Diary
Twenty-five or so years ago the political- -1- ly ambitious, or merely politically in- terested, Jew joined the Labour Party. There were naturally exceptions, who tended to be what the late George Hutch- inson of this paper used to call 'tremendous swells' — Sir Keith Joseph, Sir Henry d'Avigdor-Goldsmid. No longer. Jews not only are welcome in the modern Conserva- tive Party but seem actively to be prefer- red by Mrs Margaret Thatcher. One has to list only Mr Leon Brittan, Sir Keith himself of course, Mr Nigel Lawson, Sir Alfred Sherman, the late Anthony Shrimsley and Lord Young, not to mention Sir Basil Feldman, who took the chair several times at the Brighton conference and is, as it happens, Miss Fenella Fielding's brother. This disposition of Mrs Thatcher to like and advance Jews is often commented on lo political conversation. But it is regarded as somehow tasteless to mention it public- ly. I cannot for the life of me see why. If she preferred Welshmen, which, as far as I know, she does not, despite the presence in her Cabinet of Sir Geoffrey Howe and Mr Michael Heseltine, no one would think it at all objectionable to point out her predilec- tion. (Mr Nicholas Edwards is a kind of honorary Welshman, as I suppose are Sir Geoffrey Howe and Mr Heseltine too in a way.) When I asked one of her entourage, not himself a Jew, about her preference, he replied: 'Simple. No mystery at all. They Work jolly hard. There's no nonsense about them. Most of them have made their OW n way. Broadly they share her approach to life. Above all, they run her constituen- cy for her in Finchley.'
Iam not, however, sure of the view she takes of Mr David Hart. He is a property developer who has had an up-and-down sort of business career, if I may so phrase !t. He is in his forties, has a moustache and lnhabits a big house in Suffolk where he Invites persons of political consequence for the weekend. He also haunts Number 10 Downing Street. He dabbles in journalism too, chiefly in the Times. On Sunday the Sunday Times honoured him with a short profile, alongside a slightly longer one of Mr Gordon Reece, a very different charac- ter. When Mr Hart started contributing to the Times, he was billed in italic, at the bottom of his occasional pieces, as 'a special adviser to the Prime Minister'. More recently the paper has stopped de- scribing him in this way. Yet is Mr Hart a Special adviser? Or is he not? Mrs Thatch- er s other advisers tell me he is not. This does not prevent him from securing access. Recently- he was hanging about when a great .prime ministerial speech was in pre- paration. One of Mrs Thatcher's regular, .....41!IY paid-up, advisers spotted him lurking on the premises and instructed one of the security men that he was on no account to be admitted to the inner room. Then the adviser went off to lunch. Returned from his break, he was surprised to find Mr Hart firmly ensconced in the room. He asked another security man why he had been allowed in. 'We thought he must be one of us, like,' the security man said. So far the only Conservative to take a firm line with him seems to be Lord (Alistair) McAlpine, the Treasurer. Mr Hart appeared at Lord McAlpine's regular soirée at the conference and was turned away at the door. 'But I haven't had anything to eat,' he protested. `I'm sure Lord McAlpine would be delighted to buy you a sandwich — downstairs,' one of the Treasurer's young lady assistants replied sweetly.
Afew years ago Mr Bernard Levin coined a word for useless and expen- sive objects whose sole reason for exist- ence was to be given and received as Christmas presents. The word was It did not, I think, catch on, though it is a good word to have. But the objects to which Mr Levin referred did make some attempt, however unsuccessful, to be attractive. In the last few years there has sprouted a whole field of shops which sell things that are not only useless but violent- ly and deliberately ugly. You know the kind of things — fluffy animals unknown to the natural or any other world, milk bottles on their side exuding china (or plastic) spilt milk, ashtrays in the shape of severed hands. And these shops always seem to be doing a brisk trade all the year round, not just at Christmas time. A young woman whom I know tells me that they are 'very useful'. I ask why. 'For presents for your friends,' she replies. But why should any- one want to give or receive a china severed hand? This is clearly one for the doctor. I mean, of course, Dr, now Sir, Roy Strong, who specialises in such matters. This week's grumble concerns the Isling- ton Council. Once again, I concede, this is not a specially original subject, but that cannot be helped: the grouse listeth where it may: For ten years, by monthly instalments, on the dot, regular as a metronome, I have paid my rates to the . People's Republic by direct debit. This is not, I confess, my favourite form of pay- ment, depriving one as it does of any control of one's money. Nevertheless it has the advantage of relieving one of worry. In August I moved from a flat in the Republic to a house a few hundreds yards away. Within days a card plopped through the letter-box asking me precisely when (I use the card's words) I entered into occupation of the property. I completed the card and dispatched it by return of post. I then received a rate demand for 900-odd pounds. Accustomed as I am to the Repub- lic's profligacy, the amount did not surprise me. I replied giving my previous address and requesting any adjustments to be made. I would not so much gladly as dutifully sign a requisite mandate (or what- ever) to the bank, instructing it to increase the monthly payments. To this lucid and, I hope, courteous letter I received no ack- nowledgment. Instead I got a summons to appear at the Highbury Magistrates Court for non-payment of rates. I telephoned the Borough Treasurer's department and spoke to a civil enough chap. He seemed to be a West Indian. He said he was 'con- fused'. I replied that, on the contrary, the position could scarcely be clearer. He then transferred me to another chap, not a West Indian, I think, who advised me to return the summons to one John Thomas. This I have done.. I knew lots of John Thomases in my youth, all sensible. I hope this one is too.
philip Williams of Nuffield, who died recently at 64, was one of the last of the Victorian dons. He was a scholar who will be remembered chiefly, I suppose, for his work on post-war French politics. It is no disrespect to his memory to say that his Life of Gaitskell is more likely to be referred to than read: it was characteristic of his approach that, in this book, he chose to devote about four times the the space to the projected Crossman-Padley comprom- ise on the nuclear deterrent (a topic of moment to historians of the Labour move- ment, if to no one else) as to Gaitskell's entire time at Winchester. He also in- terested himself in what the Victorians called Affairs, exercising influence rather than power, first over the Labour revision- ists, more lately over the SDP. He used to wear an old-fashioned vest with buttons down the front underneath a open-neck shirt. Anthony Crosland held him in high esteem; and he was one of the first to patronise (I use the word in its pre- Victorian sense) the youthful Mr Brian Walden. There remain dons like Philip Williams, but they are becoming fewer.
Alan Watkins
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