ANOTHER VOICE
A few sour observations on being blackballed from White's club
AUBERON WAUGH
0 n Thursday, while I was still in Lon- don, a reporter from the Times telephoned my wife in Somerset to tell her he had just heard a rumour from someone in White's club, in St James's Street, that I had been blackballed. Could she confirm it? She had no knowledge that I was a candidate, and gave him rather short shrift.
On the last occasion we discussed the matter, some months or years ago, she advised strongly against standing. She pointed out that its members are for the most part exactly the sort of people I spend most of my life avoiding in Somerset noisy, insecure, big-bottomed men who think that membership of White's gives them some sort of social cachet. In any case, I was bound to be blackballed, she said. If Bernard Levin and Jeremy Paxman were blackballed from the Garrick Club, if you please, what chance did Auberon Waugh have at White's of escaping his numerous enemies, built up over 16 years as a student of the vituperative arts on Pri- vate Eye and 28 years of opinionated columns in The Spectator?
I was well aware that White's has always had its fair share of shits and twerps and pompous bores and that such people invari- ably gravitate towards the committee of any club they join, but they are a hazard of life anywhere, and I also knew a fair number of jokey, easy-going people who had joined the club over the years. It was simply a question of whether friends or enemies prevailed. If enemies were in the ascen- dant, it would be mad to wish to join.
However, my wife did not attach enough importance to the matter to mention it to me on my return, and when the Times reporter telephoned again on Friday it was the first I had heard of my blackball. No, I said, I could not confirm it because nobody had told me anything, but as rumours go, it had the ring of truth. If I had been elected, that would surely be more newsworthy. Would I telephone if I heard anything? he asked. No, I said.
Next day, there was nothing in the Times about this world-shaking event, but one of my sponsors telephoned in some distress. It was normal, he said, if there was opposition to a candidate, to inform the proposer so that he could persuade the candidate to withdraw. On this occasion the opposition had organised in secret, as if it wished to cause as much of a stink as possible. I com- forted the sobbing lad, assuring him I did not feel humiliated at all, but rather relieved and exhilarated. I had done my duty and could put the matter out of my mind.
Next day, Sunday, I was telephoned by a young woman on the Express which had also been tipped off by someone at White's. People were working hard to give this non- story wider circulation. She sounded quite nice and sympathetic. Yes, I could confirm I had been blackballed. No, I was not par- ticularly upset, if anything slightly relieved — the honour of being elected would have cost some L1,200, and I was by no means certain of the advantages . . . Why, then, had I wanted to join?
This was not an easy question to answer. I was first proposed for White's over 20 years ago by a friendly neighbour in Wilt- shire called Philip Dunn, who had known my father there and thought it was time I joined. Then Sir Philip died and I forgot about the matter until I received what struck me as rather a patronising and impertinent letter from the then secretary, saying that if I wished to join I had better find myself another proposer. I replied stiffly saying I did not mind so much either way and certainly was not going to grub around asking people to propose me.
He wrote again asking whether I wished to join and I wrote back saying 'No'. At any rate that is my memory of the correspon- dence. Then about ten years later an older cousin of my wife, who was cognisant of the earlier exchange, proposed me again. Most unfortunately, before the nomination could go forward he was tragically struck down by a paralytic stroke, in which condition he was unable to write the necessary letter, and the cause was taken over by a public- spirited brother-in-law . . .
So why did I wish to join? My late father retained his membership of White's (with another club, so that when Randolph was at one, he could go to the other, as he ungraciously remarked) as a last tenuous link with London. It occurred to me that if ever I decided to bury myself in Somerset it might be fun to retain a meeting place with a smallish range of old friends and acquain- tances whom I would otherwise never see. But the plain truth, as I now see it, is that I was brought up to think of White's as a good cause, rather like the Devon and Somerset Staghounds, although it is at least 40 years since I even thought of riding with them.
When first proposed, at the age of thirty something, I was nervous, but thought the idea of membership rather grand. At 55 one is frightened of nobody, which is an advantage, but one has also lost all social ambition, which is sad. Unlike the saintly Groucho, I can feel nothing but mild con- tempt for a club which does not wish to have me as a member. Far from being humiliated that a small handful of enemies (whose names would probably be unfamil- iar to me, even if I was told them) has stolen a march on me, I feel depressed that a once genial corner of the London scene has fallen to the enemy. Is it a sign of insane conceit and solipsism to suggest that the incident shows how White's is in decline?
It used to be one of my ambitions to be nominated White's club's Shit of the Year in Private Eye, and now I have lost the chance. But even this accolade will lose its grandeur when people realise that shits are no longer welcome, and the twerps have taken over.
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