DIARY A.N. WILSON
Most things which I read about the Royal Family confirm me in the republi- canism to which, reading Milton, I was an easy schoolboy convert. Last week's article in The Spectator by Damian Thompson about their religion brought out in me a severe dose of 'Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour'. It reminded me of an evening I once spent in Princess Margaret's company, in the course of which someone mentioned the quasi-religious feelings ex- cited in many bosoms by the thought of the Queen. Someone else spoke of the com- mon phenomenon, in all ranks of society, of dreaming about the Queen, and said that in their case these dreams brought feelings of peace and benediction, as if they had been in the presence of God. `Quite right, too', said Princess Margaret firmly. 'After all, the Queen is God's representative in this realm.' Admittedly the Princess was in a condition which Private Eye would describe as 'tired and emotional', but I got the impression that her words were meant entirely seriously. Presumably, her sister shares this curious belief. Is it widespread, even among the most basileiolatrous of Anglicans? It seems comparable to the most extreme ultramon- tane views of the Pope's special rela- tionship with On High.
The possessive attitude of the Royal Family to the Church is nowhere more apparent than at Sandringham, which I Passed the other day in the car. Until I did so, I had been under the impression that the parish churches of England were places Which anyone could visit freely, though obviously one sometimes has to apply for the key to someone living in a nearby house. Sandringham Parish Church has a notice on the door, some pious quotation from Saint Benedict to the effect that every visitor will be treated as if he were Jesus Christ Himself. The church was locked, so I followed a sign to the verger's cottage and found him at work in his garden. 'Could I please have a key to the church?' I asked. He looked at me as if I were a madman and said that there was restricted access to the church. Had I not seen the signs on the gate that this was a private estate? The church was the Queen's private property and the public should keep out. So, now We know how the Founder of the Christian religion would be treated if He chose to Pay a call on His representative in this realm.
Although I write books, the last thing I would do, if I wanted to make any money, would be to run a bookshop. It is obvious that the world is becoming in- creasingly illiterate, and whole sections of the populace do not read at all. For the owners of most bookshops, the borderline between profit and penury must be a narrow one. I am always struck by the tiny quantities of books they order and sell. One poor country bookseller in Walling- ford was telling me this week that she had ordered two copies of Michael Holroyd's bestselling life of Shaw — Volume II and had been able to 'shift' neither. If this is the fate of a bestseller, what hope can there be for the book trade? Imagine a shop of comparable size selling some other commodity — video-tapes, T-shirts, cameras — which ordered supposedly popular items in twos or threes. The only hope for a bookseller would appear to be that Colonel Gaddafi of Libya would choose to patronise his or her shop. Last week, he got in touch with Foyle's in the Charing Cross Road and said that he wished to build up a library and had half a million pounds to spend. He has apparent- ly already paid this sum to Foyles, and left the choice of books to them. He has, however, specified that his library should 'Oh stop getting heavy, mum.' include the major classics of English litera- ture such as the Sherlock Holmes stories and the novels of Barbara Cartland.
My friend Naim Attallah, the prop- rietor of the Literary Review, Quartet books, and other ornaments of intellectual life, is compiling a volume of interviews with the 30 most important men in the world. I believe it is to be called Men, and includes revealing conversations with Yehudi Menuhin, Lord Goodman, Mon- signor Gilbey, J. K. Galbraith and Richard Ingrams. I was flattered to be asked to be of their number. The company is so grand that it really feels better than being given the OM. (That, now I come to think of it, is what Mr Kinnock can offer me for helping the Party to victory). I said no at first, because I was frightened that Naim would only want to ask me about sex, but in the event he twisted my arm by saying that if I did not consent there would be no young men in his book. In the event, he did not ask me about sex at all, having covered that subject exhaustively with the others. I was glad to help him out by being the voice of youth.
Someone who has no diffidence when discussing his erotic preferences and achievements is Richard Adams, the rabbit man, who celebrated his 70th birthday on 3 May. He has just published his autobiogra- phy, and has been entertaining a trickle of journalists, who have beaten their way to his burrow to ask him questions about his life and times. Lynn Barber's interview with Adams in the Independent last Sunday made compulsive reading with its (surely very eccentric?) reflections on pornogra- phy. 'It's just something a man needs every six weeks or two months or so. I'm what they call in the trade a straight.' But, of course. The previous week, he had told a reporter for another newspaper that he could make the act of love last 45 minutes, but the editor of the paper concerned thought it was too indelicate an item to print. I thought it was impressive. Apart from sex, Adam's favourite subject seems to be myself. Infuriated by my inability to admire his later work as much as I genuine- ly revere Watership Down, he has been telling reporters what he would like to do to me: kick me, throw wine at me, defecate on me. He told the Sunday Express that I made him 'hop' — well, what else? He also said he is no mean swordsman and would like to fight a duel with me. Am I doomed to die the same death as Pushkin? I hope not at Richard Adam's hands since in spite of his occasional need to fly off the handle, I can't help liking him.
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