SHARED OPINION
The outrageous elitism to which Mr and Mrs Blair have been subjected
FRANK JOHNSON Many would have been shocked that Mrs Cherie Blair — who the previous Sun- day had been present at Sir Elton John's less offensive concert in aid of an organisa- tion for homosexuals at which male dancers began a divertissement dressed as Cub Scouts and ended it stripped down to their shorts — should have had to attend, three nights later, the gala reopening of the Royal Opera House. There, all around her, elitism was openly practised. A figure dressed in women's clothes wore a tiara and was spo- ken of as the Queen. A far more elderly fig- ure professed to be an old queen.
Mrs Blair must have been embarrassed. But her breeding ensured that she did not show it. Still, Mrs Blair and her husband were forced to rub shoulders with royalty, and he to wear a black tie. Mr Blair would have had no objection to wearing a black tie to Sir Elton's event. There, black ties would not have looked so out of keeping, especially if sewn on to codpieces and appearing at the climax of one of Sir Elton's contributions. The indignities heaped on Mr and Mrs Blair at Covent Garden would have been endurable to both of them had the occasion not been on behalf of a noisy minority which represents only a tiny proportion of the country.
We opera-lovers and balletomanes like to claim that one in six of the population is our way inclined. I sometimes, if I am addressing a gullible audience, chance my arm by putting the figure at one in three. But we know it is our propaganda. We know that most people loathe opera and ballet. We only suggest otherwise to avoid even more bullying and discrimination against us. Thus, to give ourselves legitima- cy in the age of New Labour, it is vital for us to lure the Blairs to our more outra- geous occasions. The Covent Garden gala was undoubtedly one of those.
Not that many ordinary opera- and ballet- goers were able to get in. But it is also unlike- ly that those rampant Cub Scouts at Sir Elton's show would have been seen by any ordinary, rank-and-file child molesters. The purpose of these occasions is for their organ- isers to be lent respectability by the ruling class. In Sir Elton's case, such respectability would have been freely and happily con- ferred. As well as Mrs Blair, Mr Frank Dob- son was present. Presumably only the loftiest state duties kept the Prime Minister himself away. But persuading such magnificoes to attend Covent Garden, especially in the com- pany of royalty, is trickier.
So it was only under sufferance that the New Labour plutocracy, and all its chivalry, were out in force at that gala. Mr William Hague and I were among the few Conserva- tives who had wangled a ticket, unless one includes the Queen Mother. I felt like a country Tory who had somehow got into a Whig ball somewhere around 1700. True, quite a few of the New Labour business and media titans present had depicted them- selves as convinced Thatcherites, and then Majorites for a short time, in the decade's first couple of years. But presumably quite a few of those convinced Whigs were former convinced Tories.
As readers may have seen in the newspa- pers, or on television, the evening began with a solid hour or so of German. The very first words uttered, starting Covent Garden's new era, were wonderfully appropriate: Schliifst du, Gast? (Are you asleep, guest?) Admitted- ly, these were addressed to Wagner's Sieg- mund, rather than by the Covent Garden chairman, Sir Colin Southgate, to the assem- bled royalty, politicians and plutocracy. These were not yet sleeping but, as the next 40 min- utes of Wagner unhurriedly progressed, they were working on it. Siegmund's reply was also apposite: Wer schleicht daher? (Who's creeping there?) Many in the audience well knew that, anxious to maintain wealth, status and influence in this uncertain world, one often has no alternative but to creep.
No translation was provided in the pro- gramme, which was also perfunctory as to what these two people were up to, shouting in German at one another across a noisy orchestra. By the end of the long extract, the ruling class was comatose. Elitism had dealt it this blow. That'll teach them.
The environmentalist article in last week's issue by Mr Stanley Johnson, father of The Spectator editor Mr Boris Johnson, brought the year's Johnson count in this mag- azine to a stunning seven. By my own possibly inaccurate, and therefore modest, count, this latest Johnson joins his son; Mr Paul John- son; Miss Rachel Johnson; Prof. Douglas Johnson; Prof. R.W. Johnson and myself. I apologise to any Johnsons whom I may have overlooked. Certainly, this publication can claim a higher number of Johnsons among its writers than any other in the English-speak-
ing world; possibly more Johnsons among its writers than among its readers.
On seeing Mr Stanley Johnson's debut, my thoughts turned to a cutting sent to me a few months ago from the Sydney Morning Herald. Its columnist Mr Padriac McGuin- ness had written, 'What has really intrigued me is the direction being taken by an English weekly much liked by many readers of this newspaper and others. The Spectator .. should really be called The Johnson Family Spectator. Its editor is Boris Johnson, son of the previous editor, Frank Johnson, and nephew of one of its regular columnists, the venerable Paul Johnson, Frank's older brother.The last but one issue contains a contribution from Rachel Johnson, whose relationship to the others is not clear, but judging by her animus towards the Euro- pean Union she must be Boris's sister, daughter or cousin.' (Sister, actually).
Mr McGuinness appears to have believed a Taki column of a week or so before; not the least of Taki's contributions to human understanding. But the Australian author seems to have left out my daughter, Ulrika Jonsson. She prefers the Scandinavian spelling that the rest of us found simply too snobbish, which of course was how I brought her up. It must be especially galling to her to be left out of the Sydney Morning Herald because, as those of you who read the popu- lar press will know, she has been unsuccess- ful in matters of the heart and constantly needs cheering up. Only last weekend it was reported that she had invited a German hotel manager to Britain to share her duvet but that he had gone home because she was insufficiently interested in his conversation (I having brought her up only to pay atten- tion to German when accompanied by very large and noisy orchestras).
I wish I could settle her down with a suit- able toyboy. But she may be getting on a bit for that now. Still, I envisage the scene. In a darkened television green room, she chances upon a comely, sleeping youth perhaps a more than usually idle camera- man — as that other dangerous woman, Lucrezia Borgia, first saw the sleeping Gen- narro in Victor Hugo's melodrama that bears Lucrezia's name. Ulrika gazes down rapt. He stirs. He wakes. A vision swims before his eyes. Can this be true? She seems familiar. He has seen her so many times before. As she strokes his cheek, he emits a heartbroken, wondrous cry of 'Mother!'
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