DIARY
CRAIG BROWN Vasili Mitrokhin has revealed that the KGB drew up plans to disrupt the investi- ture of the Prince of Wales, only to aban- don them 'for fear of being found out'. This seems a bit weedy, particularly when one bears in mind all the more showy plans with which they pressed ahead regardless. Quite how they planned to dis- rupt the investiture is unclear. Whoopee cushions? Exploding leeks? Something involving Sir Harry Secombe and his com- ical voices? We will never know. But hav- ing chickened out of disrupting the investiture, it seems highly unlikely they would have steered clear of the royal fam- ily for ever. Mitrokhin's information dries up on his retirement, in 1984, but the KGB continued operating at full blast until 1989. Between these two dates came It's a Royal Knockout in June 1987, in which the Duke and Duchess of York, Princess Anne, Prince Edward and a handful of sheepish comedians all dressed up in Toytown royal garb to play the giddy goat before an embarrassed crowd. In many ways, the whole thing might have been a wicked parody of the investiture itself. For the first time, members of the royal family were pushing themselves for- ward as 'personalities' worthy of attention not for what they represented but for who they were. But to most people it was all too clear that any family picked at ran- dom from The Generation Game would make a better stab at being royal. Only if the Queen herself had pranced on stage dressed as Nell Gwyn could the event have been a greater embarrassment. Was the KGB behind It's a Royal Knockout? A thorough search through the relevant receipts may well lead investigators straight to the KGB's fancy dress unit in Moscow. If so, who was the Controller? Major Ronald Ferguson has been awfully quiet of late. In this country, he was only a major — but will the files reveal him to have been a full colonel elsewhere?
Ihave always been a great fan of Clint Eastwood, so on our family holiday to America this summer I insisted on a detour to his home town of Carmel on the Californian coast. To my surprise, nothing Could have been further removed from the world of Dirty Harry. The local paper, the Carmel Pine Cone, lacked any sort of drama. 'Person found a woman's wallet along the shoulder of Highway One at Monastery Beach,' read one story. 'The owner was located and her wallet will be returned to her tomorrow.' Other entries included, 'Vehicle observed stopping half a car-length into crosswalk and making wide turns. Lost tourist; had not been drinking,' Report of sprinklers left on in the center island of Ocean Avenue. Sprin- klers were turned off,' Report of a female wearing a black dress and cowboy boots jumping fences in the area. Sheriff's department contacted the woman, who was looking for her cat,' and — my own favourite — 'Person was staring into the Garcia Gallery for two hours.' Every time I've been to America I have spent the first week looking over my shoulder on the lookout for all the muggers, serial killers, psychopaths and stalkers I have seen in Clint Eastwood films. But does Eastwood really have his finger on the pulse of America? Evidently, the citizens of Carmel think not. When we attempted to have lunch in Clint's own restaurant, I dis- covered a handwritten notice on the door saying it had closed down. Who knows? Perhaps 'Customer stares into empty A majority of the population would not object to a gay prime minister restaurant' will be next week's main head- line in the Carmel Pine Cone.
Iwas telephoned last week by a New York journalist who said she was writing a joint biography of Harold Evans and Tina Brown, for publication by Simon and Schuster. As dull books go, this must surely take the biscuit, though I see that next month Andre Deutsch is entering the race with Delia Smith: The Biography. I have long cultivated an irrational dislike of Tina Brown. It may well be based on nothing more than our shared surname, which has led a few people over the years to suppose me her brother. It is said that Alan Clark's dislike of Kenneth Clarke was based on similar grounds. I dread to think how many Browns will be getting their own back on Tina Brown by feeding her biographer half-baked rumour. No doubt lots of disgruntled Evanses will fol- low suit, and heaven knows what dirt will be dished out on poor Delia by all those chippy little Smiths.
It all happened long ago' is the defence put forward by those whose youth- ful sexual indiscretions suddenly make headline news. Fair enough. But, while most reasonable people are only too happy to forgive and forget, it is harder to turn a blind eye towards the youthful pho- tographs that accompany the shock-horror news. Mr Portillo, usually so well turned out, must have been particularly pained to be confronted by the old photos of his teenage self. It was his bad luck to have been aged 19 in 1972, the year when the New Seekers, Slade, Gilbert O'Sullivan, Little Jimmy Osmond and Edward Heath were the acknowledged style leaders. Few of us could survive an immersion in the fashions of the period. Though there are, as yet, no photographs of Mr Portillo in O'Sullivan's overlong shorts, or sporting the glittery curtain-style coiffure of Dave Hill of Slade, he still seems to have been over-keen on the outsized shirt-collars pio- neered by Little Jimmy Osmond, not to mention the flared trousers of the New Seekers. But Portillo's sexual confessions may pay off in the long run. Until now, there has been some sort of embargo on the past sex lives of politicians. But which self-respecting journalist could now inter- view William Hague without insisting on a full answer to the same question? Would Hague survive? Probably — but only if the accompanying photographs did not show him in full jumpsuit, snapped in the middle of a Buck's Fizz phase.
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