SHARED OPINION
The only abnormal thing about Alan is that he was normal
FRANK JOHNSON
Aan Clark, at the time of writing, has had such a good send-off that revisionism must be imminent. If a revisionist — that is, hostile — version of Clark's character has not appeared by the time this is read, it would be a natural course for someone in the Sunday papers. He became a cult because he flattered the people who make the most noise: the extremes of the Right, but also of the Left, His diaries are only admired because a serious politician, or indeed serious person, would not thus, in all senses of the term, expose himself. He was the beneficiary of that forelock-touch- ing to which, in Britain, even left-wing female MPs are prone. Had a prole said any of that stuff about blacks, they would have had the law on him. And so on. Such a piece would not be hard to construct. Nor would it be unconvincing. I knew Clark quite well for more than 20 years. I despised what he said about blacks and (more privately) about Jews, thought his approval of soccer hooligans pathetic, deplored his cultivation of journalists (apart from myself) and did not find him 'lovable'. I enjoyed his company because he achieved a feat of being both interesting and normal.
Normal? What, Clark? Yes. The obituar- ists got it the wrong way round. It was Alan who was normal, and most other politicians who were, and are, outrageous. The normal thing, for a human being, is to go around being very occasionally sublime, but for most of the time ridiculous. Only peo- ple in such reserved occupations as politi- cian, corporate executive, educational administrator, and so on, believe it essential never to appear ridiculous. They never learn that people in such positions are objects of constant ridicule, and cannot be otherwise, given the disparity between reality and their outward appearance.
There was nothing especially outrageous about Alan Clark, had he been in any other walk of life. Like most people outside the above mentioned categories, he was in turns outspoken, inconsistent, irritable, irri- tating, generous, mean, and all the other minor vices and major virtues — in a word, human. The racism? I refer above to what he 'said' about blacks and Jews. That was not necessarily what he believed. Were I a black or Jew, on the run in a racist state, I would have sought refuge at Saltwood rather than with most professional anti- racists in Islington. Alan's loathings, at our first meeting, were many. They included the United States and Edward Heath. Over the years, the loathing of the United States remained constant. The loathing of Edward Heath was ex officio being transferred to whoever led the Conservative party, except for Lady Thatcher. True, she was pro-Ameri- can, but that was only because she was ignorant.
He managed to be both a snob and a loather of the British upper classes. Only a few of the latter were exempt, such as Edward VIII. That monarch was all right because he had tried to keep us out of war with Germany, and cared about the unem- ployed. So different from the rest of the House of Windsor, who also wanted to keep us out of war with Germany — until they saw that Churchill was safely winning it — but who couldn't care less about the unemployed provided they didn't threaten the House of Windsor's personal wealth or safety which, being British and therefore by definition virtuous, the unemployed never would — more fool them. (Like many snobs, Alan romanticised the workers.) In his Albany set he was host to my 40th birth- day party. I submitted my guest list. 'Can't have him,' he said of a Tory MP, Tom Arnold, son of the famous circus man. `He's frightfully middle-class. Glad you've asked Eric Heifer, though.'
Since his death, people who knew that I knew him have asked whether I was aware of all that sex. I offer an anecdote. One evening, when he was a Defence minister, I met him for a drink at the Ritz and he told me he was in trouble again. He had just been to see the Cabinet Secretary. The problem this time was that he had had an affair with a girl while at the same time he was having an affair with her mother. You know, he added, the way one gets into such a situation. 'Of course,' I replied, for with Alan it was always best never to seem unworldly.
Well, the point was that the husband — that is, also the father — was after him. He was some sort of colonial judge; it had all come to the attention of our friends in the security services, which was how the Cabi- net Secretary knew about it; but Alan was quite sure Margaret would be understand- ing. So that was his trouble. Oh yeah, I drawled, and may even have yawned a bit for extra effect. Of course I did not believe him. He was just trying to be interesting again. Later, when the diaries were pub- lished, there was a coded reference to the matter — the bit about a 'coven' of women causing him difficulties. I did not believe that either. I did not believe a lot in the diaries.
Years later still, I picked up a Sunday tabloid and found that the tale of the wife, the daughter and the judge was all true. So I would never know whether he was a good liar. I concede that it is not 'normal' to be involved at the same time with a wife, her daughter, a husband and father, and the Cabinet Secretary, and to assume that the Prime Minister would be sympathetic. So Alan's troubles were occasionally abnormal, but occasionally to be in trouble is not. Only abnormal people make out that all is going well for them all of the time.
Still, Alan and trouble did sometimes seem synonymous. He was not only in trou- ble, but the cause of trouble for others. Only, of course, if you were his friend. Readers of this magazine whose memories go back four years or so will remember the diary he contributed to my first issue as edi- tor. He included some exuberant abuse of my predecessor, Mr Dominic Lawson. I had forgotten that they had had some feud — something to do with those dubious arms sales of Alan's, I think, but probably per- sonal too. So I printed it, assuming that Mr Lawson would take it robustly. After it appeared, and during the ensuing fuss, Alan telephoned me to compliment me on my courage. I replied by quoting General Conde who, when complimented on his courage, replied that he took care to use it sparingly. 'That's frightfully good,' Alan retorted. 'Can I use that in my next book review?'
I suggested that we get back to the trou- ble concerned. He assured me that it would be 'all right'. I replied along the lines of: `What do you mean "all right", Al?' Alan calmly replied that, if the trouble got out of hand, he would just say that he wrote the offending words in a covering note, and that it was I who put them in the diary. After I stopped laughing, I triumphantly replied that I had taken care to retain his original manuscript. He replied: 'That's frightfully middle-class.' I laughed once more. I find it hard to believe that I will never laugh with him again.
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