The Death of Quoodle
SIR,—S0 Quoodle has passed away. Hard to believe, and even harder to accept. May one reader, a non- Tory, be allowed a last tribute?
For over two years, the prospect of Quoodle's Notebook has brought a tingling pleasure to Friday morning's breakfast. If, on occasion, his cricket- ing judgments have been dubious (not send Jim Parks to Australia, indeed!), at all times his political comments have been a stimulus and delight. As to the 'crusades' (H. Wilson of Downing Street and H. Greene of Portland Place; we won't mention F.S.T., the lion-hearted, about whom he is clearly aberrated and may be forgiven!), many he enrolled in the ranks will miss that weekly acid drop with which he kept their taste for battle alive.
For his unique combination of the romantic and the realistic, for the astringencies and the wit, Quoodle, we thank you!
224a King's Road. Chelsea. SW3 SIR,—In his valedictory column Quoodle referred to the Prime Minister as 'the little man.' Would you, sir, be good enough to tell us, in feet and inches, the height of (a) Quoodle and (b) the Prime Minister?
ROY BOULTING LUDOVIC KENNEDY
St. James' Club, 106 Piccadilly, WI
[Quoodle writes (from his grave): 'Mr. Kennedy is being pedantic. Mr. Wilson's stature is not to be measured in inches.'—Editor, Spectator.]
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