DIARY
After their initial silence and then their grudging admission of disaster at Cher- nobyl, the Russians have finally become more communicative. Spokesmen have appeared on Western television and made Shift to pretend that they are giving us information. No doubt even this compara- tive openness is a good thing, since it makes it easier to catch the spokesmen out in inconsistencies and evasions, but there is also something very creepy about it. At the weekend, Georgi Arbatov, the Kremlin apologist, appeared on a radio phone-in programme, and made politely helpful noises about the unfortunate incident at Chernobyl. One listener asked him about Irma Ratushinskaya, a physicist and poet who is serving seven years' hard labour in the Moldavian Camp for Women for 'alleged anti-Soviet agitation'. Dr Arbatov said that he knew nothing of the case — 'What did you say the name was, please?' — but that he would look into it: thank Yon, next question. The thing was discus- sed as if it had been a constituent com- plaining to an MP about the closing of a local bus route. In fact, however, Dr Ratushinskaya is dying because of the attentions of Dr Arbatov's regime. In such circumstances, the amiable conventions of the phone-in do not work. Dr Arbatov's Presence on the programme gave him a false legitimacy. Imagine a wartime phone- In: 'Just time for one last question, Dr Goebbeis — about the Revd Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who is in one of your camps. Apparently he is not very well. . • •' Iam sorry to see that Chernobyl was too much even for the Guardian. Normally its Moscow correspondent, Martin Walker, keeps up a relentlessly cheerful account of the Soviet Union — the beauty and charm of the entire Gorbachev family, the burn- ing desire of the Russian peoples for world peace, the growing range of goods in the sh()Ps — couldn't he manage something Upbeat about a little nuclear explosion? Sure enough, on the day after the news broke, Mr Walker was looking on the bright side: 'The very fact that the Soviet authorities have already informed their ,Own people of the nuclear accident on the TV news and admitted to casualties, is a significant change. We are watching a country that has suddenly been forced to the me to terms with the limits of science. In ute process, it may also discover the Potential power of its public opinion rough 6 the tragic catalyst of radiation.' IBut overnight, things went wrong. In the Guardian of the following day, Mr Walker _was stern: 'So much for Glasnost, the Russian word that means "openness". • • e began, and he ended: 'The issue will be CHARLES MOORE one of a government's dereliction of duty to its own people. A docile press is one thing: a wilfully endangered populace is quite another.' What can have happened? But now I see the Guardian has recovered its sense of balance. On Wednesday it carried a large, all-holds-barred report on Chernobyl from the Novosti Press Agency.
Last week, six representatives of the Spectator, including myself, attended the dinner for the annual Periodical Pub- lishers' Association awards. We have sometimes won awards in previous years, but on this occasion we had to make do with being shortlisted. It was, as always, a glittering evening, with flashing lights, loud music, and waiters who point out that service was not included in the bill for wine. Although there are a great many awards, there are no speeches from the winners, and so the evening passed reason- ably quickly. Unfortunately, magazine journalists seem to be an envious lot and so the cheers for most of the winners were rather muted and desultory. Only two magazines were widely acclaimed, Horse and Pony, which came second in the Campaigning Feature of the Year categ- ory, and Practical Fishkeeping, whose edi- tor was Highly Commended. As the repre- sentatives of these two magazines adv- anced to the rostrum, the shouts and whoops were deafening, coming particular- ly from the table behind us, where the horse, pony and fish set seemed to be centred. I have only one complaint. The organisers of the seating plan appear to think that they should put like with like. This means that the Spectator is always put on the 'intellectual' table with publications like New Society, the New Statesman, History Today and the Economist. This is charming company, of course, but it is company which one has other opportuni- ties to enjoy. Next year, couldn't we be mixed in with Tunnels and Tunnelling, Independent Grocer and Just Seventeen?
'Then my predecessor, Alexander Chancellor, became editor of the Specta- tor, it took him, he once told me, two years before he dared put anything under his name in the paper. But after his first appearance, he gradually found himself slipping in more often, and eventually wrote the Notebook on this page almost every week. I do not intend to follow in his footsteps, since the guest Diarists, writing for three or four weeks at a time, are so good. So, rather than allotting myself the same stint, as I recently did, I shall butt in now and again with a single Diary, which will allow me to make whatever announce- ments may be necessary. This week, we begin a personal investment feature, the Forsyte column by John Howarth, which will alternate with Jock Bruce-Gardyne's column on the economy. Next week, we shall launch the first Shiva Naipaul Mem- orial Prize, for which we have been collect- ing money for some months. We have amassed a good sum, but more is needed to secure the future of the Prize. Donations should be sent to the Spectator Shiva Naipaul Memorial Fund, Drummonds Bank, 49 Charing Cross, London SW1.
Nouvelle cuisine may well have intro- duced some exciting new tastes and tex- tures but is has also imposed some strange rules. The necessity of kiwi fruit with everything (What are these funny cucum- bers?', I remember Roy Kerridge asking once) has been pointed out; so has the determination to make radishes into little flowers. But there is an even stricter doctrine about vegetables, which I encoun- tered again the other day. A friend took me to a restaurant and I asked for beans with the main dish. This was not possible. All that was served was 'a selection of fresh vegetables', which would contain the odd bean, but to supply a plate with nothing but beans would destroy the finely ba- lanced eco-system which flourished behind the swing-doors of the kitchen. Eventually they compromised, and I was allowed beans alone, but not very many of them. Suppose one asked for lamb, and was presented with 'a selection of fresh meats'.
A, present, the Spectator is being mended and redecorated. Builders point out large areas of dry rot with satisfied smiles. In these trying times, it is impossi- ble for us to hold our regular editorial lunches, and we have only been able to maintain the tradition thanks to the gener- ous hospitality of Hugh O'Neill, a former director of the Spectator. Mr O'Neill owns the Brasserie St Quentin and he lets us eat there. Anyone going there for him- or her-self will be as satisfied as we have been. It is opposite the Brompton Oratory and its telephone number is 581 5131.
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