Notebook
!III. as been strangely ironic to see the role of , m "lef Home Office spokesman played n the Pr a ,tse do i deportation affair' by Mr Timothy t`larl on. The plan to transport Mrs Patel's e e sons back to Bombay, so that they can 41 In the right forms to enable them to re . foturn legally to Britain, smacks uncomrtably with its combination of bureaucratic ineptitude and inhumanity of the kind i„ of tangles poor old Henry Brooke got yuloat the Home Office in the early Sixties. 'et MrRaison's i proudest claim to fame s "at he was the founder of New Society, chie, 11 4 media protagonist for the 'caring, wk'h4ringocy iet ' It all goes to show that, w ks'eti it csornesciw o n to it, these apostles of t _ Robert Frost called the 'collectivistic, ostr.e. nti n love ove with which the modern Is being swept' are nothing more than tv.-eaucrats, for whom charity begins -rYwhere except at home.
I'll:Ill glad to see the 'silly season' living up to ( Lhghrand old tradition, what with the 'Boobs i)1; 'righton Beach Row', all those people 111Ping off Bognor pier thinking they KIN(' 11-Y , and of course the great 'Robin "s Cock Sparrow' shock-horror. ComCite With statements from the Bishop of pii and formal apologies from the pui_ 1 'N." the shooting of the sparrow that was 4;11,eting with a Radio Three recording of tar recital has provoked more moral fueCpIllation in the letters columns of the raPh and the Guardian than anything • grt4srlIonths. But no one seems to have t10111/ed the real point which is that, in the Y state our civilisation has reached, the s Yt„tcrulY transcendent power and value br46:,` the electronic media. It is the 'unreal' tv,-",'cast image which must come before pr,-Y,thing else, and, beside the `special :he-vu'dirsence' of a date with the cameras, or ci"C microphone, the 'fall of a sparrow, nthing.
kr loh:,1110111ent it seemed that the release of s;:)tonehouse on Tuesday was going to 4)e-i'ttlt us with an uncanny replay of the 4ritsli-tghscene of Kind Hearts and Coronets, e luckless victim coming out of the twn7n gate forced to choose between th e
ch
,t4-1111Placable rival ladies waiting for him on Ni side. The unedifying public squabble qleeedn Slonehouse's mother and the mistress agalesclibes as 'that woman' reminds us, yet el)titill',(11 one of the great psychological wir:mra of our age-the 'boy hero', many havin °se problems can be traced back o (g Strong mother and a weak father ,qat rPe, Frost, Jim Slater). It may be 1 Fie put it, 'a man who has been eer,„-'4,LsPlitable favourite of his mother:, " tc)r life the fpplinct nf a rchnouetOr but it may also present such a man with appalling difficulties in relating both to his own masculinity and to the opposite sex. Another obvious example was Grouch° Marx, who in Barry Norman's television profile last Saturday, emerged as a thoroughly egocentric and unpleasant, but ultimately sad figure. Such 'boy heroes' may conquer the world, in terms of their outward impact (Napoleon, Wilson), but they live in an infantile fantasy of masculinity (for example Groucho's behaviour towards Margaret Dumont, Stonehouse's financial operations, Slater's likewise) that can cause no end of trouble. What is it going to be like when the children of the Women's libbers grow up?
It is not often I find myself in agreement with the woolly-headed rulers of the People's Republic of Camden. Their Don Quixote-like tilts at the windmills of capitalism (the pitiful efforts to put compulsory purchase orders on Centre Point was one example) are usually as self-deceptively absurd as their claims to be 'helping the people' with their foolish housing schemes and ludicrous extravagance (e.g. the recent revelation that a Camden hostel for 'children in care' in Surrey was costing i'400 a week for each child how do they do it?). But one Camden gesture that turns out to have been wellfounded was their campaign in the early Seventies to stop EMI building a massive new concrete-and-glass headquarters at the south end of Tottenham Court Road. Despite taking EMI to the High Court, they were over-ruled by Antony (The Future of Socialism) Crosland, on the grounds that EMI could not survive as an efficient business operation without a centralised headquarters in central London. The 'Beatles to Body Scanners' empire then pulled down several streets (including some nice old eighteenth-century houses in Stephen Street, which has virtually been razed from the map). EMI now discover they got it all wrong. They lost so much money on the Body Scanner that they have had to sell off the Beatles, and virtually the only asset they have left is their gigantic office block-which they are now proposing to let to somebody else.
Still in Camden, is there any 'conservation story' more curious than the continuing ruthless 'rape of Bloomsbury' by London University" which, after twenty years, still seems to be proceeding as if the great disillusionment with modern architecture and comprehensive redevelopment had never happened? The latest victims are the remaining group of Georgian houses in Woburn Square, which are to be ' demolished to make way for an extension to the Courtauld Gallery, designed by Denys Lasdun. The head of Courtauld, Peter Lasko, said recently 'one must balance the needs of modern environment and new creative architecture against existing buildings which are no longer part of a whole'. Anyone who wishes a gloss on this piece of bureaucratic rubbish should take a five-minute walk around that part of Bloomsbury. On the one hand, he will see that the surviving Georgian buildings in Woburn Square do still make a 'whole', despite the mutilation on all sides. On the other, he will see what Professor Lasko means by the 'new creative architecture' a series ofconcrete and metal lumps (mostly by the arrogant Lasdun) which are as hideous as any new buildings in London.
The first cricket match I ever saw was in 1946 at Weston-super-Mare, when a few hundred people gathered to see Worcestershire play the side I have supported ever since, Somerset. My only memory of the game is that of Somerset's great hitter, Arthur Wellard, lofting the ball full toss onto an old gentleman sleeping in a deckchair outside the supporters' club tent. He merely looked up from beneath his straw hat and commented 'Good old Arthur'. The scene at :Weston last Sunday must have been very different, as some 8,500 fans, according to the Guardian, crammed into the ground to cheer on Somerset in the closing stages of their bid to become the last first-class county to win a title. They beat Sussex by 75 runs, and for us Somerset supporters the next week or two, as it becomes clear whether we can win the John Player League, the Gillette Cup (or both) will be nail-biting times. Incidentally, talking of the Guardian, I must pay tribute to that paper's cricket coverage, which of late has excelled itself. Frank Keating's essays in the past ten days on Botham, Keith Fletcher and the retirement of D'Oliveira have been sheer delight, as have been the reports of his colleagues John A rlott, Richard Yallop and the rest. Some insurance, tobacco or razorblade firm should give them a 'Team Award' all their own.
Christopher Booker
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