The Questing Vole
' There is a distinctly dark cloud settling upon what was, until lately, considered one of New
Labour's chirpiest and most up-and-coming households. Consider, with sympathy, the revengers' tragedy of thwarted ambition that has struck Liz (that is, Baroness) Symons and her husband Phil Bassett. The former craved and deserved the job of Leader of the Lords — only to see it given to Lady Amos; the latter, who headed No. 10's research and information unit, hoped, in vain, to be shooed in as the successor to Alastair Campbell. 'Very grumpy' is the analysis of a well-wishing political analyst.
It was surrounded by a terrifying display of guns, bombs, tanks and planes on Monday night that the men and women of the press enjoyed the annual orgy of drinking and shouting that is the Society of Editors' Dinner. The venue: the Imperial War Museum. This distinguished event gathers the brightest and best professionals in the newspaper trade: men who could spot a literal at 500 metres, under fire, in thick fog; women who would sooner surrender their fertility than let an erroneous picture caption make its way into print. Tickling, then, that the programme for the event, on page two, in huge type, announced that I grace would be said before supper by the Rector of the Fleet Street church, St Bride's, identified as `Cannon' David Meara. Which all goes to show, I suppose, that they should have asked some subeditors along. 'I bet you're going to put a stupid joke about cannons and the Imperial War Museum in the Questing Vole column.' said the shrewd colleague out to whom I pointed the error. 'Yup,' said I. postmodernly.
C pare a thought for Philip Morris, the probably-lung-cancer-causing tobacco giant working harder than most companies to prevent consumers buying its products. It has voluntarily elected to include on its fag packets little fold-out leaflets containing additional health warnings. The leaflet, a copy of which has been leaked to the Vole by a tobacconist, is headed 'Smoking can cause a slow and painful death', and warns 'Don't think smoking won't affect your health . . . . There is no such thing as a safe cigarette . . . Explain to [your children] why they shouldn't smoke.' And so forth. The anti-smoking group Ash has condemned the plan as a 'cynical marketing tactic'. Is the idea, then, that smokers should be encouraged to smoke, so that they die of lung cancer as a punishment for smoking? This is a brave and pioneering example of post-Christian philosophy: hate the sinner but love the sin,
Abaffling gulf in the national psyche has emerged. Why was lain Duncan Smith's speech at the Tory party conference in Blackpool cheered to the ecstatic echo by those in the conference hall, and seen as risibly useless by a large proportion of those who watched it on telly? Surely there's more to it than simply the stuffing of the audience with swivel-eyed Tory fedayeen, in advance, by Conservative Central Office. A theory; it's the telly effect. IDS delivered his speech to an audience who were sitting below his podium. He read it, mostly, from one or other of two autocues at shin-level. These he was fixing with his charismatic, sparselyforested eyes — to brilliant effect if you are a member of the faithful troops, or an autocue. . . but to a television camera roughly at eye-level, giving the impression of a slump-shouldered, downcast-eyed, depressed and hopeless defeatist.
T Tnlikel■,, partnership of the week: tow
headed, abstemious Charlie Kennedy, leader of the Liberal Democrats, and D.B.C. Pierre, the former junkie. con-artist and allround roustabout who has just won the 2003 Man Booker Prize for his first novel, Vernon God Little. During the long, boring preamble to the prize announcement, the pair fell into conversation on the steps of the British Museum, where they both spent a good portion of the evening having cigarette breaks. Many back-clappings and `seeyalaters' followed, though Mr Kennedy seems to have skipped the after-party.
Afriendly reader writes in to contend that the Press Complaints Commission is not
— well, not entirely — infallible. In the records of its proceedings, he points out, there appear a number of successful complaints from one Robin Jones, described as 'MP for Ultralase'. No such MP, let alone constituency, exists. Mr Jones is the PR for a company that uses laser surgery to correct short sight.
There is word from my — admittedly unreliable — agricultural correspondent, Adams. 'Went pigeon shooting on Saturday at a place called Box Farm, in Marsh Gibbon. Oxfordshire,' he harrumphs, tweedily. The people who take you out are a load of beer-bellied farming types. About 10 a.m., a posh car — a Beamer, I think
— rolls up the drive, and we're told that it's the Kuwaiti military attaché. He's with his two kids (boys, about 12 years old) and a driver. They're all wearing jeans and sunglasses. They get tooled up with about a dozen fairly hardcore-looking shotguns and head off in a Land-Rover, with a load of camouflage clothing in the back. Apparently, the guns were semi-automatics — softer on the shoulder if you are shooting the truly disgusting quantity of birds they wanted to.' Not sure what to make of all this, but I pass it on.
riongratulations to Ivo Mosley, grandson of the more famous Oswald. He this week publishes a book called Democracy, Fascism and the New World Order, selling line: 'Sir Oswald Mosley's grandson uncovers the totalitarianism lurking in Third Way populist democracies.' His previous book on `dumbing down' was praised as raising 'important questions, which most of us would rather not hear'.
Qh, the joy, the joy, of the London %.../ Library. I mentioned the other week the Library's membership survey; and, obligingly, a friend leaks me the 'some members' comments' section of the results. Nothing sums up the spirit of the library better, I think, than this one: 'I would caution against discarding any book solely on the grounds that it has not been taken out for a long time — I relish the fact that we have a two-volume history of wheelbarrows and a folio volume on the history of the telephone in Brazil before 1908. We must not lose such as these.' Quite so.
Incidentally, a conversation too seldom overheard in the London Library: 'Ho there! I haven't seen you here in ages!"No, I live in Henley. I'm a country member.' I do remember!'
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