What's in a name?
Sir: I have just returned from an extended post-Easter break, to London and my back-copies ot The Spectator. Lo! What do I find in your issue of April 28 but 'Confessions of Bernard from which I discover that my sensibilities have beenruffled. Not so, I cry, and what's more Mr Green has shifted his argument.
Many moons ago my grandmother would dandle me on her lap and warn me against the sort of moral trip-wires likely to be stretched across my primrose path. Her advice included a general classical warning against
Danaos et dona ferentes. Glaswegians and the demon drink. It is a sad reflection on my taste for the forbidden fruit that I number among my heroes Nikos Kazantzakis, Celtic Football Club and large gins and tonic. But one warning delivered to me by that gracious lady has come to pass. "Never," she said "trust a Jewish saxophone-player-turned-columnist. He will always quote you out of context."
But enough, that I mistook Benny for a familiarisation of Benjamin is as inexcusable as Mr Green's assumption that I have been baptised. Let me, however, take up Mr Green's offer to stroll with him through Central London's rustic (?) street to the synagogue by Marble Arch — and afterwards on to Green Street and thence to Duthie Street, E.14 — not forgetting of course The Green Man on the way — mine's a large gin! John Duthie 19 Glenmere Avenue, Mill Hill, London NW7.
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