DIARY
CHARLES MOORE Lord Whitelaw now lives in retirement. Here is the story of his last contribution to public life. It occurred when John Major took the odd decision to stand against him- self, as it were, for the leadership of the Conservative party in the summer of 1995. Willie Whitelaw made it known that he very much wanted to see Major. His wish Was granted. 'Prime Minister,' he said, `there's one thing I want to tell you. I know you'll laugh . . . I know you'll laugh, but I'll say it anyway. This is a very difficult time. When you win the leadership election, you'll probably find that you'll need to appoint a new chief whip. When you do, Just bear one thing in mind. Just one thing that's very, very important. Make sure that he is in favour of foxhunting.' Possibly Mr Major did not think much of this advice, although he did give the post to the pro- hunting Alastair Goodlad. But, not for the first time in Willie Whitelaw's career, there was something behind the apparently idiot- ic thing he said, some intimation of a truth that cleverer people tend to ignore (and I do not just mean the interesting historical fact that the idea of the 'whip' in Parlia- ment derives from the hunting-field). I am thinking about it this week as Sunday's Countryside March approaches. Foxhunt- ing is important for Britain and for politics. All decent politics in this country ought to be both liberal and conservative. That is to say, politics ought to respect people's free- dom to choose and particularly those habits of choice which they have developed over a long period. Whether or not you personally approve of hunting, you are being illiberal and unconservative if you try to ban it by law. This is a subject worth marching about, even if you don't know your brush from Your mask.
The fact that so many MPs could have voted for a ban on hunting shows that the landed interest has finally been defeated as a national political force. In many ways, this is very sad. But there has been a healthy result as well. For years and years, supporters of field sports were told not to make their arguments in public. The theory was that the mass of people would not understand, and that it was better to per- suade the powerful behind the scenes. Under Conservative governments, this Worked, but it allowed the case for hunting to atrophy. When the boot moved to the other foot, it looked at first as if the game was up. Of course hunting is barbaric, New Labour said, so let's get rid of it: we are the masters now. But then something very interesting began to happen. The argument is taking place, and as it does so, the appar- ently lost cause turns out to be very defen- sible indeed and the case against it full of holes. Mike Foster's introduction of his own Bill was one of the worst parliamen- tary performances on an important subject ever seen. Suddenly, people who know start to explain why hunting is not cruel and not snobbish, why it is environmentally sensi- ble, why it matters in country life; and it turns out that a lot of people are prepared to listen. Whether the government will do so it is too early to say, but the prospect of the biggest gathering in London since VE Day ought at least to give it pause.
ttending the business breakfast with which the Prime Minister launched the contents of the Millennium Dome on Tues- day, I wore a Countryside Rally badge. As Mrs Blair approached me, I found myself half-apologising for my apparent discour- tesy to her husband's government in raising the issue at such an occasion. 'No, no,' she told me, 'we're all in favour of the country- side.' I chose to take this as a good omen.
Mr Blair made a good speech at the Millennium launch, which relieved the very dull speeches by businessmen. Unfortu- nately, I found myself distracted by the prime ministerial hair. As someone slightly younger than Mr Blair, but with much less of the stuff, I am always interested in tri- chological trends. Mr Blair's is negative. In plain English, he is going bald. The once- bouncy look has been replaced by the famous 'Caesar', which is really more of a widow's peak. The hair on each side of the central point is pulled forward and squashed down as if a jersey had been quickly plucked off. The whole effect is of a man much less boyish, much more careworn. By the time most of you will have read this, the countryside will, literally, be aflame. A line of beacons beginning at the tip of Scotland will have been lit. I shall be lighting what is almost the last, high in the Sussex Weald. According to the national organisers, the official plan was to have two beacons per county, but the idea has proved so popular that, as I write (Tues- day), they know of plans for 4,500 bonfires. The countryside is a cause that will not eas- ily be put out.
Our own local hunt, the East Sussex and Romney Marsh, will be out in force on Sunday. I gather from the Master that we are double the numbers of last July, and transporting more people in coaches than the hunt's entire membership. The most exotic among our number will be Ivan Massow, a young wizard of indepen- dent financial advice, who is a pin-up (lit- erally, I am told) in Gay News. Ivan's friends add strikingly to the variety of the hunt. A couple of years back, the story goes, he brought along a smartly dressed black man, who rode, out with the field. As he passed the antis who always follow, they called out at him, 'Two hundred years ago, this lot would have been hunting your ancestors.' Ivan's guest turned in the sad- dle and called back, 'Two hundred years ago my ancestors would have been eating you lot.'
Now that those who hunt are a perse- cuted minority, I feel that any possible link between the sport and homosexuality should be encouraged. Labour MPs would not want to be accused of queer-bashing. In this context, it seems to me that Siegfried Sassoon's Memoirs of a Foxhunt- ing Man should be `rebranded' as a gay book. Although the book is brilliant in its descriptions of hunting, particularly in the aspects of embarrassment, fear, and envy of better riders which beset all but the most robust, the emotional centre of the book is a relationship with another man. Rather like David's obsession with Steerforth in David Copperfield, George Sherston, who, in effect, is Sassoon, is in thrall to Denis Milden, a handsome young man who has all the grace, social poise and equestrian courage which Sherston lacks. The book is really about Sherston's diffident attempt to win Denis' regard and friendship through hunting with him. Yes, hunting is gay, hunting is cool, hunt- ing is the love that dare not speak its name.
Charles Moore is editor of the Daily Tele- graph.
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