DIARY
RICHARD LITTLEJOHN Seasonal flu and the sudden resignation of Peter Mandelson conspired to curtail my attendance at this year's hectic round of Christmas parties. Illness kept me away from Jeffrey Archer's 'Vote for Me' bash. Mandelson's demise prevented me from doing a Jeffrey Bernard. I had already left for lunch with the usual suspects, in full and determined Captain Oates mode: 'I'm going out now, darling. I may be some time.' Halfway there, the phone rang. His Satanic Majesty, The Prince of Darkness, had reneged on his side of the bargain. This town ain't big enough for both of us, Mandy. So, instead of mounting an expedi- tion of Bransonian endeavour to drain the European wine lake, I found myself back at the wordface, ladling a bucket load of schadenfreude, as we say in the Sun, over the expensively tonsured head of the erst- while Secretary of State for Trade and Industry. At least I awoke the following day with some idea of what had been going on in the world during the past 24 hours. Ten years ago to the day I had been at the farewell-to-Fleet Street Christmas bash of the Evening Standard where I worked as a columnist and leader writer. My last memo- ry of the evening was standing at the bar with my colleague Adrian Shaw, now on the Mirror. The next morning I stumbled downstairs in an advanced state of dehydra- tion with a West Indian steel band march- ing round inside my skull. On the television in the corner, there were live pictures of what appeared to be a war zone in the aftermath of a nuclear attack. There, in the background, was Shaw, looking cold, bewil- dered and shaking like a dog swallowing razor blades. Where the hell was Locker- bie, I wondered? And what on earth was Adrian doing there? While I had been sleeping it off, Pan Am Flight 103 had dis- appeared from the radar. Shaw and dozens of Fleet Street's finest had been traced, dragged from their roistering and scram- bled by night news desks to document the carnage. In the scheme of things, the resig- nation of Peter Mandelson somehow seems to take on a new insignificance. Hardly worth missing a lunch.
he Spinmeister General's difficulties wiped everything else off the front pages and dominated the news bulletins. War, what war? Reading the newspapers, you would never have guessed that British ser- vicemen had been in combat in Iraq just 72 hours earlier. At least we were spared the prospect of pictures of Tony Blair in khaki serving Christmas pudding to Our Boys in Oman. Not so much a war, more a bit of target practice. There is one image of the Ramadan offensive that remains with me. It is not the arcade-game graphics or the footage of the ruined buildings in Baghdad, strewn with the obligatory teddy bears, courtesy of the American networks. It is the crude graffiti on the side of the Iraq-bound missiles on board the carrier USS Enter- prise Die, you Magets'. 'To Sadam, Mery X-mas'. And we thought our education sys- tem had gone to hell in a handcart. The Americans have never been renowned for their grasp of geography. Now it seems their literacy has gone the same way. We should thank our lucky stars that they didn't bomb Bagshot.
BBC Jolly Good Sports Personality of the Year should go to Abigail Saxon, a 31- year-old producer in the religious affairs department in Manchester. In exchange for a £100 bet, Miss Saxon stripped naked dur- ing her office Christmas party and ran three times round a local restaurant wear- ing nothing but her socks. Having collected her winnings, she did another lap, shouting, `This one's for free.' Miss Saxon is now fac- ing a BBC disciplinary board and could be sacked. Outrageous. She should be promot- ed on the spot, transferred to Television Centre and charged with raising the morale of all the dispirited news and sports staff forced to leave Broadcasting House and decamp to the wastelands of White City. The only Christmas party I attended this year was the Radio Five one, which was held in a studio at TV Centre. It was pleas- ant enough, but, sadly, bereft of the kind of antics with which Miss Saxon brightened the festivities in Manchester. There was none of the groping and dance-floor fondling which characterised the office par- ties of my younger days. The rules of engagement between men and women appeared to have been written by Jane Austen. Or, more likely, by the BBC's equality unit. Curiously, the rules didn't seem to apply to homosexuals, whose code of conduct must have been drawn up by Armistead Maupin. Corners of the room resembled a night out in a San Francisco bath house. (So I'm led to believe, you understand.) It was the sort of behaviour that had they been heterosexual would have found them up before a disciplinary board in Manchester. Late in the evening, one middle-aged gay, whom I like enor- mously and have worked with over the years, came up and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He wanted to take issue with a recent column I had written about the motives behind those campaigning to lower the homosexual age of consent to 16. `You've got it all the wrong way round, Richard. You keep insisting that we only want the age lowered to 16 because we all want to bugger schoolboys. That simply isn't true. I want them to bugger me.'
Hard-faced corporations and ruthless individuals who have spent the whole year conspiring to do the dirty on all and sundry suddenly come over all coy and sentimental when there are Christmas cards to be sent. They may have stitched people up, mined lives and careers, but inside the envelope all is comfort and joy, Season's Greetings, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, misty scenes of St Paul's, robin redbreasts, virgin snow, celestial choirs, peace and love, pub- lic relations treacle. I sometimes wonder if the head honchos who sign these cards ever bother to read them or wonder to whom they are being sent. Which is why my favourite card of the year, and gold award for honesty, goes to the one PR man who could teach Peter Mandelson how to suck eggs, Max Clifford. No sickly sentiment, no false modesty, no seasonal spin, just all the best from Max and everyone at `Slappers International'. The card reads: 'You shag it, we sell it.'
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