DIARY ALAN WATKINS
Thirty years ago the Foreign Office successfully prohibited the playing of the East German national anthem at an athle- tics meeting at the White City. The West- ern line was that East Germany (I have always refused to call it the GDR) did not really exist. Certainly the American and British governments believed, or said they believed, that Germany should be reunited. True, there came a change in the early 1970s. But it was a change brought about by Chancellor Brandt and his doc- trine of Ostpolitik. Falling in behind West Germany, we — the United States and Nato — conceded that, in the interests of peace, we were prepared to recognise the division of the country. Our formal posi- tion remained, however, that Germany should be reunited. It now turns out that we did not believe a word of it It was humbug. Mrs Margaret Thatcher wants to look the other way, President Bush is paralysed and only the mainland European leaders seem to have much idea of what to do next.
This medical experience of mine cannot rival Mrs Cynthia Kee's in horror (`My gangrenous leg', 9 December), but may nevertheless be worth retailing. I am, I should explain, an inverted hypochondriac or practical Christian Scientist: I believe in giving the medical profession a wide berth. I was, however, being troubled — no, mildly inconvenienced — by a corn which caused discomfort on longish walks. I sought advice on the telephone from my GP. His secretary explained that chiropody was outside the health service and that I should avail myself of the Yellow Pages. This I did, found a local practitioner and made an appointment. She dabbed here, prodded there, excised the corn painlessly. `You know,' she added conversationally, `you have athlete's foot.' In that case, Madam,' I should have replied, 'you have managed to locate the . one part of my person which remains athletic.' Instead I asked for advice about a condition which had caused me no trouble and amounted to no more than some dry skin. She pre- scribed a cream which I will not name for fear of arousing the interest of the gentle- men in wigs, but it is described as 'fungicid- al', containing one per cent clotrimazole, whatever that may be. The results of application were spectatular. A bright red rash appeared, the sores wept, I had to change my socks twice a day, I could not sleep for the itching and pain. Eventually I cured the condition through a combination of TCP ointment, nature and Floris talcum powder, relic of Christmas past. Several morals can be drawn: Chiropody should be on the NHS. Or, alternatively: Never trouble trouble until trouble troubles you. Ihave never been able to see why the BBC should have the inalienable right to cover ten designated principal sporting events. Apart from its intrinsic unfairness, this leads to such pieces of overbooking as the broadcasting of the Cup Final on ITV as well, which is an imposition on the majority of the population who find soccer unalluring. This does not mean that cover- age must be put up for auction, as Mr Douglas Hurd insisted when he was Home Secretary. Already sponsors are threaten- ing to withdraw their patronage if Sky television manages to buy sporting events, because hardly anyone will be watching. If Sky acquired sole rights in, say, the inter- national rugby championship (not, inciden- tally, in the top ten referred to above), I should have no choice but to stick one of those horrible dishes on the front of my house. It all looks to me like a plot by the Government to come to the aid of Mr Rupert Murdoch. Yet even such a mercen- ary bully of a government as this one does not have the power to compel sporting authorities to sell rights to the highest bidder. They should have regard to the numbers likely to be watching.
At half past one on Saturday the wine bar was almost empty: two couples, a few sports-coated barristers who had been working in their chambers, and me. A man detached himself and asked whether he could borrow my Daily Mail. He was, I suppose, in his late sixties, stocky, ruddy, balding. He wanted to look at the theatre listings, he said. I replied that he would be better off with something like the Indepen- dent. He said he found the paper 'dull'. He took the Guardian at home because it was `stimulating', though he did not agree with its views. He was, I thought, showing a tendency to babble, as if under some strain, or even not quite right in the head. The paper he really wanted, he continued, was the Evening Standard: now that would have the day's listings. I explained that the Standard was no longer published on Saturdays. `Ah, I'm a country cousin,' he said. He returned to his companion, a handsome woman, late forties I should guess, with greying hair and large nose. Before her on the table was a huge bouquet covered in cellophane. On the floor was the man's old leather case, which he opened to check something or other.
Their conversation became tense: . arranged this a week ago . . . booked the hotel . . I was going to take you to a French film [phrase redolent of the 1940s: hence, obviously, the search for listings] . . . hoping for a nice time . . . sexual attraction is something that grows . . .' The woman, flowers in hand, walked out, the man following her. 'Don't expect to see me ever again,' he said. The attempted re- sumption of an old relationship? A lonely hearts advertisement that had failed to give satisfaction? Goodness how sad.
When six or more young people now enter this or any other wine shop, or any pub for that matter, they are not prepared to split into convenient groups of three or four. Instead they insist on forming a flat oval, requisitioning tables for the purpose and making a general clatter. When this happened yet again I protested to the proprietor, whom I have known for 30 years. 'But they're not causing you any inconvenience, Mr Watkins.' The point is not whether they're causing me inconveni- ence but whether they're behaving proper- ly.' This reply persuaded me that, whatev- er else I may be, I am not a true liberal. The proprietor has, however, banned port- able telephones from his premises. They really do cause inconvenience and were becoming a menace in the hands of City riff-raff.
If Mr Neil Kinnock had taken my advice and settled the question of the block vote, both conference and constituency, two years ago, the battle would have been bloody but brief. But he compromised on the one and procrastinated on the other. I have some sympathy for Mr Frank Field, none for Mr Kinnock.
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