Our new regular columnist Arthur Smith on the art of postprandial oration

Aw, Barry Cryer, most beloved of all comedians, has left the stage. His brilliance as a writer, panel show guest and comic was matched only by his generosity and empathy. He was also a superb after-dinner speaker, and in these empty pandemic hours, I’ve fallen to considering this arcane art form.

A man in a suit stands up and tings his glass. The guests at the tables abandon their conversations, take a sip of brandy and turn their seats to face the action. The hubbub is replaced by a quiet expectancy. “It is time,” announces the glass tapper, “for tonight’s speaker – Mr Arthur Smith!” There is applause as I take a deep breath and get to my feet.

This is always a scary moment for even the most accomplished speaker. On your oratorical shoulders rests the success or otherwise of the whole ritual, and if you’re boring, witless or inappropriate, however delicious the millionaire’s cheesecake may have been, everyone will go home disgruntled – especially you.

After-dinner speeches have been made ever since the Greeks first lolled around in togas nibbling olives and listening to the latest hot young philosopher at the local symposium. No doubt speakers such as Plato and Agathon thrilled the assembled intellectuals with their scintillating wit and new ideas, but you can be certain there were other orators, whose names are now forgotten, whose rambling rhetoric was met by outright hostility, a flying sandal or, worse, a sullen lack of interest. There are very few experiences more life-sapping than slowly dying on your arse in a large, packed, silent hotel function room, but one of them is having to watch this happen. “Please,” everyone is thinking, “can’t this end?”

I still shudder remembering that night in Derby when my quips left a roomful of car salesmen indifferent to the point of belligerence. My only way out of the venue meant I had to walk through the appalled audience. I knew what they were thinking and it was not comforting. My journey to the exit felt like the golden-duck batsman’s long walk back to the pavilion, or the defendant’s grim passage from the dock to the cells, the cry of “take him down” pounding in his ears. It was a head-down procession of despair.

In truth I should have turned that one down; I can’t drive, have no interest in cars and therefore no car-related material to draw on. The car boys seemed to have sensed this even before I’d started. They didn’t want me, they wanted a presenter from Top Gear and, had they offered a larger fee, they probably could have got one.

There is big money to be made on the after-dinner circuit – especially if you used to be President of the United States or Prime Minister. Even at the bottom of the scale, where not very bright Love Island contestants vie with dimly remembered actors, you still pocket a lot more than for a 20-minute set at the back of a pub. Your material at these events can be informative, political, inspirational or sentimental, but it should always be entertaining, usually funny and, crucially, not too long. Do not copy Russian president Leonid Brezhnev, who was prone to banging on for several hours. In an archive recording I heard of him at a dinner it was apparent that Leonid was somewhat tipsy, which is another trap you must avoid. Always beware the evil head of Human Resources who tries to pour pinot noir down your neck throughout the dinner.

It’s a good idea to do some homework before your gig and to be armed with information about individuals who are present. There’s no doubt that a gentle jibe at the expense of the CEO of the company hosting the dinner is appreciated by everyone, especially the CEO, who will bask in his own display of humility and good humour. The diners are also pleased that you’ve obviously made an effort. You must judge this carefully however – if the joke is too ripe you run the risk of offending the boss, although you probably won’t come off as badly as the Roman orator Cicero whose anti-Mark Antony routine resulted in him getting his head cut off when he got home.

This is all by way of an oblique tribute to Barry Cryer, who stormed many of these nights, although even he would have bombed at one or two. Thank you, Baz.

It’s also an advertisement. You wanna book me for your company do? Thank you for reading this, ladies and gentlemen, and I trust the rest of your evening continues to be marvellous. Goodnight.

This feature appears in the current issue of the Idler (March-April 2022) – out now.

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