Watkins's Judgment Day

Byron Rogers

In a book-lined room in Islington a man 1-dressed only in a short dressing gown, and with the alarming habit of suddenly crossing his legs, has for two years been preparing an interim report for the Almighty: Mr Alan Watkins has sat in judg- ment on the quick, the very quick and the dead.

There are 28 entries in his Brief Lives. Once there were 29 but Brian Walden, a former politician, got hold of a copy and, to Mr Watkins's amazement, objected to being described as a liar and fantasist. The remaining 28 have not been read for libel. 'I think they'll have the flags out in the Tem- ple when it appears,' reflected Mr Watkins. `And the bunting,' he added. He is a precise man.

All 28 were known to him: most are either journalists or politicians. He had in- dexed their homosexual fieldcraft (though only that of the dead), named one's mistress, accused another of an all- prevading sexual jealousy, and a third, who would not answer questions about his early life, of crippling snobbery. He has been a busy man. In this Mr Watkins, who is Welsh, has achieved one of the great ambitions of his race, to pass moral judgment on his con- temporaries in public. Behind the net cur- tains of South Wales the courts, like that of Judge Roy Bean, are always in session. There is a poignancy to it as Mr Watkins has been sturdily on the run from his origins for most of his adult life: this is another traditional Welsh pastime.

A grammarian wrote in the 16th century: `You will find some that no sooner see the River Severn or the clock towers of Shrewsbury and hear the Saxon say in his tongue, "Good morrow" than they begin to forget their Welsh.' In Mr Watkins's case the landmarks were El Vino's and the Garrick Club.

He was born 49 years ago in a Carmar- thenshire mining village where his ex- perience of childhood was one shared by many Welsh only children: his shoes were cleaned for him, his meals prepared, and permission to join the Boy Scouts refused for fear of rheumatism in tents. Like a thoroughbred he was prepared for the hurdles of the Welsh Joint Education Council. But there was one difference. His mother, who was virulently against all things Welsh, brought him up to speak only English in a Welsh-speaking community. A perfect English, he recalled. At an early age the subjunctive became a sort of imaginary playmate and he was later with confidence able to criticise the grammar of his contem- poraries in print. Loneliness, he maintains, has been a great help in his career.

Both parents were school-teachers, his father a very large man prone to nightmares after war service, in the course of which he would get up and attack the family ward- robe. Because of his size he wrote off many wardrobes. He also smuggled his son's se- cond, Welsh name, of Rhun on to his birth certificate. The name is still there in Mr

Watkins's Who's Who entry, though he has put brackets around it where another man would have left it out altogether. 'My life,' he claims, 'is an open book'. His address and telephone number are also in Who's Who.

Though he received nothing but discouragement from his school he went to Cambridge and read law. 'This chap I'd known at school told me that being a bar- rister was no job for a working class boy.' Watkins stopped. 'He went on to win the ludicrous crown or the ludicrous chair at an Eisteddfod.' He dismisses Welsh culture even more blithely than Goering: it was, he said, just so much amateurism and sen- timentality, though he himself does not speak the language.

The last lap on his own road to Damascus was a train journey between London and Cambridge. 'I said to myself, "Watkins, old lad." ' (He is given to such apostrophe.)

"Watkins, old lad, who'd you rather be, Lord Justice Devlin or Henry Fairlie of the Spectator?" By the end of the journey I had no doubts.'

He entered journalism in a dramatic way, by writing on John Junor's appearance at the Bar of the House of Commons, charged with contempt of Parliament. The article appeared in Socialist Commentary; it was not, said Mr Watkins thoughtfully, a very critical article. Junor made him a feature- writer and later a political columnist on the Sunday Express. The Spectator, New Statesman and Oberver followed. Alan Watkins, a Labour politician has observed, is probably the only columnist in the country who really understands politics. He has returned the compliment. Unlike many of his colleagues he does not regard politicians as so many brass-faced egomaniacs and crooks. 'I have a great regard for them. I don't think they're even in it for the power. If they'd wanted that they could have become bus- conductors or headmistresses. They become politicians only to lead slightly more ex- citing lives.' He is even more generous about the vowels of his countryman, Roy Jenkins, perhaps the most formidable piece of living engineering since Baron Franken- stein threw the switch.

But to demonstrate his independence he briskly went through a catalogue: James Callaghan CI despise him as a nasty and embittered man'); George Brown (`I've never gone in for this "lovable George Brown" '); Hailsham Ca windbag and a bully'); Jo Grimond Ca self-satisfied and conceited man'). Was that enough? he en- quired politely.

He writes about 3,000 words a week, all in long-hand, sitting at home in his dressing gown. Half his waking hours are spent in the dressing gown. Yes, he did wear underwear underneath, said Mr Watkins, but only when ladies or his neighbour, Mr Frank Johnson, called, Mr Johnson having a fine aesthetic sense.

He writes easily. 'I say to myself, "Watkins, old lad, we'll go for 450 words an hour" '. The room with the books he designed himself: the cigar boxes are in certain place, the cookery books, the tables, and, though an excellent host, he writhes when this order is disturbed. He consider. himself to be an easy-going man, though b's nearest and dearest, he said, were of til opinion that he was a martinet and bully, It is a small flat where he has lived follovag the break-up of his marriage, first with hies son, latterly with his daughter. Rack wine-bottles line the short passage-way. Like most drinkers he is as fascinated as° gardener by the blossom on his contelli.s poraries. He reports that Simon Ravenhn `pinkish', Healey 'apoplectic', St Jo e Stevas 'rubicund'. He notes with sort regret in his Brief Lives that St Plici Stevas's rubicundity is not apparent °efi television. Even in conversation he is Pr )11,1 to moral judgments (`So and so is a "'I person'). He has no embarrassment ab?li this, regarding himself as a man of probit)f; Whenever he bought Geoffrey Wheatcro, lunch he entered it as such in his expens°;' he He said di s proudly: adamant Ln nu nocnhe wt ni tihn gW. la 1r the rising hem of his dressing-gown, Watkins said he was not God. He has fuer` ly been of some assistance.

Brief Lives is reviewed by Auberon Wangh on page 21.