CENTREPIECE

Australia's charm, refinement and HP sauce

COLIN WELCH

Ihave greatly enjoyed my first visit to Australia,' the earnest man from the Times declared. 'I hope it will not be my last. Meanwhile, I would like to take back some souvenir or memento, something wholly characteristic of, ahem, "down under", which will recall to me and suggest to my wife, unable alas to be with us here, Australia's unique and gracious charm. Now what, Mr Watson, would you sug- gest?'

More than 30 years ago, it was my first intercontinental freebie. BP had very kind- ly invited a party of hacks from London to

witness the opening of its new refinery at Kwinana, Westralia. At Sydney we were

reinforced by antipodean hacks, including Mr Kingston (`King' to his friends, of course) Watson, then editor of the Sydney Daily Telegraph. King's humorous face was as wrinkled as a walnut, a bit like a sun-baked Sid James. Long and carefully he pondered the Times man's request. At last he spoke: 'What about a bottle of HP sauce?'

His wise counsel came back to me when I read a recent headline, 'Reagan lifts US ban on HP sauce'. A kindly President had noted that the ban had brought 'unantici- pated consequences' and 'severe hardships' to 'users' of the sauce, not only Britons but presumably Australians too, whose nation- al symbol King had pronounced it to be. Good on yer, Ron! King's pronouncement was indeed a symbol perhaps of Australia's Coming of age, marked by an ability to laugh at herself, as also by a heartening eagerness to absorb and learn from hither- to shunned swarthy Mediterranean im- moes: already then pavement cafes pro- liferated at King's Cross.

Our party was in the charge of a delight- fully avuncular BP boffin, his converse liberally spiked with self-parody, lemon Juice and Tabasco. Even at Heathrow he had introduced me to a fantastic refine- ment of U and non-U behaviour. A gorgeous Quantas hostess came with a box of cigarettes. She innocently enquired, `Do you smaoke?"Damn cheek, these inter- rogations', he burbled as she wiggled off up the aisle. 'What's it matter to her whether We smoke or not? Why doesn't she just Offer us a cigarette and have done with it?' True courtesy would have left us free to smoke it, chew it or instal it over the ear.

The boffin had been in Abadan during the crisis. Of Dr Mossadeq he took a more Jaundiced view than that propounded by Brian Lapping in the End of Empire television series. So far from thinking him 'well-connected, incorruptible and dedi- cated to the principles of liberal democra- cy', he compared the Doctor unfavourably with hatters, fruitcakes, coots and other symbols of insanity. 'Trouble is, we never bribed them properly. They expect it, you know. The Yanks told us to butter them up, but we were too grand and stuffy. Don't ask them if they drink or smoke — causes offence. Just slip 'em Havanas and the Widow — that's the drill.'

Mr Dick Stokes had flown to Teheran to impress upon Dr Mossadeq the dire con- sequences of seizing the Abadan refinery.

Frustrated, Mr Stokes reported back to the Cabinet: Dr Mossadeq's only response to every threat had been, `Arimporte, n'im- porter `Namport, namport,' Mr Attlee broke in: 'a Persian term, I take it?' I ask you!' the boffin wailed. 'Rotten school, Haileybury. Hope you weren't there?'

Memories crowd back. At a Perth barbe- cue I was introduced to a tall, voluptuous girl: 'Shill, meet Collen, Collen, meet Shirl, and this is Kevven.' Shirrs opening gambit was unexpected, though highly topical in view of her attire. 'When I sit on a wickerwork chair in short shorts, Collen, I get a criss-cross pattern on my bum.

Look!' I left her with Kevven and sought advice. Provocative her remark certainly was. Was it meant to be? Was it a 'come-on'? Or was it the fruit of innocent naivety? 'Certainly the last,' my host judged, 'make no mistake. Just take the conversation straight on from there.' 'Another sort of damn cheek,' the boffin mused. I returned, disappointed.

We were driven in a Holden limousine to a nature park. The driver stopped abruptly and pointed: 'a kookaburra!' There it sat in solemn silence on a nearby branch about six feet off the ground. The Times and the Economist conscientiously tiptoed across and stopped beneath it, ears cocked atten- tively, as if expecting delicate flute-like tweets, trills and melodies and eager not to miss a limpid note. King, familiar with the bird's utterances, stayed in the car, sur- veying the music lovers with a saurian eye. 'Look at those two drongoes. If that baastard issues a statement, it's like an engine whistle. You can hear it five miles off.' Taciturn as Coolidge, the bird had no message for the nation.

Two wild New Zealanders left Perth early. We took a bottle of Corio dry gin to the airport to soothe the pain of parting. Farewells were effusive and boisterous, with much back-slapping and embracing, culminating in the wilder of the two snatch- ing the gin with a triumphant guffaw and charging off zigzag across the tarmac like an All Black wing three-quarter. We only gave up the chase when, appalled, we saw the thief's head pass unscathed between the revolving blades of the propeller. .

Fate brought us all together in Sydne.y — the New Zealanders, a luxuriant Austra- lian who'd served in the Brigade, or so he said ('No, not the fire brigade, Callen, the f—ing Grenadiers'), a couple of nurses. Drinking hours in Sydney were then res- tricted, so we adjourned to my bedroom for room service. At about three in the morning Peter Kirk, not yet an MP, insisted on ringing up his (I think) god- father, E. W. Swanton, in Brisbane. 'He'll never forgive me if I don't.' He'll never forgive you if you do' — but the genial old boy did. He took it well.

Waking hesitantly and with forebodings the next morning, I found myself lying stark naked on the bed-cover. A 'don't disturb' card had been thoughtfully hung on a — well — convenient projection. I looked around with mounting horror. De- bris of last night's knees-up: only to be expected. Less reassuring a cup of cold tea, white-filmed, beside the bed, and a huge breakfast congealing on a tray; a suit back from the cleaners hung on the door hook; on the stool a parcel of clean shirts; on the floor, the day's Sydney Morning Herald. My shame must have been witnessed by half the staff (and who knew who else besides? The nurses? Well, at least they must have seen it all before) of a hotel so respectable that it couldn't tolerate shirt- sleeves at 100 in the shade!

Yes, yes, but what about the refinery? Ah, the refinery. . . . Did I ever get to it? I dutifully wrote an article for the Daily Telegraph, but lavish press kits may have sufficed for that. Memory is a perverse sieve, retaining curious trifles, allowing to escape what is 'important' and 'serious'. Enthusiastic Israeli government press offic- ers showed me on a later trip a potash works. What do I recall of that save that it was at Sodom?