AND ANOTHER THING
The feminist world war has begun
PAUL JOHNSON
The War of the Women entered a new phase last week. Germaine Greer started her counter-column on the Times, and her enemy Suzanne Moore, by way of a pre- emptive strike — and in answer to Ger- maine's taunt that she is only capable of writing about pop-music and similar grunge topics — produced a long piece about The Needs of Yoof. As might have been expect- ed, it was dead boring (to use one of her expressions). Germaine was fine in the Times, where she has replaced a dreadful socialist called Anne Robinson, whose sole claim to attention is that she looks a bit like Barbara Castle.
However, I would rather have Ms Greer in the Guardian. It is her natural habitat, just as Mogg belongs in the Times and Perry in the Sunday Telegraph and Melanie in the Observer. The Guardian is my favourite morning paper. I disagree with virtually every word in it but I know it is not meant to be taken too seriously — Hugo Young likes a glass of the Widow with his Beluga just like everyone else — so, of the six or seven papers I buy each day, it is the one I turn to most eagerly, if only to work myself up into a healthy morning rage.
No Guardian contributor gave me more satisfaction than Greer. My only complaint was that she appeared once a fortnight rather than once a week. To begin with, her command of language, ranging from the lightest of persiflage to downright vulgar abuse, is unrivalled. No journalist alive is more skilled in the planting of venomous verbal arrows in human flesh, except of course the great Keith Waterhouse. Then again, Greer, unlike most of our tribe, is educated. She has read much, and thought about what she has read. She is unique among us scribes in her ability to resurrect a much-thumbed text — Romeo and Juliet, for instance — and give it new life and excitement by the sheer creativity of her imaginative insights. Moreover, she can argue. The perversity of her conclusions beggars belief, but the sinewy skill with which she reaches them is fascinating to follow. It is like listening, mesmerised, to one of those brilliant speeches in which Tony Benn proves that we should all stand on our heads.
For all these reasons I was disturbed to hear that she had resigned from the Guardian. So I phoned its new editor, Alan Rusbridger, who has improved the paper enormously since poor Peter Preston was
kicked upstairs, and said I was afraid he was about to make his first mistake. 'Oh, there's nothing I can do,' he said. 'Germaine is beside herself with fury and you know how unreasonable she is even when calm.' Yes, said I, but all good writers are lunatics and it is an editor's job to humour them.
I spoke from experience. When I took over as editor of the New Statesman in 1964 I found that J.B. Priestley had had a row with my predecessor, John Freeman, and was refusing to write for us. As Freeman was reason personified, the row was unquestionably Priestley's fault. But that was not the point. The point was that he was a contributor of genius — no one wrote a better 'middle'. So I set about sending him a flattering letter. My mother, who was Lan- cashire to the core and detested Yorkshire- men — her motto was Foreigners Begin at the Pennines — always used to say, 'If you want to flatter a Yorkshireman lay it on thick. Their skins are not exactly sensitive and they love it.' So I did lay it on thick, and I wish I still had a copy of that radiantly insincere letter. Priestley was mollified. 'I always thought you were a perceptive sort of chap,' he replied. Not only did he return to the fold: he became a very good friend of mine and remained one till he died on the eve of his 90th birthday. So I told Rus- bridger he should write Germaine a cun- ningly effusive letter and he agreed to do so.
Unfortunately, that evening Ms Greer appeared on a television chat show and laid into the Guardian as only she can — and its editor felt honour left him no alternative but to react violently. It was rather like the beginning of an old-fashioned world war. He published not one but two leading arti- cles denouncing Greer, who thus took precedence over Bosnia, the Irish Troubles, China etc. — proving that, for once, the Guardian has a proper sense of priorities. Moreover, he added the final insult by referring to her as 'Dr Greer', something calculated to wind her up still further. Then the other nations — I mean columnists — began to join in. Simon Jenkins, writing on behalf of establishment opinion, felt that Germaine, being older and wiser, ought to have his considered support. Julie Burchill weighed in heavily on the side of Suzanne Moore, believing that grunge columnists should stick together, and also feeling, as a newly self-outed pseudo-dyke, that she ought to back the younger woman. Minette Marrin, Mary Kenny, Peter McKay, Talci, Lord Deedes, Frank Johnson etc. have all been taking sides or indicating that they are open to offers, rather like Italy and Roma- nia in 1914. Kenneth Rose has not yet informed us of the view taken of the conflict in the Diplomatic Corps and the College of Heralds — I rather think they will back Germaine, eventually, if only because she is, despite all her efforts, a lady — and we are still waiting to hear from the delicious and brilliant Zoe Heller whether the United States intends to remain isolationist or join in. But no one can possibly doubt that the conflict will continue and spread. This is not a war which will be 'over by Christmas'.
Meanwhile, what of those expletive- deleted shoes? That term was new to me, and to many others, I imagine. It certainly came as a surprise to my Italian friend Carla Powell, who has the largest collection of shoes in London, 96 pairs at the latest count, and who is rightly annoyed that all her high-powered cobbler advisers have left her in ignorance of this important new trend. What does Ferragamo think he is doing? Why is Bally invisible? Is Northampton asleep? As Carla says, 'A pair of dees shoes I must 'ave.' I am still not quite clear what they are, and it is not easy to find out. One can hardly go up to some- one at a party and say, 'Excuse me, but those shoes you are wearing, could they accurately be described as —?"No, they could not!' Again, 'a bird's-nest hairdo' was also new to me. But in this case I can guess what it means, and how to bring it into the conversation. 'I say, what a splendidly out- rageous bird's-nest hair-do you have!' So it bloody well should be — cost me a hundred quid at John Frieda's.'
That is why I like these rows. Just as world wars speed up the development of technical inventions, so a public exchange of compliments between talented ladies does wonders for one's vocabulary.
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