DIARY JOHN MORTIMER
The problem of judges never having been to prison is one for which I can see no immediate solution except making six months in the slammer, preferably for a crime of which they are entirely innocent, an essential qualification for the Bench. The fact that we have now beaten Turkey for the dishonourable distinction of being the country in Europe that sends the highest percentage of its citizens to gaol, coupled with the horrific events at Strange- ways, should, but probably won't, galva- nise the judiciary into some effective pro- test. The punishment which they have agreed to inflict is deprivation of liberty, not the cruel and unusual penalty of being banged up with a couple of psychopaths and their overflowing chamber-pots for 23 hours a day in a cell seven foot by ten. What is needed is a judicial walk-out until prison conditions are made to conform to the standards of an allegedly civilised community. This is, of course, an idle fantasy. At the seminars on sentencing which embryo judges attend, prison is seen as the only solution in far too many cases, and this simple wisdom will no doubt be handed on to future generations. There is a judge, famous for prolonged sentencing, who has earned himself the title of `Chokey Charlie' (or a very similar soubriquet). Waiting around to sign books the other day, a bright-faced ten-year-old made a welcome appearance. I asked him what name I should write in his copy of Rum- pole. 'I am Chokey Charlie's nephew,' the lad said proudly. I may be doing him an injustice, perhaps he is bound for some harmless profession like being cookery writer or a backbench MP, but at that moment I seemed to see the line of stiff sentencers stretching out to the crack of doom.
The truth is that it's not only possible to be a judge and have no very clear idea of Conditions in the nick; you can go through a lifetime at the criminal bar and never see the inside of a prison cell. We used to meet our clients first in the interview rooms at Brixton, in brightly painted glass cubicles, where the warders, sitting among the pot plants, could keep an eye on us. When you say goodbye to a man you have unsuccess- fully defended at the Old Bailey, neither of you has much idea of what his years ahead will be like. At the moment he's probably relieved that it wasn't quite as bad as he had expected and is still buoyed up by the excitement of the trial. It's only a couple of weeks later that the reality strikes and despair takes over. I was interested to discover the snobbery of prison life. Se- rious criminals who make the headlines are apparently treated as stars by both the inmates and the warders, and notable East End gang leaders, I discovered, were able to carry on property deals from the con- fines of their cells. I once defended a footman who had committed far fewer crimes than the butler with whom he worked. This footman went to prison resenting, above all, the fact that the butler, a multiple murderer, would be treated with special respect, while he would be shunned by the warders and have hot cocoa poured over his head by the other inmates. It's just 200 years since the death of John Howard, the 18th-century prison reformer, and it's perhaps not sur- prising how little has changed.
Away from England torn by prison riots and poll tax riots, I spent a day or two in Milan, a city full of surprises. Tucked away in the industrial townscape are Leonardo's 'Last Supper', rapidly fading, and the beautiful and peaceful cloister of Santa Maria delle Grazie. Huge neon signs surround the gothic cathedral. Intent on `la bella figura', the young Milanese spend a fortune on leather and suede from the Via Montenapoleone, clothes they climb into in a dark and dingy one-roomed apart- ment. I wondered again why the English feel so at home in Italy. In the 19th century we formed such a high proportion of the visitors that all tourists were called ing- lesi', regardless of their nationality; indeed a hall porter was heard to say, 'Ten English arrived tonight, six of them are German and four French.' Fourteen out of Shakespeare's 37 plays are set, or partially set, in Italy and memories of English writers from Byron to D. H. Lawrence haunt the place. Harold Acton, I remem- ber, seemed to have known most of them, and although he had not met the Brown- ings he knew Pen, their indulged son, well. `Pen Browning's favourite pastime', he said in his beautifully articulated manner, `was fornication.' The result is that many of the cafés round Florence are populated by direct descendants of the Barretts of Wim- pole Street. The life of the extended family, disintegrating in England, is still going on in Italy. English girls who work in the British Councils in Milan, Rome and Naples choose local boyfriends, not so much for the charm of the young men as for the kindness of the Italian mothers who do all their washing and mending for them. Back in England their parents are di- vorced, remarried and no longer interested in laundry. Of course, once they get married to their Italians, the English girls will find themselves stuck at the ironing board and the happy days of a free lavanderia will be gone forever.
0 ne of the most bizarre institutions in our strangely run country is 'set aside', or the bribing of farmers, from public funds, not to make a nuisance of themselves by growing anything at all. In many parts of England it's hard to rent a field for sheep or cattle because the farmer can make more out of it by doing nothing. I wonder if the principle of 'set aside', now it has taken a grip on rural England, might be extended to other walks of life. Journalists might be rewarded for not writing, singers bribed to keep quiet, doctors paid not to perform unnecessary surgery, and actors generously remunerated for staying at home. But it's in the field of politics that I think the idea would prove most useful. Acres of the present political landscape would be much better off lying fallow and, coming nearer to the source of the scheme, I would happily see Mr John Selwyn Gummer paid highly not to say anything further at all.
The Tory leadership question, which now consumes so many column inches, seems somewhat dull whilst those who wish to take over from the Prime Minister are busy swearing undying loyalty to her. I like Michael Heseltine, but shouldn't he re- member that Disraeli and Churchill came to office after mercilessly denouncing their own party leaders? Mr Heseltine did excel- lent work in helping to prevent a huge new town being built outside Thame, and when I told him how well he had done he asked me to keep quiet as praise from me was unlikely to do him much good. If he would at last publicly denounce the poll tax I would be prepared to write a vituperative attack on him next week.
Iwas delighted this week when I heard that a short play of mine, set in Russia, might be produced at some time in the Moscow Arts Theatre. I was even more pleased to discover that the translator had been completely stumped by a reference to `muesli', a concoction apparently unknown in the Soviet Union. There may be many drawbacks to life in Russia today, but there is a great deal to be said for a country that has no word for muesli.
Previous page
