Notebook
Thehe dignified thing would probably be to an ordinary notebook, the usual mishmash of inconsequential observations on matters of no moment. I could then end with a casual reference to the fact that this is the last of the 445 issues of the Spectator for which, as editor, I have been at least nominally responsible. But you may not realise how tedious it can be trying to think of things to put in a column of this sort. There are weeks when I feel utterly uninspired, and I fear that this is one of them. In a normal week I would make an effort. I would grit my teeth and confront all the distasteful subjects that present themselves — Mr Arthur Scargill, Mr Gary Hart, the Common Market summit. But this is not an entirely normal week, at least for me it is not, for my secretary is presently filling a suitcase with the contents of my desk in preparation for my departure within the next 24 hours. It seems an excuse for a little self-indulgence. I will write about the business of editing the Spectator. When I first joined the paper as editor in 1975, people were in the habit of asking me what my 'policy' was going to be. I was reminded the other day how desperately uneasy this question made me. If there was a lavatory in the vicinity, I would lock myself inside it. I was sure I ought to have a `Policy', for otherwise people would not have been so eager to find out what it was, but I most certainly hadn't got one. Now, nearly nine years later, I would still find that question impossible to answer. But I would not need to lock myself in the lavatory. The good thing about the Spec- tator, as I think I have discovered, is that unlike most papers it actually benefits from a lack of editorial direction of the sort im- plied by the word 'policy'. In his introduc- tion to a recent anthology of Spectator ar- ticles (Night Thoughts, Chatto and Win- dus, £4.95), Patrick Marnham wrote: 'It is a cliche to say that good journalism depends on the absence of proprietorial (or Political) interference. In the case of the Spectator it has also depended on the absence of editorial interference.' Strange as it may seem, I think he meant that as a compliment.
The main difference between the Spec- tator and most other papers is that the Spectator has scarcely any writing jour- nalists on its staff. Its pages are filled by free-lance writers, some of whom have regular columns and others of whom pop tip when they feel they have something in- teresting to say. The paper does not offer them serious financial incentives. They are drawn to it as a haven in which freedom of expression suffers from a minimum of restrictions and taboos. The articles which appear in the Spectator do not fall into rigid categories. There are few 'slots' to be filled. The writers are not competing among. themselves for space. As a result they can relax and write naturally. One national newspaper editor, in a generous letter, at- tributed to the Spectator 'a directness and a sense of fun that are too often lacking in our stylised British publications'. I think he was right. A former editor of the Spectator, who survived in the job all too short a time, wrote to me: 'The atmosphere I once tried to establish and maintain was that of an en- joyable party attended by a lot of able and agreeable people.' If this is a party, the editor is the host. His job is not only to in- vite able and agreeable people and make them feel at home, but perhaps more im- portantly to send away politely any undesirable people who have come to the wrong address. But the good-natured gatecrasher, is welcome. Parties are never any good if they are too exclusive.
Because the Spectator is produced in this way, it cannot claim, as the Sunday Times does, to attract 'the younger, more am-
bitious, more successful social groups or that most of its readers go abroad for their holidays, own two cars, full central heating and stocks and shares. For our readers do not fall into categories either. They include people of great wealth and near poverty, and they are to be found among people in all walks of life and of all political allegiances. What they have in common is humanity, a taste for reading, an openness to unconventional ideas, and a sense of humour. As these last two attributes are rare where `pilgerism' reigns, it follows that there are relatively few doctrinaire socialists among them. What makes working for the Spectator particularly enjoyable is the af- fection which so many of its readers feel towards it. I doubt if any paper in the coun-
try is more loved.
But alas, although the sales of the paper have increased in my time from around 11,000 to around 20,000, the readers are still too few. There are of course millions of people who would never be attracted by the Spectator. They include those who like to be clearly instructed about what to think and who do not trust any information which is not presented to them in neat little packages. But there has been a detectable reaction against stereotyped journalism, and I believe that there are several thousand more people out there somewhere who would enjoy the paper if they were aware of what it had to offer. The problem is finding them. There is a difficult trick to be performed here, and I hope that my gifted successor, Charles Moore, will find a way of doing it.
In the meantime, the Spectator continues to depend on the generosity and good will of the proprietor. Proprietors are precious and mysterious creatures. One should never enquire too closely into their motives. One should judge them by their acts. The Spec- tator in my time has owed a great debt of gratitude to two proprietors, Henry Keswick and Algy Cluff, who have sup- ported it and allowed it to flourish in condi- tions of relative stability and freedom.
The rest of this article will contain some of the things which I ought to have said, but in my confusion failed to say, in a speech at a lavish dinner given last week by the Spec- tator's contributors to mark the departure of Simon Courtauld, the deputy editor, and myself. It is these contributors, all friends, who have given the paper its identity in re- cent years. I cannot list them all, but regular readers will know who they are. Without Waugh, West, Kerridge, Ingrams, Mar- nham, Mount, Taki, Bernard, Ackroyd, von Hoffman, Sayle, White, Naipaul, Wheatcroft, Welch, Booker, Paterson, and many others, not forgetting the cartoonists Heath, Garland, Austin and Springs, what would the paper have been like? We will never know. Fortunately most of these con- tributors are staying on. Only Richard In- grams, Nicholas von Hoffman, and my great friend John McEwen, our art critic, are stopping their columns. And I myself have been invited by the new editor to become a contributor. In a mood of trepidation and abject humility, I will suc- ceed the great Ingrams as television critic.
Nor can 1 leave this desk without thank- ing the members of our small editorial staff who have had to endure for so long the con- fusion I have created around me. Foremost among them are Simon Courtauld, who joined with me and leaves with me to edit the Field, and my secretary Jenny Naipaul. But hardly less deserving of my gratitude are Clare Asquith, Gina Lewis, and the eternal Charles Seaton who joined the paper in 1953. With such nice people around, including its new editor, how can the paper fail to succeed?
Alexander Chancellor
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