SIMON HEFFER
There will shortly be a tussle over who succeeds Sir Edward George next summer as governor of the Bank of England. Greasing up to Mr Blair for the post is Sir Howard Davies, a director of the Bank since 1998 and chairman of the Financial Services Authority. Sir Howard starts, however, with the slight handicap of being abominated by Gordon Brown, who has some say in the matter. Apparently, Mr Brown views Sir Howard as being a bit too matey with his arch-foe, the Prime Minister, and a bit too keen on the euro, the single currency about which Mr Brown pretends in public to have an open mind. The other candidate is deputy governor Mervyn King, considered a decent cove and well up to it, but a man for whom neither the first nor second lords of the Treasury has any special warmth. So rumours abound of a third man, coming Lord Home-like through the middle. Such is the technicality of the job in an age when the Bank controls monetary policy that there is no option of giving it to some duffer from one of the clearing banks, as in the old days. Someone with a keen grasp of economics is de tigueur. Sounds to me like a job for Gordon's multi-millionaire pal Gavyn Davies, who put the gold into Goldman Sachs. A transfer to Threadneedle Street would at least stop Gay from making a prat of himself every time he ventures an opinion on something about which he patently knows little or nothing, i.e., broadcasting.
Eyen 20 years ago it was quite usual to wear white tie to balls at Cambridge. Going to one at my old college last month with a contemporary and our wives, we were two out of what appeared to be only three men who were, as they used to say, properly dressed. The other was the Master, who for this rare example of someone in charge actually upholding standards deserves to be given his job for life. Black tie is perfectly smart for dinner parties, East End boxing matches and conventions of double-glazing salesmen, but on grand occasions it does look muted. Women make a vastly superior effort by comparison. Also, the original good idea of black tie has suffered from the development of absurd built-in limp wing collars, frilly shirts (for God's sake) and strap-on bow ties of the sort worn by Italian waiters. As with Ruskin's view of the Gothic, black tie has over the years become horribly debased. Perhaps this is why Gordon Brown refuses to wear it, though I fear not. As a statement against the decline in standards — and a judicious protest against our chippy, ill-mannered, middle-class-hating Chancellor — chaps should start wearing white tie again as a matter of routine. Some of you will think this simply snobbism, but, funnily enough, it's not. Nothing cheers us
up like manufacturing a sense of occasion, which is why both the Jubilee and Queen Elizabeth's funeral went down so well. You do not need to be royal to do this either. No doubt Vogue, or some such publication, can launch this idea with a feature wittily entitled 'White tie is the new black tie'.
I sit, like all right-thinking people, fuming at the wickedness of the ghastly little tosser who decapitated Lady Thatcher's statue, my thoughts turn to the great woman herself. We were told she refused a hereditary peerage on leaving the Commons because of fear that its inheritance by her son might cause controversy. Now, of course, thanks to the constitutional vandalism of this government, inheriting a peerage confers no legislatory privileges at all. I continue to be offended that Lady Thatcher sits in the Lords in the same rank in the peerage as some of the failed local government officers and other deviants ennobled by Mr Blair. She should immediately be created Marchioness of Kesteven, Countess of Grantham
and Viscountess Finchley in order to distinguish her further from this rabble. Given the Prime Minister's keen appreciation of selfinterest, I'm sure he wouldn't lose too much sleep over the precedent this harmless but uplifting gesture would reset,
Since childhood my mother has sent me a first-day cover whenever a new set of commemorative stamps appears. In April one arrived that had been wrongly postmarked. I sent it back to the head postmaster at the Chelmsford sorting office — which has been written up as the worst in the country, with good reason — and after a month had still heard nothing. I was given a number to call to complain. I rang it and it was off the hook — for several days. When I eventually got through I was told I would be sent a form to fill in to demand a proper first-day cover be sent to me. I filled in the form, sent it off and now, six weeks later, have still heard nothing. We laugh at stories of paying £14 a week to have the post delivered before 9 a.m. Ours comes that early about once a year, and usually arrives by about 11 a.m. — through no fault of our own devoted postman. Some days we have no delivery at all. First-class letters from London often take three days. Telephone calls to the sorting office are met with blind incomprehension. I have never believed in privatising the Post Office any more than I would privatise the armed forces. It is not a nationalised industry; it is part of the infrastructure of our country, and has been since its foundation in 1660. However, it is now behaving like a nationalised industry. There can be no alternative but the exemplary sacking of hundreds of its managers, replacing them with people who understand the importance of customers. If the army itself were not so overstretched by the crackpot foreign policy of our megalomaniac rulers, it would be ideal for sorting it out. Indeed, I imagine most people would regard its doing so as infinitely more important to the nation than refereeing fights between rival groups of drug dealers in the Balkans, or whatever else Mr Blair currently has in mind for it.
Iwish to apologise to the nation. Some years ago, after a run of hot summers, we invested in some new garden furniture. It rained for months. This year, we decided to upgrade, and a large sum of money changed hands at Teaks'It'Us. Luckily, the extravagant waterproof cover we bought for the furniture is extremely effective. The kit itself allegedly will last us 25 years, so I wouldn't plan to stay at home in the summer of 2027 if I were you.
Simon Heifer is a Daily Mail columnist.
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