DIARY
ALAN WATKINS
M, r Tony Benn has had enough politi- cal obituaries already, and I do not propose to add to them. I was more interested in what he had to say about his reading habits in last Monday's Guardian. In the course of it he said, 'I gave up the New Statesman when Dick Crossman became editor.' If he did, it was very odd. For Crossman used to hold a special Thursday editorial confer- ence for distinguished outside advisers who included Lords Balogh and Lever, Lady Castle, Mr Des Wilson and Mr Benn, who proved a particularly original and fecund contributor. I know. I was there, too. It is a rum business, and no mistake. Has Mr Benn forgotten? Did he find himself play- ing a friendly and valuable part in the edi- torial direction of a magazine which he then did not read? Or is he not telling the truth?
The one organisation or utility which Lady Thatcher refused to privatise was the Royal Mail, for the slightly babyish reason that it had 'royal' in its title. Mr John Major has no such inhibitions. In other areas, too, his government is persisting in the dottier policies of the 1980s and then wondering why it is unpopular. Consider the artificial creation of what is laughingly called effi- ciency, as illustrated by the health service and by the BBC. The latest development is that the Corporation is selling off its record library. It will then presumably have to buy or hire the records it needs — or not play them at all. Over the years I have built up a useful collection of political biographies and reference books. I have done so partly deliberately, partly by chance, mainly through my habit of never throwing any books away. Lady Thatcher's policy as con- tinued by Mr Major would be for me to sell my library for next to nothing (Not much call for these today, squire') and then either to repurchase the books I needed (of course, they would be out of print) or to borrow them for a fee. To ensure fair com- petition among political columnists, Mr Frank Johnson, Mr Andrew Rawnsley and others would be compelled to follow the same course. Feckless and improvident writers, who had not acquired many or any books, would not be placed in this position. Clearly we are ruled by lunatics.
Before writing something fairly lengthy during the holidays, I had to consult several of these biographies, mostly published after 1950 and having as their subjects politicians of this century. I fell to dishing out mental awards. Award-giving is one of the curses of the age. Anyway, here are the results. Biography most frequently referred to by others: Robert Blake, The Unknown Prime Minister. Most underestimated: Bernard Donoughue and G.W. Jones, Herbert Morri- son. The best: Harold Nicolson, King George the Fifth.
When that last great book was first published in paperback some years ago, it was briefly reviewed in the Observer in one of those little snippets. The anonymous reviewer did not think much of it. He (more likely, she) thought it was dull stuff which did not bring out the human charac- ter of the man. Today the reviewing of paperbacks and the previewing of television programmes is a journalistic growth indus- try which is quite out of control. It is largely manned by young, ignorant and opinionat- ed persons, keen to cut a dash, who are given little guidance by bored and idle 'executives'. The items are written anony- mously, under initials or with the byline tucked away in microscopic type. Conse- quently the author clearly feels able to get away with anything. Saturday's Independent, for instance, previewed the repeat of The Old Devils: 'Andrew Davies's adaptation of Kingsley Amis's crotchety novel is an enjoyable but slightly pre- dictable affair, lacking any real manic
spark. Three old fogeys, students together in the 1950s and now living in semi-alco- holic retirement in South Wales, have their lives disrupted by John Stride's visiting TV personality and "professional Welshman".' I do not want to make heavy weather of this, but the character played by Mr Stride is not 'visiting' Wales: he is returning to live there. And what does the reviewer mean, 'slightly predictable'? That the adaptation actually follows the book? With most tele- vision critics, I found that the adaptation also made the book easier to follow, in that you did not have to spend the first 50 pages trying to work out who was married to whom. It contained some marvellous per- formances as well.
Not content with trying to sell off every public asset in sight, the Government is also, I read, anxious to diminish the conces- sions offered by Travelcards or even to eliminate them altogether. As I recently acquired a Senior Railcard, I deplore this. Nevertheless I understand, even sympa- thise. Like Mr Pooter, 1 am not a wealthy man. But I do not see why I should be enti- tled to one-third off most rail fares simply for attaining the great age of 60. I write 'most' because I have not mastered or even read the rules. British Rail's concessionary regulations are so complicated that you need the combined talents of a Cambridge Wrangler and a Chancery silk to under- stand them at all. So far I have had a third off every time. But last Saturday there might have been a difficulty. Producing niy card at Waterloo, I asked for a cheap-day return to Twickenham. `Do you live local- ly?' the booking-clerk asked. 'What do you mean, "live locally"?' I replied. What indeed did he mean? Greater London, Central London, SE1, Lambeth or what? He made no response, gave no explanation, except to repeat his question. I repeated my question. He then gave me my ticket: £1.85. 'I live in Islington,' 1 said. 'Oh, that's aui right then.' I remain mystified.
Philip Hope-Wallace used to say that the worst aspect of growing old was the death of friends. Here is a short list of friends and acquaintances from politics or journalism who failed to reach 60: Mark Boxer, Bill Connor, Tony Crosland, Desmond Donnelly, Francis Hope, George Hutchinson, Peter Jenkins, John Mackin- tosh, fain Macleod, Derek Marks, John Morgan, Chris Norwood, John Raymond, Chris Rowland, Nick Tomalin, David Watt, Ivan Yates. As Randolph Churchill (who died at 57) observed while reading the Old Testament for the first time, 'God, what a shit God is.'
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