DIARY
Who said, on television last week, 'All of the democracies are bankrupt now, because of the way the services have been planned for people to grab'? Milton Fried- man? Margaret Thatcher? It sounds too extreme to have been uttered by John Major. In fact, it was said by Her Majesty the Queen to a frantically nodding Ronald Reagan on board the good yacht Britannia. It was the most fascinating moment of a fascinating BBC film, commemorating the 40th anniversary of Her Majesty's acces- sion. Strangely, this unique example of the Queen publicly giving vent to her political opinions was not picked up by the legion of `royal' columnists, who were all far too busy chortling over the Queen's admittedly memorable put-down of Mr Edward Heath. I was even more surprised that such republican newspapers as the Independent and the Sunday Times did not link the Queen's remark to their running campaign against the Government's handing over of £50 million or so a year to our non-taxpay- ing monarch. Of course it is not entirely clear what the Queen was trying to tell Mr Reagan, in between her attempts to find the former President some decaffeinated coffee. Did she mean all public services, or just what we have come to call the social services? Either way, it suggests that the Queen must view with some dismay her Government's decision this week to give public sector employees all the wage increases their review bodies demanded, no questions asked. We are even more bankrupt now. Those who reviewed the film pointed out that the Duke of Edin- burgh was notable by his absence except, we are told, from the cutting-room floor. But I sensed the Duke's strong influence on the Queen's remarks about bankrupt democracies and people who grab, just as one could sometimes sense Denis Thatch- er's influence when his wife switched from the democratic to the demotic.
lizabeth R' was simultaneously broadcast in France. A relative — of mine that is, not of the Queen — who saw the French version tells me that there were no subtitles. All the voices were dubbed, including the monarch's. Apparently the voice of the French 'Queen' was not at all smart, but I suppose the French could claim that the Queen's eldest uncle favoured a kind of royal cockney. I wonder if the French even changed the bit where Her Majesty says, `Ah, Monsieur Mitter- rand, vous connaissez Monsieur Heath?' Perhaps they did, since the French monar- chs never used anything but `tu', reckoning that they need not accord anyone the respect of the second person plural.
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DOMINIC LAWSON The programme, mischievously called `ER Indoors' by one of our cartoonists last week, was the first I have watched for almost a year. We had no television which worked, and I was surprised how little I missed it. But we were given a television and a video recorder — for a wedding pre- sent, and it's always fun to play with new toys. In particular, the video recorder came with a handset called Video Plus. This is an extraordinary gadget which enables one to record programmes in advance simply by keying in a number. Every programme has its own Video Plus number. They are the otherwise incomprehensible digits which you now see in all the newspaper listings of television programmes. The only television listings guide which does not give these video code numbers is, strangely, the Radio Times. A friend of ours discovered this when he tried to video-record a programme he had seen in that magazine. Thinking that the codes had been omitted by acci- dent, he rang up the BBC. No, said the BBC spokesman, we don't have the codes. But, my friend complained, everybody else has them, including TV Times and all the newspapers. Look, said the BBC man, it's very modern technology we're talking about here. Then his voice brightened: 'But we expect to be publishing the codes in the Radio Times in three years time.' I am beginning to think that Mr Rupert Mur- doch might be right about the BBC after all.
The nation is united in mourning over the fate of David Lawrence's left knee. Indeed, the pictures of the Gloucestershire I think you should know I prefer the company of other birds.' and England fast bowler lying on the Wellington wicket bellowing with pain were distressing. One felt, if he had been a horse, that one would have taken out a gun and done the decent thing. But I can't help recalling the occasion, three and a half years ago, when in poor light on a nippy Bristol track, David Lawrence let fly a bouncer at a helmetless Phil Simmons, fracturing the West Indian's skull. Sim- mons' life was saved only by an emergency brain operation. At the time, I recall Lawrence's colleagues going on about how distressing the incident was to the bowler. Expressions of concern for the batsman evaporated as soon as he was off the critical list. Why should batsmen maimed by intent gain less sympathy than bowlers who injure themselves? I suppose I should not com- plain, since I benefited from these double standards when I used to masquerade as a fast bowler. I remember one match a few years ago, in which I deliberately bowled a bouncer at a batsman who was making me look foolish. The ball struck him in the eye, and he staggered back on to the stumps screaming, 'my eye, my eye.' As his collaps- ing body broke the stumps, my wicket- keeper cried out, `Owzat?'. While the bats- man, blood pouring from the wound, was taken to hospital, his colleagues insisted on patting me on the shoulder, telling me not to worry and that it wasn't my fault. The English are a strange lot.
My main reaction to the extraordinary amount of press coverage devoted to the Ashdown affair was one of pleasure. It meant I could turn over many pages of newsprint without feeling that I was missing anything important. Nor did I feel particu- larly outraged. If newspapers from the highest to the lowest wish to wallow in such things, let them. But what I could not stand was the self-justifying cant with which newspapers as varied as the Scotsman, the Times and the News of the World filled their leader columns, all to say why they didn't like what they were doing, but that they had a duty to do it. There is nothing more repulsive than a newspaper examining in public what it claims to be its conscience. Publish whatever you think sells, gentlemen of the press, but please don't beg us to admire you for doing it.
Yesterday we received the dreadful news that Christopher Fildes' wife, Frederi- ca, has died as a result of a motor accident in Morocco. Christopher was travelling with her, and has been slightly injured. I am sure that all our readers will join with us in offering Christopher our heartfelt sympa- thy.
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