DIARY
Andreas Whittam Smith, the editor, has certainly stamped his personality on the Independent. But whether this is a good thing is more open to question. The pap- er's first issue was serious to the point of solemnity — rather reminiscent of the Christian Science Monitor, circa 1950 and almost wholly lacking in fizz, sparkle or humour, the one exception being an article by James Fenton who, unlike the editor, really does have strong and com- mitted views and prejudices. To have William Rees-Mogg writing the first main leader pager also struck me as quite ex- traordinarily unadventurous. The intention presumably was to attract disaffected Times readers who don't like what Mur- doch has done to the paper. But surely an innovating editor would have thought up a better wheeze for doing that than wheeling on dear old William who has been writing those kinds of article since the beginning of time. The paper certainly looks lovely and has marvellous pictures. But it contained nothing in it which I really wanted to read. Try to imagine what the SDP would have been like as a gang of three, without Dr Owen, and one has a pretty good idea of the feel of the Independent. Of course it may improve. But this seems unlikely, since its lack of cutting edge is not a mistake or a failure. It is actually what the editor wants and thinks readers want. We shall see.
During my last diary stint some ten months ago, I wrote something rude about Conrad Black, who had just become my boss. This time I would like to do some- thing much more risky: write something nice about Mr Black — more risky because among journalists sycophancy is judged a far more serious professional misde- meanour than slander. But the record should be put right, particularly in the Spectator, which published a nasty piece about Mr Black on which my comments were based. So far at any rate, the new proprietor of the Telegraphs has behaved quite admirably, both editorially and man- agerially. Neither the journalists, nor the print unions, have any complaints. What is more, on the few times we have run into each other socially, I have found him intelligent, highly well-informed and even amusing. As a result, of course, he remains quite unknown and one can be absolutely certain that a play about him will never be put on at the National Theatre. As it happens, there are some quite funny stor- ies which could be told about him. But because they are friendly and agreeable, showing him to be a nice fellow, they will never appear in Private Eye or an Observer profile. Is it any wonder, therefore, that PEREGRINE WORSTHORNE Britain is beginning to appear such a disagreeable place, when the media is only interested — apart from Royalty — in bastards? And if they are not bastards, then the media does its best to make them seem so, as happened to poor Dukey Hussey last week. The truth about Dukey is that he is about as splendid and decent a man as ever lived and something of a war hero to boot, having lost a leg at Anzio. Time was when disabled warriors could expect a bit of kid-glove treatment from scribblers. No longer. Courage beyond the call of duty no longer seems to impress or be thought at all relevant. Dukey and I were in the same officer cadet squad at Pirbright in 1943. He was much stronger and bigger than the rest of us and used these advantages to stop the NCOs picking on the weaklings. Has this anything to do with whether he will make a good chair- man of the BBC? Possibly not much. But rather more, I suspect, than all that bitchy tittle-tattle that has appeared elsewhere.
As for Sir Ian MacGregor, something very peculiar is happening to him. Collins took the Vintners' Hall last week to cele- brate his book, invited all the great and good, and scarcely anybody important turned up. The banquet table was laid up for hundreds and there were vast great gaping holes. So far as I could judge there was not a single minister or even MP present; only a few journalists and City people. Admittedly Sir Ian has written a rude book. But surely that would not explain the Establishment giving him such a humiliatingly public snub. The only comparison I can recall was a dinner in the 1950s for Bomber Harris, which was equal- ly boycotted by the great and the good. In Harris's case, of course, it was because of squeamishness about his policy of satura- tion bombing. Once the war was safely won, it became fashionable to argue that the bombing of Dresden was a war crime etc, and Bomber Harris nothing but a barbarian brute. One suspects the same fate is being prepared for Sir Ian MacGre- gor. The great and the good are going to make him the scapegoat for having fought a rough civil war, but only after the victory has been safely won. God, how I hate the great and the good.
Editors and City editors get certain perks and one of the best of them is an invitation from Lord and Lady Forte to attend the great Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe race at Longchamp — sponsored by Trust House Forte. One gets flown out in the most slap-up manner possible, and it is all great fun. But this is not another Taki story of luxurious high life. For what impressed me most was not the racing, nor the celebrities at the party — including Jeffrey Bernard — but the quite extraordinary skill and bravery of the two French police- men on motorcycles who escorted our bus back from Longchamps to Orly in the full Sunday evening traffic. I have never seen anything like it in my life. They would charge down the wrong side of boulevards, driving the fast oncoming traffic to one side, chivvying and snapping like sheep- dogs at cars which did not respond to their imperious waves instantly. The whole op- eration looked quite incredibly dangerous and could well have proved fatal for the policemen had not the French drivers behaved, for the most part, like sheep, seeming to know what was expected of them by instinct. As a result our bus was able to travel across rush-hour Paris at 50 mph without once having to slow down. Such an operation in London would have required dozens of police at crossroads etc, since it is quite inconceivable that London traffic would have been willing to co- operate so passively. The motor cyclists in question were, it is true, the President of France's personal outriders, which raises another interesting question. Is it conceiv- able that the guests of a French sponsor of an English race would receive such pre- ferential treatment from the British police? As for the racing itself, I only remember waking up from a deep champagne- induced post-prandial doze with a start, thinking that I was back at the Labour Party Conference. It was all those upper- class shouts of 'There they go' which my somnolent, dulled subconscious had stupid- ly mistaken for Arthur Scargill's famous war cry.
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