DIARY
DOMINIC LAWSON It has been fascinating to watch, over recent months, the twists and turns of the leader writers of our great opinion-forming newspapers as the Government's economic Policy began to unravel. The Spectator has, I'm afraid, been boringly consistent: the only journal not to hail Britain's entry into the Exchange Rate Mechanism — at the time; the only journal not to hail Mr Major's deal at Maastricht as a triumph at the time. Most newspapers gradually evolved towards this position, swinging ele- gantly away from support for a fixed Anglo- German currency as the pressures on the pound grew. Thus they were generally able, by a narrow squeak, to trumpet 'we told You so' when Mr Lamont found that he couldn't hold his finger in the dyke indefi- nitely. But a wonderful absence of expedi- ency characterised the ideological pirou- ettes of the London Evening Standard. Until the end of July it warned, with bril- liant prescience, of the dire consequences of shadowing the mark. Then suddenly, and for no apparent reason, it swung behind the doomed policy of Mr Major, viz: 'Sterling will be secure because the word of the British Government will be seen to be secure. Our country will in truth be what it has not been for years — as safe as the Bank of England.' Stunned by Black Wednesday, the Standard's leader writer still declared grandly: 'Another piece of instant wisdom which has staged a come- back over the past few days is that "you can't buck the markets". This was, and is, pure cant.' On the following day he sat down to write: 'It is, of course, absolutely true that in its attempt to "buck the mar- ker the Government had to admit defeat.' All very entertaining; but is it damaging for a newspaper if it disagrees with itself even more violently than does the Conservative Party? Probably not. I recall that when I was deputy editor of The Spectator, I unwit- tingly commissioned a leading article which directly contradicted the line that the then editor, Charles Moore, had built up with Painful persistence. We didn't receive a sin- gle letter pointing out the inconcistency. I have come to believe that the leader writ- er's office is the journalistic equivalent of the padded cell.
From time to time I receive invitations from the Irish Embassy — or, more cor- rectly, from the Irish Ambassador — asking me to some party or other. The Irish are yerY. good at that sort of thing, I under- stand. Yet I always refuse. The thing is, when they first asked me to a dinner a few Years ago, I accepted, only to be rung up some days later to be told I'd been asked in 1.1.,°r there was no room for me at the 'anle. So now I turn the invitations down without thinking. I know this is small-mind- ed of me and that, in any case, these Hiber- nian shindigs scarcely need the editor of The Spectator to give them lustre. This is perhaps a suitable question for our agony aunt, Mary Killen, to answer: how long is it correct etiquette to maintain a petty feud against decent people who have no idea that they once caused offence?
It all started in 1957 when Fortune maga- zine launched a list of the rich, and in so doing ended the carefully cultivated obscurity of one J. Paul Getty, unwillingly given the tag of 'the richest man in the world'. According to Getty's biographer, `When he heard about the Fortune article Getty told his brother in law, Ware Lynch, "I don't know how much money I have. I don't know how they would know. Have them see my' attorney." To a friend he mournfully confided, "I suppose I'll have to increase my tips from 14 cents to 35 cents."' After Fortune, the floodgates opened and magazines the world over began regularly to run features claiming to disclose the exact fortunes of all the richest people from the Sultan of Brunei downwards. In Britain the most notable exponent is the Sunday Times. Last week a magazine, called Busi- ness Age, attempted a new twist with a list of 'The richest 250 women in Britain', although, as one wit pointed out, it looked rather like a list of the 250 richest men in Britain, with 'Mrs' in front of their names. One would have more confidence in this
You get a mention on page 57.' list if it did not stumble over the mere names of the two it claims to be the first and second richest women in Britain. `Christine' Goulandris (1290 million') is an invention. Chrissie is her first name, and it's not short for anything. In second place, Donatella Moores (1234.5 million') is re- named Toonabella'. It was amusing to see the Independent and the Times dutifully reprint all the nonsense in the Business Age list, complete with 'Christine' and 'Don- abella'. But I really knew the list was drivel when I came upon the name of my own wife at No. 183, described as 'The Hon Rosa Monckton: £5.1 million'. I can vouch for the figure after the decimal point, but the rest is sheer fabrication. So I rang the compiler of the list, Mr Kevin Cahill, described by his publisher as 'the only man in Britain who really knows about Britain's rich people'. I told him what he had written was nonsense and asked him to explain himself. 'Maybe I was a bit optimistic,' he conceded, tut your wife is one of only a handful on the list who made the money themselves ... we wanted more entrepr- eneurs.' But my wife hasn't made £5 mil- lion,' I protested. `Ah,' said Mr Cahill, superbly unfazed, 'but the list doesn't say what these ladies are worth now. It's what they are capable of being worth.' This, pre- sumably, explains the ludicrous ascription of £8 million to Jilly Cooper. When I spoke to her husband, Leo, he was still fuming. `This is very serious nonsense. Jilly has never earned that in her life. After taking care of me, and paying for the children's education, and taxes, I'd be surprised if there was more than a million left over. I'm worried about what some man from the Inland Revenue might make of this prepos- terous list.' My own worry is even more immediate. Now that the Government has brought in its disgraceful policy of means- tested fines, the people on this list are marked women. One apprehended sprint through a red light and it will be several million pounds, divided by something, to pay. Perhaps the victims of Business Age's loopy list should simply say, in the manner of J. Paul Getty: 'See my attorney.'
Afriend has sent me a copy of Arena magazine. He draws my attention to an interview with one Michael Goss, the owner of a company called Delectus, which sells so called 'erotic' books by mail order. Goss claims that advertisements in The Spectator 'give us the best response of all'. Why should this be? my friend asks. My reply is that Spectator subscribers are natu- rally voracious book-readers. They would never dream of buying an 'erotic' video, and should not be sneered at for their old- fashioned enthusiasm for the written word.
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