DIARY
CHARLES MOORE Mr Heseltine has invented a disgust- ing concept called 'caring capitalism'. Mr Biffen does not like people being `raucous'. Mr Hurd thinks that collective Cabinet responsibility is terribly impor- tant. Mr Walker thinks that the Conserva- tives can still win the next general election if they can project their concern about unemployment. These are the forms of words preferred. But if one could see the 'thinks' bubble coming out of their heads, it would read 'Thatcher must go' or (ex- cept, perhaps, in the case of Mr Biffen) 'Make me leader'. Last week, Mr Hurd and I spoke at the Oxford Union, support- ing the motion that 'the Conservative Party is on the right track'. It was our eloquent Opponent, Mr Paul Boateng, who pointed out that Mr Hurd's recital of Tory achieve- ments over the past seven years did not mention Mrs Thatcher once. Of course it is only natural for a politician to want to lead his party, but the current jostling does look both pointless and cowardly. If Mrs Thatcher is really such a disaster it is the duty of those round her to point this out clearly. She is not going to depart because she sees the conspirators whispering in corners. They will have to walk up in broad daylighrand jolly well stab her. None dares to do this, so all should shut up. How can the situation be saved? It is not enough to say that loyalty is important. In the intri- cate vocabulary of Tory politics 'loyalty' is often a word meaning the reverse. A senior minister should make a speech which says that Mrs Thatcher is being attacked, that She shouldn't be and that she should definitely lead the party into the next election. This would best be made by the most senior, and so far the most silent would-be successor, Sir Geoffrey Howe.
Having recently been in Australia, I am able to clear Mr Rupert Murdoch of one charge repeatedly levelled against him during the Wapping dispute. Mr Murdoch calls journalists `journos'. This fact is repeated in dozens of articles about Mr Murdoch as evidence of his contempt for the noble profession. But in Mr Murdoch's native land, the word is widely used, either neutrally — like, for instance,' the word ref in football — or even with a tinge of affection.
W. hatever Mr Murdoch's opinion, we Journalists stand high in the esteem of Galle Face Hotel, Colombo, a more agree- able spot than Wapping. I stayed there on my way to Australia and was royally treated (literally — we were put in the Royal Scandinavian Suite) by the prop- rietor, Mr Cyril Gardiner. In the noble entrance hall, Mr Gardiner has put up a list Of famous people who have stayed at the hotel. This includes not only Lord Mount- batten, Bo Derek and the Duke of Edin- burgh, but also Simon Winchester and Philip Dunn, both of the Sunday Times, and a reporter from the Western Australian whom I am afraid I have never heard of. So my motives are far from pure when I say that the Galle Face is a wonderful hotel.
0 ne characteristic and attractive Au- stralian custom is the Prime Minister's cricket match. The Prime Minister selects a team of first class, but youngish players and pits them against the team of whatever country is visiting. It is a great help to a young cricketer's career to be chosen. It is also a great thing for Canberra, which, for the other 364 days of the year, is markedly less lively than London. This year the match was against New Zealand. I flew to Canberra to see it with the hope of meeting Mr Hawke, the cricket-mad Prime Minis- ter, in the pavilion. For almost the first time in history, it rained and the game was scratched. Mr Hawke sneaked off to play golf with his press secretary in the down- pour. As I wandered disconsolately round the National Gallery, it occurred to me that Mrs Thatcher should start her own cricket match. It would help to give her that dear old British, pipe-smoking, Stan- ley Baldwinesque aura which everyone now complains that she lacks. But then I remembered the difficulties which Mrs Thatcher experiences in choosing a happy team, and thought better of the idea.
We all know how tough politicians are, but in times of crisis such as this, it is surprising how clearly true feelings emerge. Ministers who have lost a battle suddenly look quite different. Mr Leon Brittan has been dignified about his fate, but although he can command his words, he cannot fully command the voice with which he speaks them, nor the expression on his face. Mrs Brittan says in a newspap- er interview that the effect is even harder on the family than on the man himself. I have a separate piece of evidence for this. A friend of mine once taught the infant son of a minister removed by Mrs Thatcher. On the day after the event the boy wrote in his exercise book: 'Mrs Thatcher is a nasty, squashed-up slug with salt and pepper all over it.'
Peregrine Worsthorne, who frequently writes this diary, is incensed by his treat- ment at the hands of Fulham Conservative Association. He wrote to them asking if he could be candidate in the forthcoming by-election and they refused with the clearly trumped-up excuse that his applica- tion was too late. Mr Worsthorne feels that a man of his age and distinction is entitled to something better than this. Indeed he is, and the Fulham Tories have looked a gift horse in the mouth. Worsthorne would have been the perfect candidate for a by-election because in by-elections the candidate must excite the interest and sympathy of the entire press. At this precise juncture in its affairs the Conserva- tive Party desperately needs a figure who can add lustre and gaiety to its name and who can support Mrs Thatcher without sounding irredeemably dreary. It is now certain to lose Fulham. If I lived there, I would walk into the polling station and write 'WORSTHORNE' on the ballot paper.
It was Peregrine Worsthorne who pointed out in this space that everything has become a 'centre'. Now it begins to look as if centres are being superseded. The new word is 'park'. Everything indust- rial or technological now lives in a 'park'. Universities have their 'science parks' and public places have their 'theme parks'. Nothing defines these parks except that they tend to be set off the street. But one can see the subconscious thought behind the word: 'Here is something scientific and that is nasty — let us think of something tame, but natural to describe it.' Some- thing similar is going on when supermar- kets, wishing to put up the price of their cheese or yoghourt, add the word 'farm- house' to the label.
Despite all its recent tribulations, the Daily Telegraph remains a great newspap- er. Its page three for 1 February provided fine and typical examples. The headlines included 'Dog's drunken motor-bike ride', 'Vicar foils attack on girl' and 'Puppy in oven man attacked husband'. What I like best is the skilful way in which the (usually anonymous) reporters quietly disclose the newspaper's prejudices. On the same page of the same issue, under the heading 'Descent into Addiction', a report began: 'Andrew Russell had everything going for him. Born into a middle class family, he was educated at Ottershaw public school in Surrey . . . .'
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