DIARY A.N.
WILSON
When I tell friends that I so enjoyed a recent fortnight in Ireland that I want to become an Irish citizen, they smile cynical- ly. 'It would certainly benefit you from the tax point of view.' (Is it still true that the Irish do not tax writers? I had always assumed that was one of those myths.) My thoughts were prompted not by money but by the fact that so many things I loved and valued about the England of my childhood still seem to be flourishing in the Irish Republic. I list a few. Shops with proper counters. Excellent loose tea available everywhere — the tea-bag not much seen. Everyone smokes cigarettes as a matter of course. The roads, largely empty, are not motorways. Petrol pump attendants, not self-service. Even in supermarkets, signs saying that 'messages will be taken out to your car on request'. Messages mean any- thing that is sent, not merely verbal com- munications — in this case, parcels. There is a widespread level of pleasantness and politeness in Ireland everywhere you go this is not just shopkeepers sucking up to tourists: a certain politesse and delicacy is endemic in the Celtic character, and seems to have vanished from that of the English. Only when I have left England for a while do I begin to notice the brutal rudeness with which we slam doors in one another's faces, or fail to smile at one another while speaking. Surely this matters? A country where everyone is boorish and rude to each another must have something very deeply wrong with it.
Hideous yellow lines — how they ruin all the towns in Great Britain. It is one of the things which you might suppose you would 'get used to', but I find them a per- petual source of grief. Some Georgian cres- cent, or handsome terraced street, which leads the eye towards the prospect of a superb spire or tower will now, wherever we see it, be garishly splashed with yellow to prevent parking. When they first started to daub every yard or street or road in our country, a wise friend of mine had a bril- liant suggestion. Why don't they paint lines where it is legal to park, rather than where it is illegal? In that way, the hateful yellow would be covered up, for much of the time, by equally hateful cars. Needless to say, my friend has never been employed in the Department of Transport, but is a clergy- man.
Ihave spent most of the last year absorbed in the Sixties for a book I am writing. Not the 1960s, just the 60s decade of Nero and Saint Paul. It ends with the tragic destruction of the Temple at Jerusalem, and the gallant last stand of the Jewish patriots at Masada, who committed suicide rather than bow to the Roman yoke. Historical parallels appeal to second- rate brains, so perhaps it is no surprise that I have had so many thoughts lately about the Emperor Kohl and his subjects in the new Empire. Even under the despotism of Nero, the system mattered more than the man at the top. You could lead a perfectly free or independent life in Corinth or Tar- sus without falling foul of the system. Cyn- ics like Neil Kinnock or Josephus changed sides and were amply rewarded by the emperor for so doing. Only those led by their mad prophets who sought to defeat the system, fell foul of it. I used to think I was an out-and-out Europhobe who would faithfully follow the prophets Enoch and Stansgate up to their mountain fortress to fight for national independence or to die. Struggling up the rock face behind Charles Moore and Christopher Booker with a sword in my mouth, I would slaughter my own flesh and blood rather than allow fur- ther encroachments upon our tribal sovereignty. I wonder now. In Ireland, no one seemed to have lost their essential Irishry by being enthusiastic milkers of the EC system. I now ask, which would be worse: membership of the German Empire (admittedly ghastly) or citizenship of a tin- pot island of which Norman Lamont or Michael Portillo was prime minister?
Asomeone who hates the Eurocrats as much as the next man, I have been trying to articulate a growing unease whenever I hear the rant of the Eurosceptics. I found what I wanted to say in the words of an MP who was wise enough, for the eight years in which he represented the constituency of 'Apparently, if you live in London you're always within 6 feet of a human.' Liskeard, never once to speak in the House of Commons.
It is the duty of the patriot to prefer and pro- mote the exclusive interest and glory of his native country: but a philosopher may be per- mitted to enlarge his views and to consider Europe as one great republic, whose various inhabitants have attained almost the same level of politeness and cultivation. The bal- ance of power will continue to fluctuate, and the prosperity of our own, or the neighbour- ing kingdoms, may be alternately exalted or depressed; but these partial events cannot essentially injure our general state of happi- ness, the system of arts, and laws, and man- ners, which so advantageously distinguish, above the rest of mankind, the Europeans and their colonies.
(The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Chapter XXXVIII). I suspect that the key word in that passage is republic.
The 'creative and media' sections of the papers have been advertising for writers: `Freelance and staff jobs for the right peo- ple on a major men's magazine launch that will be like no other'. There has been quite a lot of gossip about this mag in the 'media' world, but no one has yet revealed — as I now can — what this 'major men's maga- zine' will be. I have seen a 'dummy', and can tell you that it is to be called the Yorker. Following the succes d'estime of his broth- er's magazine, Perspectives, Prince Andrew has decided to branch out into the adven- turous sphere of magazine publication. The Yorker, unlike the New Yorker, will not aim at the clever-clogs end of the market. The first issue kicks off with an article on specu- lative 'luxury' property development in Ascot and a thumpingly interesting feature about how to get into helicopter ownership via a syndicate. There will be regular fea- tures on golf, written by professionals and amateurs. 'Holing a Birdie' is the first arti- cle, penned by none other than Ronnie Corbett. The polo column is written by `The Dummer' — no names, no pack-drill, but I wouldn't be giving away too many secrets if I said that this was the pseudonym of the proprietor's father-in-law. I believe that Alan Clark has been approached to write an article on Range Rovers, and there will be a regular motoring column called Overdrive. The first issue has a rattling good sea story by Dudley Pope, and it is hoped that future issues will carry a short story by Jeffrey Archer. A keen amateur photographer, the Duke is known to be delighted by the tasteful quality of the 'cen- tre spread' of the magazine which, if pre- sented at the door of the Gaslight Club, St James's, will provide you with entry at two thirds of the normal price.
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