Diary
Afortnight ago Alan Watkins warned in this space about the yuletide cus- tom of log-rolling' in newspaper literary pages. This is the tradition whereby critics asked to choose their three Best Books of the Year seize the opportunity to present a Christmas box to their friends by recom- mending their volumes. Log-rolling was a new expression to me (I know the activity as backscratching, plugging or puffing) and It has been enthusiastically adopted by my friends, with whom I have established a modest log-rolling spotters club. Whenever members notice an example of log-rolling they alert one another by telephone, and barely a day goes past without a new sighting being relayed. The most blatant log-rollers so far this Christmas are the Martin Amis set, who really ought to abandon literature for public relations. In last Sunday's Observer Review Amis men- tioned work by Julian Barnes, Craig Raine and Peter Porter among his Best Books. Further down the same page Porter chose Amis Ca huge feast of words') and Barnes. Porter's friend Gavin Ewart chose, of all people, Amis and Raine. The art director of the feature decided to illustrate it with a cartoon of Amis, Barnes, Porter and Raine all reading copies of each other's books. The only member of the set who took no part in this log-roll was Julian Barnes, who must have been sent the wrong syllabus and mysteriously endorsed David Hock- ney. Last week Geraldine Norman wrote an engaging exposé in the Times of an antique dealers' ring, in which several furtive-looking characters would seem to have been manipulating the market to their own ends. The ring was roundly censured. Frankly I can see little difference between an antique dealers' ring and a literary ring. It is possible, I suppose, that the Amis syndicate really did enjoy their closest friends' books more than any of the tens of thousands of others published during 1984; friendships are forged through compatible views and shared experiences, so it follows that one is likely to admire a friend's fiction. There is admittedly something heartwarming in such a degree of loyalty between peers, but I still do not think that it makes for very interesting reading. Lest I sound ridiculously pious, I accept that I have myself from time to time mentioned a friend's book or art exhibition, if I think it worthwhile and otherwise liable to pass unnoticed. What is tiresome is continually seeing the same network in operation, Promoting the same people. Maybe a new City guild should be founded for their benefit, the Honourable Company of Backscratchers and Log-rollers. Back- scratchers' Hall could be built by Quinlan Terry on the Thames next to the Fishmon- gers' Hall, and the quarterly Backscratch- ers' Dinner and summer Log-roll Ball would afford brilliant opportunities for planning future strategy. Several years ago when I worked on the Tatler we drew up a list of party-people who had infiltrated the social pages with such regularity that they were proscribed for 18 months. Perhaps the same principle should be applied to the literary log-rollers.
C ince last writing this diary in the sum- mer I have moved house; not, it must be said, all that far — merely a dozen or so streets farther down the Kings Road — but sufficiently removed to make it impractical to shop in my old places. Instead of Waitrose and Sainsburys, with their exotic cheeses and cheque-writing machines, I find myself living in a no-man's-land with only one grocery store within ten minutes' walk. It is called the Apple Core, is situated on the corner of the Fulham Road and Gunter Grove, and I have not seen anything quite like it this side of Dubai. The shopfront is remarkably dingy, and combined with its unprepossessing name makes it extraordinary that anyone should wish to venture inside. But we do, for there are generally several other people shuffling around this least foodie emporium in London. The speciality of the Apple Core is its extensive range of tins of corned beef and spam, and its rusty vegetable choppers displayed by the door. There are usually a few onions rolling about in the aisles or in one of several defunct freezer units. But the worst feature of the Apple Core is the son of the house, a spectral youth of about 16, Bengali I surmise, who acts as unoffi- cial store detective. Whenever you take an item off the shelf to inspect it (perhaps to select the least-dented tin), this youth spies on you through a special peep-hole in a pyramid of washing powders. Manage- ment's abiding fear is of people peeling the price sticker off an item and substituting a cheaper one, with intent to mislead the assistant at the cash register. To forestall this, every item is priced several times over; a -bottle of Worcester sauce, for example, may have as many as five stickers on it, including one cunningly concealed on the bottom. An orange or a banana might have three stickers. At the till each sticker is laboriously checked to ensure they all synchronise. When you get home it is indescribably frustrating having to frisk your groceries and remove the tags before eating them.
One commodity that is not in short supply in my new area is carol singers. At my previous address, which was a basement, I was avoided by carol singers since they could not be bothered to negoti- ate the steep area steps. This week, how- ever, I have had four separate visits (some composed of the same singers in different line-ups) but fewer actual carols. In Fulham, the most popular carol is 'Feed the World: Do they Know it's Christmas?', a hit pop song by the 'supergroup' Band Aid in support of the Ethiopia famine appeal. It is a very bad song with very bad words (It never snows in Ethiopia' seems especially banal as an instance of de- privation) but a good cause, so I dole out slightly more than at Hallowe'en though I don't seriously suppose my coins will reach Tigre. Friends who live in a flat in Cadogan Square report that the carol singers' mafia is even more oppressive over there, wailing tunelessly through the entryphone and refusing to clear off until money is dropped onto the pavement.
T have no idea how many Spectator Ireaders also subscribe to the Drapers' Record: probably not many since it is a trade publication aimed at boutique own- ers and highstreet retailers in the clothing industry. A couple of months ago in a moment of madness while lunching with an acquaintance on the Record, I took out a subscription. Now it arrives every week and I solemnly plough my way through it. Many of the articles, which are contributed by shop managers, advise on methods of catching shoplifters red-handed with pil- fered merchandise, and how best to detain them until the police arrive. But the most interesting feature is a weekly Top Ten of bestselling garments, compiled by compu- ter throughout the nation. One week red trousers will be top; the next week white blouses oust them from the number one slot. A commentator on the Record de- sperately tries to rationalise the whims of the public, which generally means attribut- ing them to the weather. This week the new surprise number one garment is the black shirt. The Record is at a loss for an explanation, half-heartedly mentioning Christmas, though black is hardly a very festive colour. Clearly, however, the vogue for the black shirt is inspired by the new book about the Mitfords.
Nicholas Coleridge
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