DIARY
SIMON KELNER
Ihave always thought I was allergic to the English countryside: too melancholic, too dark, too many Daily Mail readers. So it was with some misgivings that I received the news from my wife that we had taken a lease on a cottage in Oxfordshire. I should say that the property is in the grounds of Blenheim Palace, so it’s not exactly the untamed wilds of the countryside: we have 2,000 acres of beautifully tended Capability Brown parkland to enjoy, we are only an hour and a half from the Ivy, and our fellow tenants on the estate are public relations chiefs, television presenters and TV production executives. In fact, a residents’ committee meeting here would be like a night at the Groucho club. Nevertheless, it has brought me into contact with the sort of people I would not normally encounter. Like Mr Margadale, the piano-tuner, who delivered a treatise on political correctness that climaxed with the assertion that ‘you can be prosecuted for referring to black ice these days’. Or Mr Benson, the gardener, who, when I told him what I did for a living, replied, ‘Ah well, keeps you busy, I expect.’ Ihave been inspired by the way other unreconstructed townies of my acquaintance have fallen for the country life. My friend Alex James, who plays bass in the rock band Blur, exchanged his fabulous Covent Garden flat for a rambling pile, with working farm attached, in Gloucestershire. He used to fly his own plane and now he drives a tractor. He was once a famous London roustabout but now he has a wife, a child and a suit from Holland and Holland. So assimilated is he into his new environment that not only does he look at the property ads in Country Life, but he reads the articles as well. They visited us at the weekend. At one time, Alex would have arrived with a bottle of bourbon and various stimulants. Now, he brought a box of vegetables grown in his garden and a book, The Townies’ Guide to the Countryside by Jill Mason. It includes useful advice on harecoursing (‘If a lot of hares are killed, a move is made to a different field which favours the hare.’ How sporting!), stag-hunting and ferreting. I fear, however, it will be a long time before someone from the Independent is told, as a member of the Telegraph staff once was, ‘I’m sorry, but the editor is out cubbing.’ Why are people in the country obsessed with shooting everything that moves, from pheasants to burglars? And why do they try to camouflage their intentions? At the Blenheim Country Fair there was an exhibition by the British Association of Shooting and Conservation. From what I could see from their displays, the accent was very much on the former. Perhaps it was in the great British tradition of organisations meaning the opposite of their title. For example, you should know that any company with ‘professional’ in its name is usually anything but, while an organisation calling itself ‘international’ is generally more local than the parish council. And always give a wide berth to anything with ‘freedom’ in its title.
Much has been written, often in this very magazine, about the ungraciousness of modern-day sportsmen. So a vignette from the final moment of England’s remarkable cricket victory over Australia at Edgbaston is worth keeping in mind as a counterbalance. The final wicket had been taken, England had won by just two runs, and players and crowd were united in uninhibited celebration of one of the most thrilling victories in Test cricket history. However, one England player did not immediately seek the embrace of his team-mates. Andrew Flintoff, whose heroics with bat and ball had made all this triumphalism possible, sought instead the Australian Brett Lee, who was their last man standing after an innings of astonishing bravery and skill. Lee had sunk to his knees, distraught that his courage had come to naught. Flintoff crouched beside him, put a meaty arm around him and offered sincere words of consolation. It was a truly moving moment. Flintoff is a big character in every sense of the term, a true son of Lancashire (I am proud to say) and someone who, as well as taking on the Australians almost single-handed, can restore one’s faith in the essential qualities of sport.
The member of our family who is unequivocal about the appeal of the country life is our recently acquired dog, a standard long-haired dachshund of whom we have high hopes. He finds the contrast with his London life exciting. On his nighttime constitutional, he has exchanged the sounds of sirens, car alarms and police helicopters for the more captivating calls of owls, foxes and other indeterminate wildlife. The other night we met a man walking a Jack Russell terrier. Our dog tried to be sociable, but found only a hostile response. ‘I’m afraid he’s not very good with dogs,’ the stranger said, apologetically. I wondered, in that case, what his dog is good with. Aardvarks? Zebras? It must be something of a drawback not to be good with dogs if you are, in fact, a dog yourself.
Many of the tributes to Robin Cook this week have had a consistent theme: a lament for what might have been, for promise unfulfilled. I feel the same way about my friendship with Robin. I got to know him properly when he left office and I hired him to write a column for the Independent. Our friendship survived his later defection to the Guardian — exercised with clinical, even brutal, swiftness over lunch at Pont de la Tour. As has been well chronicled, he was a man with a rich hinterland and a lively humour. A few months ago, he and Gaynor were guests of ours at a black-tie dinner at the Dorchester. Late in the evening, one of his fellow guests was expressing the view to Robin that members of the Blair administration lacked the erudition and cultural reach of politicians of yore. By way of disagreement, Robin told the story of how, when he entered Parliament in 1974, he was invited by Harold Wilson to join the new intake of Labour MPs for a reception in Downing Street. Wilson took them on a tour of No. 10, but was somewhat sketchy in his knowledge of the art works. Robin, one of the most mimicked politicians of our age, did a passable impression of Wilson. ‘And these are the nudes,’ the Prime Minister told the gathering. ‘They’re Botticellis, but I call them chilly botties.’ As well as our views on Iraq and electoral reform, Robin and I had a shared interest in horse-racing and dogs. He had two Scotties (this was possibly the only thing he had in common with George W. Bush) and he and Gaynor brought one of them, Tasker, round to our flat to help socialise our new puppy. At one stage Robin, completely unbidden and without ceremony, cleaned up our dog’s poo. I know this does not count as one of Robin Cook’s most significant achievements, but in a small, telling way it does go to show what a man he was.
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