DIARY
ANDREW NEIL have decamped, as always, to my house in the south of France for August. It lies a mile or so east of Grasse in a secluded val- ley packed tight with trees, a safe and reclu- sive half-hour away from the well-heeled hordes who invade the French Riviera at this time of year. It is the perfect place to relax and unwind; but it is an even better place to work. My office used to shelter goats in winter; now it is crammed with computers, fax machines, printers, tele- phones, high-speed Internet connections and satellite TV — all the paraphernalia of the information age that allow me to run my various businesses 1,300 miles south of head office. I know I should be taking more time off but, for me, a change of venue is as good as a rest, and I work at my own pace and on my own conditions: no meetings, no calls from anybody I don't want to speak to (thanks to an ingenious piece of screening software) and hours that suit me. London is only 90 minutes away if there is an emer- gency or I feel the need for a face-to-face meeting. As the godchildren and friends splash about in the pool below, I'm ensconced in my Mission Control, plotting the next stage of the relaunch of the Scots- man, planning an autumn promotion push for Sunday Business, considering various tempting acquisitions and raising venture capital for our dotcom operations. All this from an 18th-century bastide whose core was started bravely in the year of the French Revolution, when news clearly did not travel as quickly as it does today.
Ihave fallen into a pretty settled routine down here, which has a rhythm all of its own. I begin the day with the Today pro- gramme or Sky News, much like in London. I'm usually in my office before 8 a.m. UK time, and I've read the main British and American broadsheets on the Internet before my editors and managers make it to their offices, by which time I have sent them a batch of emails with various helpful obser- vations and instructions. I'm sure they're all very grateful for this long-distance care and attention. (I'm just glad Rupert Murdoch didn't discover email when I was editor of the Sunday Times1) I stop for lunch at 2 p.m. local time and listen to the World at One while munching a salad by the pool. Then it's time to relax in the sun, usually with a good book and the Radio Three afternoon concert in the background. I return to my office at about 5 p.m. to mop up the day, always finishing in time to watch the Channel 4 News before supper. Then a nightcap while watching Frasier on Paramount (which has become the default channel for those who now despair of decent entertainment on the BBC or ITV), followed by a final news-junkie 'fix' from Newsnight, though I resent having to stay awake through a boring and unnecessary third item before I can see the next day's newspaper front pages. As you can see, we know how to live the high life in these parts.
am currently struggling through the recent works of Linda Colley, Norman Davies, Tom Nairn, Andrew Man and vari- ous other intellectuals and commentators whose main mission in life seems to be the destruction of the United Kingdom. Why have our left-wing intelligentsia always hated Britain and the British? Their prede- cessors preferred the Soviet Union: some spied for it, others became Lenin's useful idiots. Now that turning Britain into a Sovi- et Shangri-La is no longer an option, today's liberal-left intellectuals are cam- paigning instead for its break-up. They seek to undermine our multi-nation state by arguing that Britain is past its sell-by date, that the very idea of Britishness is a fleeting concept which passed away with the decline of empire. The Blairite government's obsession with Europe plays into their hands: how can you preach the virtues of a strong and independent Britain when your main mission is to paint the country as so weak it has no choice but to be subsumed into a European superstate? The biggest prize for those who detest our country would be Scottish independence: that 'Money does grow on trees — but he tries to convince me it's a bonsai.' would destroy the United Kingdom for ever and allow Brussels to gobble up its constituent parts. A few years ago most fashionable opinion in London and Edin- burgh assumed Scottish independence was only a matter of time; now it looks as far away as ever. I hope the staunchly pro- unionist new Scotsman has played its part in turning the tide; that would certainly account for the attacks it generates among the nationalist blethering classes.
All work and no play makes even Andrew a dull boy, so it's off to St Tropez for a day of debauchery. The only way to go is by boat, and as we drop anchor off the beach in time for lunch we can already hear the thump-thump of disco emanating from La Voile Rouge. This legend of the St Trop scene was almost closed earlier this year for reasons which remained obscure; but clearly the right palms are being greased once more and the place is in full swing. Models glide past the table in the latest skimpy fashions as we tuck into salade nicoise and glug down bottles of Domaine Ott, the best rosé in the region. Around 3 p.m. the music changes from Western to Arab, evidence that petro- dollars can still buy influence. The owner appears with a magnum of ICristal and swipes its neck off with a scimitar, much to the delight of his big-spending Arab cus- tomers, who seem to spill more than they drink (as all good Muslims should). After years in decline, St Trop is on a roll again as the number one hedonistic resort for Europe's young and moneyed. Even the reported sightings this month of Geri Halli- well, Robbie Williams, David Beckham and his wife 'Posh' Spice cannot diminish its renewed lustre. One day a year is enough for me. But I feel that a professional boule- vardier like my old mate Perry Worsthorne would revel in it for at least a week.
The editor of the Scotsman calls to tell me she has spent the weekend listening to the relentless moans of the luvvies who run the Edinburgh Festival Fringe: they are up in arms because the paper is being more selective in the acts it reviews. No more automatic notices for Marxist trapeze artists from north Islington sounds a good policy to me. I tell her that a paper whose sales are up by over 30 per cent because it is no longer the mouthpiece of the Edin- burgh blethering classes should not be cowed by a few folk who do nothing for us. 'If they don't show some gratitude for the massive coverage we still give the Fringe,' she muses, 'then I might abandon it alto- gether.' My mind conjures up a headline: 'Scotsman boycotts ungrateful Fringe'. I like the look of that.
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