MASTERS OF THE PUBLIC VENDETTA

Rory Knight Bruce argues that

petty feuding is damaging serious journalism

THE WEEK before this year's Tory party conference the telephone rang for me at the Evening Standard. It was Jeffrey Archer. 'People in Cabinet have told me that you are fair, but I have not found you so. I have got a file on you, and I am ring- ing to tell you that you are not invited to my party at Blackpool this year.'

I had not thought about Archer until that moment since the day that I went to his party in Brighton last year. It brought back the recollection of how Archer, at about two in the morning, had marched up to me, in front of several Cabinet minis- ters, and told me to leave. It did not mat- ter that I had been invited along by other guests in a private capacity and had no intention of writing about the evening. I only did write about his behaviour because he threatened that I would be dismissed from my job in the morning.

Vendetta, feud or simple campaigns of social attrition are by no means rare between politicians and journalists. But often, and at more senior levels, the dete- riorated relationship between politician and journalist rages without the general public being aware of it.

One such current tussle is that between Andrew Neil, editor of the Sunday Times, and the Chancellor of the. Exchequer, Nor- man Lamont. Neil has consistently attacked Lamont's performance. Then Lamont finally struck back, labelling the Sunday Times a 'pretty squalid paper'.

This may be deemed the behaviour of immaturity, but behind it lies a deep-seat- ed social and cultural antipathy between the two, based on class, power and sexuali- ty. Neil — for his part, well documented in the court case with Peregrine Worsthorne — is a Paisley grammarian of the Y-fronts and white Ford variety. For all his achieve- ments — most recently the purchase of a ridiculous publication for hillwalkers and fly-tiers, but with the all-important title of Country Gentleman's Association magazine — he is still unsettled by a man like Lam- ont. Lamont was educated at Loretto and Cambridge, and is a successful minister of the Crown. One has a sneaking feeling that there is more to it than this. Not only is he a happily married man, but he is much

admired by the ladies. Neil, on the other hand, spent last Christmas in Barbados hanging around with the diaspora of the racing set, enthusiastically listening to their tales of female conquests.

If there is something rather seedy in this, there is a more serious observation to be made of such public vendettas. They distort the true emphasis of news and fail to serve the readers. And whilst it is admirable to be outside the establishment, as Neil claims to be, it must be desperate to be an outsider — like an urchin with its nose permanently pressed against the win- dow of Harrods — seething with envy.

Britain is stuffed to the blighted gills with people who, from a casual meeting or through a loss in love, wage silent war against their foes. Auberon Waugh never fails to gang people against Lord Gowrie because of his Oxford successes with the ladies — one of whom Waugh coveted. Former Labour Foreign Secretary Tony Crosland's sister, Eve, takes her opportu- nities to turn opinion against his widow, Susan. 'Her columns have stripped the name of all credibility and dignity,' she said recently of Susan's offerings in 'that squalid paper'.

Personal vendetta is a sign of insecurity. It suggests an inability to argue issues with- out drawing in personalities. It admits to a paucity of judgment, and an inability to separate feeling from thought. More seri- ously, it self-confesses moral ineptitude.

Of course, in the 18th century, the prac- tice of lampoon and satire, stretching as it did far beyond the restrictive libel laws of today, was a common and colourful prac- tice. But it was precisely because no punch- es were pulled. Sides were defined and taken. From Pope to Byron, satire was recognisable and literally made fools of people in public. Today it is the public who are fooled by the petty eddies, ripples and sniggers masquerading as serious journal- ism.

Those cases of mutual loathing which are cast widely abroad, Goldsmith against Ingrams, Thatcher against Heath, even Anna Ford tossing wine over Jonathan Aitken over the handling of TV-am, leave all parties stained long after the wine has dried.

I have lately been exposed to that master of the vendetta, John Osborne, having been asked to write a feature on him to coincide with his second volume of mem- oirs, Almost a Gentleman. Having had lunch with me in the summer, he promised me an interview in October. However, when I turned up as planned, I found he had already given the interview to — you may have already guessed — a 'squalid Sunday paper'. So I wrote the feature any- way to pre-empt the Sunday Times. Osborne was incensed. I received letters from him and his Shropshire neighbours telling me to leave the valley where he and I have houses. `Go and pat sheep and patronise people elsewhere,' said one. Osborne himself was more direct. 'The safest place for wee Rory is in a cosy padded cell,' he concluded to my editor.

But of all the practitioners of vendetta, Osborne is the one most worthy of respect. He is a man with a talent for abuse. He is direct, and has the energy for a sustained campaign, long enough to outlive the vic- tims, particularly if they are ex-wives. When I thought the embers of his ire were cooling, I received another letter. 'I am giv- ing a small party for my friends. Someone suggested you might come and give your views on life in Salop. There'll be about a hundred or less, but I'm sure you would cope with great élan. Don't disappoint them. They'll be in a sportive mood.' Never before have I received an invitation with menaces. But against the tawdry spats of Neil and Lamont, Osborne's hatred against his fel- low thespians, and even against a modest journalist, are truly majestic. Would 1

i mount a campaign against him? Only if t got him a knighthood.

Rory Knight Bruce is the Evening Standard's diary editor