THE SPECTATOR'S' NOTEBOOK

Possibly it is the Christmas spirit which is belatedly arrived, but, reflecting upon our present and our erstwhile rulers, I conclude that in their ways and according to their lights they have not done too badly. The Prime Minister has done extremely well for his chief, which is to say his European, cause. Any ruler who persists so obstinately and doggedly deserves grudging admiration; any leader who refuses to be deflected by personal unpopularity and unpopular policies deserves grudging admiration; any Conservative who sees Northern Ireland burn and employment and prices soar, but who still goes sailing and still keeps laughing, deserves grudging admiration. Indeed, I doubt whether I have any business to begrudge the admiration. There is about Mr Heath's performance that which, even if it is not politics, is certainly magnificent.

Confident public faces

And Mr Wilson, too, has performed well, better than the expectations of most, and far better than he has been given credit for. His first year of Opposition, it is true, was shaky; but since the summer he has scarcely put a foot wrong. Each of our two leaders now presents a public face of great confidence. It is better that we do not know what doubts and indecisions lie behind confident public faces. I wonder Whether, by this Christmas-time next year, both faces will still display such confidence, or whether the smile of the face of one of them will have been wiped off. We will see. For this week, however, a merry Christmas to them both, for it is difficult to see how they can both enjoy a happy new year.

And a Merry Christmas and a happy new year to their most likely successors (always provided the present two Leaders survive to fight each other at the next election). I refer, of course, to the two Peters, Walker and Shore.

Splendid Mr Bhutto

Although I have lately supported India, and have felt an independent Bangladesh to be the best answer to an Asian mess, I have found myself immensely warmed to the style of Pakistan's Mr Bhutto. He looks like a cross between Peregrine Worsthorne and Maurice Cowling, and the fluency with which, when

passing through London from New York to Karachi, he dismissed the present "temporary phenomena" in East Pakistan as an incident of no great note in the history of the world was wholly splendid. So, too, was the way in which, earlier in the week, he had torn up the Security Council papers and had stalked out, saying, "I think nothing of the Security Council."

Here, I felt, was someone with whom one could converse — a politician one would be glad to have to stay. I wish him well, in the huge task of succeeding in Pakistan where the generals have failed.

Bright and fair

I see that Nigel Dennis, who is the critic I most enjoy in our Sunday heavyweights, in dealing with Geoffrey Grigson's Faber Book of Popular Verse in the Sunday Telegraph, asks, "Since when was Bobby Shaftoe 'Bright and fair' — wasn't 'fat and fair' what made him so striking?" The answer to Dennis's question, unfortunately (for it means agreeing with Grigson instead) is " No." The song is Northumbrian, and it was one of several I learned very young and heard sung continually. The verse in question runs: Bobby Shaftoe's bright and fair Combing out his yellow hair He's my love for ever mair Bonny Bobby Shaftoe Nigel Dennis's notion of a "fat and fair" Bobby Shaftoe is ludicrous; what was so striking about him was his elegance: "Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea / Silver buckles on his knee." The song is a lovesong and plaint; when has a girl ever lamented and extolled a fat man?

Moronic teenager

My owft book of the year was easily chosen. A friend of mine in the Cotswolds had been putting up a joint friend of our approximate age (in the forties); and this joint friend had brought along with him a teen-age girl-friend. My Cotswold friend telephoned us (we live in outermost and darkest Essex) asking whether they could all come across for the weekend. We agreed. My Cotswold friend had not been in the house long before he thanked us for putting everybody up: "I can't stand the teenager," he said, "and I couldn't be rude to guests in my own house." Personally, I would not have thought a little thing like that would have stopped him; but no matter. "I don't mind being rude to my guests," I said. "and you too can be rude here if you feel like it."

I soon found out what he meant about the teenager. Our mutual friend and bird mooned around the house and village. My Cotswold friend and I fled to the pubs; but the lovesick couple followed us and tracked us down and pinned us up against the bar.

To make conversation our mutual friend asked us about a book written by someone we all know: "Have you read Kingsley's latest book?" he asked, referring to Kingsley Amis's Girl 20. He had not read it. I had. I told him it was all about an ageing trendy who goes bonkers for an ignorant and tiresome little moronic teenage bag and comes to a nasty end.

Not since the days when, as a prefect at school, I had the right to hit boys over their heads with a hymn book before the start of morning assembly, has a book been of such practical use to me as Girl 20. It is funny as well as being useful.

Tears in a bad cause

We publish elsewhere Dr A. L. Rowse's account of his dealings with a cat. Commending it to me, he wrote, "Don't forget there are thousands of Cat Lovers — this story, you can say, drew tears from Agatha Christie." It also drew tears from our Associate Editor, or so he tells me.

Progress

Last year, in the Notebook written at this time. I see that I remarked upon the ugliness of walls and particularly the Berlin wall. This year that wall is no less ugly to look upon, but it has become, thanks to a softening between east and west Germany, somewhat less ugly to think about. Twelve months ago I also berated the "ludicrous decision" of the Roskill Commission that a third airport should be built at Cublington, and wrote that "the local authorities, the great preponderence of the public, and ordinary common or garden sense were agreed that a FoulnessMaplin Sands scheme was obviously the answer — if, that is, a third London airport was in fact proved necessary," Thus, the world has made some progress.

and regress

Its regress has been the more notable, however. For Cublington, we have exchanged Concorde: the greatest pollutant and environmental disaster of the post-war years, a nasty machine which no one, except those with a direct interest in its manufacture, wants. And, as it is were the quid pro quo for Ostpolitik, we have had the Indo-Pakistan war: short and with the better side winning, but nasty nevertheless.

A very merry Christmas; and some or other New Year for us all.