DIARY
PETRONELLA WYATT The trouble is,' the Gloucestershire landowner said, his pigeon-blood complex- ion deepening, 'the trouble is that these Labour people think we're rich.' He jabbed a finger at me as if I were to blame for this misconception. 'What are you media peo- ple going to do about it, eh?' During the past week a great deal has been said about Middle England assuming Mr Blair's pur- ple. But what of the aristocracy, who loyally voted Tory to a marquess? What will hap- pen to them? In the New Labour dawn, who will speak for Upper England now? The 2,000 Guineas at Newmarket usually brings Upper England out in droves. Last Saturday, however, a sorry few came, blink- ing, uncertain, like children who have just received a horrible rap on the knuckles. It seemed that most of the peerage was preparing for the worst. Some were defiant in defeat, others were already tearfully imagining the confiscation of hunters, hounds, guns, and the imposition of special taxes on anyone with a tennis court or even more than one car. Moments before the big race a punter in a trilby went fishbelly-pale. His hand closed over a £50 note. 'Cripes,' he said. 'Better keep that.' Someone else remarked, only half in jest, 'Johnny [the Duke of Buccleuch] is thinking about hoarding sugar, for barter.' As I weaved my way through the crowds, acquaintances I hadn't seen for years plucked my sleeve, turning away their faces like lepers in some Hollywood biblical scene. 'What's going to happen to us? What are they going to do?' 'Oh, it won't be so bad,' I said cheerily. Tony Blair is really quite moderate.' But What about inheritance tax?' one man cried. They'll bring in inheritance tax.' His companion laughed derisively. 'Where have You been for the past ten years? The Tories already did that.'
Upper England was scared, not because it has so much to lose but because it feels, that these days, it has relatively lit- tle. If it was richer, it would feel more secure — as it is, it hasn't all that many assets to liquidate. 'What they don't under- stand is that we're not the privileged few, not any more,' said the Countess of Wilton. The privileged few are people like Richard Branson and Andrew Lloyd-Webber. They are so rich they will always stay rich under Labour. It's the less well-off like us who are going to be hit.' As dusk began to veil the Countryside an elderly peer with eyebrows like eagles commented, 'I don't mind Blair, but what I can't stand is the thought of all those bearded luvvies lording it over us.' This was a misapprehension, I said. Luvvies did not have beards. The elderly peer was incredulous, 'But Robin Cook has one.' Mr Cook, I insisted, was not a luwie. Surely he meant someone like Mr Melvyn Bragg? 'Yes, yes,' he muttered. 'I was at a lunch with him once and he didn't take off his hat. This is what things have come to.'
Mr Blair assures us he is not much of a drinker (though according to Mr Robert Harris there are times when he does imbibe — is this the first broken election pledge?). It seems inevitable, then, that the Prime Minister should attempt to purge the party of one of its most vocal wings — the cham- pagne tendency. At his post-victory cele- brations the new Prime Minister drank a glass of white wine. He said, apparently, that he never wanted to be called a cham- pagne socialist. This may have been his first — and biggest — mistake. Middle England, which swept Mr Blair into office, will toler- ate attacks on its spending habits but not on its champagne one. It is not so much the lefties in the closet who are frightening, but the possibility that New Labour is so puri- tanical there is nothing in its closets at all. I imagine that Mr Blair is influenced by the conventional view that champagne social- ism is a form of hypocrisy, in which case he is a victim of Tory propaganda. Far from being a recent, artificial phenomenon, champagne socialists are an integral, histor- ical part of the Labour movement. One of the first prominent socialists was also the first 'champagne Charlie'. He was the Frenchman Charles Heidsieck, who in 1851 founded the Heidsieck champagne compa- ny. As Bernard Shaw once said, 'I'm only a beer teetotaller, not a champagne one.' It would be a shame if New Labour became a government of Ribena radicals.
Iadmire bad losers. I am a bad loser myself. Anyone who murmurs self-depre- catingly, 'No hard feelings,' or, worse, The best man won,' is clearly a liar (since when did your opponent think you were the best man, or vice versa)? On election night it was my good fortune to run into a worse loser even than me. This person is Patrick Robertson, Sir James Goldsmith's press officer and formerly of the ultra-Euroscep- tic Bruges Group. A few weeks earlier I had written in The Spectator that Sir James was likely to lose his deposit. This had turned out to be the case and Mr Robert- son was taking the event in bad part. As I was leaving Christopher's, where the Tele- graph was holding its election night party, Mr Robertson arrived from Putney. I said hello. His reply to this affable greeting was as follows: 'You're a f—ing c—. I hope I never have to see your c—ish little face again.' I should like to take this opportunity to say to Mr Robertson that there are no hard feelings. And if he believes that, I am the Queen of Sheba.
Anong the most gratuitous avowals that emerged during the election, and will doubtless be employed by the Tory leader- ship contenders, is the statement, 'I am approaching this election with all due humility.' The first time I heard this phrase I was puzzled. This may have been because I misheard it. I imagined that Mr Blair/Mr Major/Mr Ashdown had said, 'I am approaching this election with all due humidity.' Humidity? This made them sound like cigars. Or had they just come from the gym? Perhaps it was a blatant play for the women's vote. On reflection, though, I rather like the idea of approach- ing things with humidity. Humidity is one of those words with comforting associa- tions: spring rain, healing, fertility. Humidi- ty sounds reliable and trustworthy, certainly more so than humility, which at best implies a self-serving piety. Welcome to the politics of humidity. The first Tory leader- ship candidate to make that statement can count on my support.
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