DIARY
CHARLES MOO.RE Asad feature of the ten years of Mrs Thatcher, and one naturally not com- mented on by the papers in their vast coverage of the occasion, has been the attitude of the papers themselves. With few exceptions, they have either been at her feet or at her throat. Either 'Thatcher' has laid Britain waste, destroyed culture, made people starve, undermined world peace, or 'Maggie' has abolished poverty, put the Great back into Britain, restored freedom and secured world peace. The Left has been just as keen to attribute semi-magical powers to her as have her sycophants. The New Statesman, for exam- ple, appeared to believe until recently that Cover illustrations of the Prime Minister in grotesque attitudes of hatred and oppres- sion (dressed as a nuclear missile, say) were both telling attacks and good box office. The ten-year assessments in the more left-wing papers indicated that this diabolic view of Mrs Thatcher is at last on the wane: they were more fair-minded and perceptive than their earlier equivalents. I wish I could say the same about the hagiographers, but they were as crass as ever. Of the Tory Sunday and daily news- papers, only the Telegraphs and the Sun- claY Times (whatever may be said about Mr Andrew Neil, the editor, he is not a coward) preserve real independence. Apart from the morality of the thing, surely it is bad propaganda. I support about 90 per cent of Mrs Thatcher's policies and yet I find the praise lavished on her sickening. What must most readers most of whom are not strong Tories - feel?
The Observer's main inside article last Sunday concerned Mr John Moore and his view of poverty in Britain. It was headed by a huge photograph of a middle-aged Woman asleep on the pavement with her dog in her arms. The caption read: 'Under- neath the arches: Moore says defining Poverty confuses the issue, and is therefore no longer useful.' A friend of mine looked at the photograph and realised that it was not what it implied it was. He recognised the sleeping woman as a distinguished actress of his acquaintance. She has a perfectly good home to go to, but chose instead to lie down on the pavement, for reasons at which one can only guess.
In a part of the South of England Particularly devastated by the Great Storm of 1987, a replanting is under way. A relation of mine involved in organising this found that grey squirrels threatened to destroy the saplings and so she helped plan a cull of squirrels, of whom there are far too many. To her amazement, a fellow councillor passionately attacked her for this. Poor grey squirrels, he said, had been brought to England 'against their will' (they are American immigrants). They must now be `so confused' because in local sea-side towns dear old ladies put out food for them, while other people try to kill them. Useless to argue that squirrels cause damage to living things or that they have driven out the much nicer red squirrels or that even if you love grey squirrels you can have too many of them: the man clearly regarded them as human beings who hap- pen to be covered with fur and have bushy tails. This town-based view of animals is growing and causing much suffering be- cause it leads to people refusing to kill them or look after them properly. Soon there will be campaigns against riding horses because it must be so horrible to have people on your back and pieces of metal in your mouth. At about this time, by the way, grey squirrels began to raid an old people's home in the area, climbing in through the residents' windows, stealing their food and biting them. One old countryman there took a more robust view than his sentimental urban coevals. 'Oi took up moi stick and went after 'em', he told my relation proudly.
Willie Whitelaw has often said, and says again in his just-published memoirs, that the incident in which Michael Fagan got into the Queen's bedroom was the worst in his life. I do not doubt it, nor do I doubt that he offered to resign over the issue, but I think he recovered his appetite for office rather more quickly than he allows. On the day after the incident, I attended the leader writers' conference at the Daily Telegraph where I then worked. The editor, Bill Deedes, was unusually excited. 'A man in the Sovereign's bed- room! It's the most disgraceful thing I've ever heard. Charles, you write the leader and if you want to sack Willie Whitelaw, you just sack him.' At this point, he was interrupted by the telephone. 'My God,' he said, covering the receiver, 'it's the Home Secretary. Willie, dear boy . . . . Well, I think we'll have to say something about it . . . . It's not your fault . . . . I see . . . . I see . . . . Rest assured.' Bill put the telephone down and turned to us. 'That was Willie Whitelaw. Apparently it's all the responsibility of the Metropolitan Police Commissioner.' I wrote an appropriate leader, with my respect for Mr Whitelaw the politician enhanced.
More and more often, when I read reviews of plays or films or profiles of actors or writers, mention is made of an 'obsession'. A play concerns a man's obses- sion with his childhood, or his mother, or collecting porcelain. A novelist reveals that he is obsessed with the contrast between appearance and reality or with . all-male institutions or with the Irish countryside. The implication of the article is always that an obsession is a laudable and interesting thing to have. Surely it is rather the characteristic of a bore or a lunatic. The obsession with obsession may explain the shortcomings of modern drama and fiction.
0 n page 18 Paul Johnson comments on the gratuitous moralising of judges. Last week, our local paper, the Islington Gazette, led with a particularly revolting story — 'Deadly sex romp killed teenager' — in which a man was convicted of the manslaughter of a girl during a 'sex session' in a squat. The details of the case were not disclosed in the report, but the judge, Mr Justice Owen, was quoted as saying, 'Clearly, oral sex can be dangerous if the man is only concerned about his own gratification.' No doubt he is right, but why did he feel the need to say it? Is it a warning to the curious, or a passionate plea for caring, mutually gratifying oral sex? Did Mr Justice Owen imagine that the next time a brute sets upon a girl in a squat he will bear his words in mind and act with caution and consideration?
Wy have blood oranges disappeared? They are now called ruby oranges in supermarkets. The euphemism may simply be the result of general squeamishness, but I suspect it is really born of the fear of Aids.
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