DIARY
JONATHAN DIMBLEBY It is widely assumed that there is more animosity between the political parties than within them. However, if I have discovered nothing else from chairing Any Questions, it is that the reverse is generally true. On air, inevitably, Ministers denounce their Shadows and vice versa, and — as you would expect from (mostly) serious and (often) able politicians — the debate is genuine. But at our dinner beforehand not only do the combatants refrain from fisti- cuffs, even verbal jousting is rare. Only two guests invariably refuse to break bread with their co-panellists: Dennis Skinner, for whom it is a matter of high principal to avoid contamination from corporate hospi- tality, and the usually convivial Roy Hat- tersley, who devotes every spare moment to his scribbling duties. Otherwise even the most fastidious attend. Roy Jenkins, known to forgo the regulation nosh be- fore Question Time, is always in attend- ance at our dinner — which, to compensate for low fees and long journeys, is usually Well above middling. In these circumst- ances the oddest politician couplings are Commonplace. The most endearing is that between Tony Benn and Enoch Powell, who sit Opposite one another and, even before the soup, start to reminisce about the old days of Any Questions (circa 1950) when Freddy Grisewood was in place, and be- fore politics held sway. They compete amiably with anecdotes, with memories of Bevan and Churchill, and with serious, civilised thought. Woe betide the young Pretender who intervenes to trade a yarn or two; when such as these hold court the also-rans (no matter how distinguished) are wise to keep their counsel.
The Prince Charles documentary `The Earth in Balance' was finely written, persuasively argued and courageously developed. Given that his tormentors are ever eager to imply that he is vaguely off his royal trolly, it must have been tempting for the Prince to disguise the pro- found spiritual commitment to his subject which emerged from his film. Yet he did not retreat. Instead, in a beautifully filmed visual essay that was never portentous or alarmist, the Prince elaborated a compelling argument with sincerity and compassion. You might have thought that this would be a programme to applaud; that a great many people, who would otherwise ignore the warnings, would take it from him that there is much at stake; and, therefore, that even the most jaundiced reviewer would appreciate that for the heir to the throne to embrace the Public so openly and with such trust via such an unforgiving medium was an event of no little moment. Instead — with one or two honourable exceptions — the critics rose to the occasion in characteristic form — dipping their pens in metropolitan vitriol to deliver themselves of an all- pervasive sneer.
Some broadcasters feared that the arriv- al of the cameras at Westminster would make the political interview redundant: once the electorate could see rival politi- cians grilling each other in live debate who would wish to watch an artificial substitute in the studio? Mercifully for some of us that forecast was premature, and the reason is simple. The television interview and the parliamentary debate have quite different purposes: the latter is not de- signed to elicit the truth or even to estab- lish the facts. In the House your overriding objective is to win your case if only by demolishing the edifice of your opponent's, using means that are less forensic than rhetorical. A good debater can block or deflect all but the most skilful interruptions, safe in the knowledge that his would-be assailant will have one chance only to go for the jugular. In the studio he runs the risk that a sustained and persistent line of questioning might pierce his guard, precisely because the single interviewer can return again and again to any chink in the armour. Brian Walden's remarkable double-act, first with Margaret Thatcher and then Nigel Lawson, revealed more about both politicians and the resignation itself than any number of parliamentary questions. The only way of escape for a politician in the studio is to walk out 'I'm working with the victims of bogus social workers.' and, as John Nott discovered, that option does little for one's dignity or reputation.
Like any self-respecting Nimby I can argue from the particular to the general. Thus I am at war with the vandals at the Ministry of Transport. Not content with dumping a new by-pass near Winchester they are now hoping to do the same for the environs of Bath. Last week, therefore, I chaired a meeting of 500 or more people in Bath, to discuss their plans. The idea of the men from the ministry is to transform the A46 (which runs from the M4 to Bath partly through green belt land and alongside an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty) into a four-lane highway, complete with spaghetti junctions, flyov- ers, underpasses and, doubtless, sodium lights as well. The new monster will be driven through the lush pastures of the Avon valley on concrete piles before grind- ing to a halt just south of Bath at the A36, which is already a heavily congested two-lane road which cannot be widened. The avowed purpose of what would even- tually form a brand-new trunk road from Southampton to the Midlands is to ease congestion and to meet 'suppressed' de- mand. Those who believe anything will doubtless believe that this noble objective can be achieved. Others will attend the public inquiry, which starts later this month, where the forces of civilisation are hoping to impress upon the inspector that only a bunch of hooligans would wreak such vengeance on our environment. If they fail you would do well to avoid the northern approaches to Bath after 1995 (the projected completion date), unless you wish to join the longest traffic jam in the triumphant history of British tailbacks.
Thomas Allen has a glorious voice, but I was not aware until now that he drives droves of women to distraction. However, in brilliant performance with the pianist Roger Vignoles at the Bath Festival on Monday, he provoked a phalanx of other- wise entirely respectable matrons to a spon- taneous overflow of powerful feeling. He was not exactly mobbed but my neighbour cried out as follows: 'Oh! Isn't he gorgeous . . . he's so sexy . . . I want him to do ten encores . . . More! . . . Yes — he's coming again . . . Look at him (wriggling in her seat, and at the top of her voice). Look at him! . . . Here he is again . . . and it's Don Giovanni too — isn't that perfect!' Now Bath is a city where decorum is still highly regarded, yet no one appeared in the least embarrassed; I heard similar squalls from all over the theatre. Eat your heart out, Barry Manilow.
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