on them". He wouldn't have wanted me there looking all gloating, smug and superior, shouting at him to lie still and wait for the fire brigade.Berkoff's objection to my Archer piece appears to be twofold. Firstly, he thinks no living writer should ever denigrate another (by which principle Berkoff should stop denigrating me). I can't imagine it bothering him that Koo Stark had done me first But you never know with actors He was wearing a baseball cap, I remember that And kept his head down. Seconds after we crossed, I heard sounds of snapping wire and screaming metal commensurate with a large man falling down a lift shaft I never turned back to find out if it was him Call that consideration.

I am being metaphorical when I say my kite gets up Berkoff's nose I don't have a kite. It's just that the moment I show signs of enjoying life - you know, going to parties, writing books, getting good reviews, expressing a few opinions on this and that - up pops Berkoff in a stew, to wet on my flame. Anyone would think the planet isn't big enough for both of us.And it's not as though we even know each other. The one time we nearly met was on the steps outside Koo Stark's studio somewhere near Whitechapel where we had both agreed to pose for a portfolio of portraits of self- effacing men I was leaving, he was coming. Friends suggested I get a T-shirt printed - HOWARD JACOBSON LACKS DECORUM, SIGNED STEVEN BERKOFF. I actually tried selling the idea to a celebrity clothes shop on Carnaby Street, but they didn't know who Steven Berkoff was.It is certainly possible that in every hell-raiser there's a Mrs Whitehouse trying to get out, and that Berkoff really did find my sermon improper.

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