DIARY
RICHARD INGRAMS Ishould be very surprised if the IRA make a second attempt to blow up Mrs Thatcher this week. Whatever comedians may say, the Irish are not stupid. It is more likely that some time soon, probably be- tween now and Christmas, they will strike in an unexpected place where security is lax or non-existent. There will be the usual horrifying casualties, bishops and archbishops of both denominations will condemn the atrocity, the Sun will head- line their report BLOODY BASTARDS, the Queen will send messages of sympathy, and then after a week or two the event will be forgotten and the Irish 'problem' will once more be swept under the carpet. Although Mrs Thatcher has many admir- able qualities, her failure to get anywhere in Northern Ireland is proof of her lack of vision and statesmanship. Whatever scheme she may be hatching up now with Dr FitzGerald one may be sure that it will be some kind of botch that will achieve little. A Churchill or a de Gaulle would long ago have brought about a peace in Ireland and they would have done so by performing a shameless volte-face and pledging the Government to a united Ireland — the only logical solution. But Mrs Thatcher can see no farther than 'not giving in to the men of violence' — a parrot cry that we can expect to hear repeated when the bombs go off next time.
Iwas privileged to be taken to lunch the other day at the Grouch() Club, London's newest and most fashionable venue, where everyone spends half their time looking round to see who else is there. In this respect it is like the old Establishment Club from the dear dead days of the Sixties. Although the food is very good (but very expensive) I have no desire whatever to join. But then I have never felt the urge to belong to any club. Clubs, in my experi- ence, are places where bores go to bore other people. Just belonging, they feel, entitles them to accost their fellow mem- bers and give them the benefit of their views. On a recent visit to the Garrick the three or four members I recognised were all people I would go out of my way to avoid. One of them, a prominent libel lawyer, was passing up and down the central table like an orderly officer in the army scattering his pearls hither and thither. I buried my face in the Brown Windsor. At the Coach and Horses, a venue familiar to Jeffrey Bernard's readers and the nearest place to a club that I frequent, you can actually be thrown out for being a bore. I have seen with my own eyes an unfortunate American publisher called Jay Landesman being told to leave by Norman when half way through his lunch. 'But why?' he stammered, his fork raised to his lips. 'Because you're such a f bore,' said Norman calmly remov- ing his plate. Funnily enough, who should I see on my recent visit, propping up the bar at the Groucho, but Mr Landesman? Looking serene and at ease, he had found a safe refuge at last.
0 ne hopes that this time the British Museum will not turn down the Duke of Devonshire's offer of the various works of art which he is planning to flog off to keep Chatsworth going. I expect that whatever happens the Duke will get a lot of stick and, as a result of his recent court appear- ance, there will no doubt be ribald jokes about how he is going to spend the money. During the course of a three-day autumn mini-break last week I visited Chatsworth for the first time and was impressed (a) by the lack of adventure playgrounds, rhi- noceroses or vintage cars, the kind of things which disfigure most stately homes nowadays and (b) by the surprisingly friendly and relaxed atmosphere. Entering the park on foot by a side entrance in the company of two small and unruly dogs, I came upon a welcoming notice inviting me to wander about and even to picnic in the grounds if I felt like it. Nothing about keeping dogs on leads or sticking to the footpaths. No sign of a mantrap. This is apparently the Chatsworth tradition. The Dukes have always kept open house. 'The Duke of Devonshire allows all persons whatsoever to see the mansion and grounds every day in the year,' it was reported in 1844. 'The humblest individual is not only shown the whole, but the Duke has expressly ordered the waterworks to be played for everyone without exception. This is acting in the true spirit of great wealth and enlightened liberality.' If the
`I'm returning to Victorian values.'
sale of a few very valuable prints is going to keep this tradition going then I am all in favour. It is only a pity that the present Duke is not so well advised about his art collection as were his predecessors. I was horrified to find hideous bronze busts of Lord Goodman, Sir Roy Strong and other British Worthies prominently displayed on one of the many staircases.
During my jaunt I relied as always on the Shell County Guide, in this case Derbyshire by the Revd Henry Thorold, published in 1972. There is no substitute for these books in which one can look up every parish and be given a rough idea in picture and words about what to expect. It is therefore most regrettable that after 50 years of more or less continual publication the Guides are now to fold, being replaced by 'regional guides' with lots of colour photographs. For the last year or so I have been engaged with the Guides' general editor John Piper in consultations with Shell and various publishers in an attempt to keep the show on the road. Although Shell have now withdrawn support, we are both of us available with a huge backlog of guidebook material and photographs. At least one publisher is interested. All we need now is a new sponsor.
That famous tag 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' has been overworked in the last day or two. Not only is it a misquotation, it is not even true. The downfall of Cecil Parkinson, brought down by a vindictive lover, is very similar to that of Jeremy Thorpe — Norman Scott on that occasion showing that a man scorned could be every bit as hellish and furious as a woman. Meanwhile there has been no shortage of pious voices telling us that we have no right to pry into Mr Parkinson's private life. For their benefit I quote the wise words of William Cobbett on this topic: 'Amongst those persons whom I have heard express a wish to see the press what they call free and at the same time to extend the restraints on it with regard to persons in their private life, I have never that I know of met with one who had not some powerful motive of his own for the wish and who did not feel that he had some vulnerable part about himself.' I recently came across another good passage from Cobbett which seems appropriate in the week of the Conservative Conference: `Politics is a mixture of anger and deceit, and these are the mortal enemies of beau- ty. The instant a lady turns politician, farewell the smiles, the dimples, the roses: the graces abandon her and age sets his seal on her front.'
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