DIARY PEREGRINE WORSTHORNE T here is only one salon left in
London — George Weidenfeld's, and I really don't know what we would do without this truly remarkable host who can bring politicians, artists, writers and beautiful women from all corners of the earth — well, all the civilised corners of the earth — together at his dinner table and weld them into a convivial and stimulating gathering. Last Saturday, for example, he gave a party for the President of Israel and a week or two earlier one for Arthur Miller, and doubt- less many others in between. Apart from giving pleasure to the guests — and, one hopes, to the host — what other purpose do these occasions serve? It is difficult to say. But if one reads the diaries or memoirs of famous people it is extraordinary how often the most interesting, amusing and memorable exchanges take place at infor- mal social occasions of this kind. Tradi- tionally, of course, it used to be hostesses who created the right kind of atmosphere for people to speak freely and uninhibited- ly. George seems quite able to do that, too. In Thatcherite Britain this is really quite an achievement since the whole ethos is so heavily utilitarian, and exclusive parties, which give pleasure only to a very few, contribute little to the greatest happiness of the greatest number. Even so I have to confess to finding them much more uplift- ing than staying at home to watch Bob Geldof in Ethiopia. Yes, uplifting. For two or three hours one participates in a fairly ritualised ceremony designed to make it possible for people to please, charm, flat- ter and (in the old sense) make love to each other. Civility rules, or rather reigns. This may not contribute anything at all to the gross national product. But it does contri- bute something, if not much, to civilisation and is a welcome relief to anybody who has had to spend the day enduring the frictions and ferocities of the London Under- ground.
Iwonder whether the Observer is right to boast in its new advertising campaign that the paper is 'the enemy of nonsense', while making use to do so of Edward Lear, that greatest nonsense poet of all time. In its great days during the 1950s the Observer was crammed full of nonsense which was one of the reasons why so many of us then read it so avidly and with such enjoyment. A nonsense ingredient is essential to good journalism as it is essential to good con- versation. Much of what Shaw wrote was nonsense. But this did not stop him being a superb journalist. The same was true of Chesterton and, later, of Malcolm Mugger- idge. Today it is pre-eminently true of Auberon Waugh. Nor am I only referring to the iconoclasts or satirists. Nonsense should be a part of punditry as well, and high seriousness, believe me, is the last refuge of the pundit with nothing to say. In the Observer's good old days scarcely a Sunday went by without an article by Colin Legum advocating democracy for Africa. Read them again today if you want a good laugh at their sheer nonsense. If I were to ban the talking of nonsense, the Sunday Telegraph conferences would peter out before they had begun. No serious news- paper can be the enemy of nonsense, since that would involve too many blank spaces, particularly in the pages usually devoted to politics and diplomacy — above all, sum- mits. In any case, for a newspaper that is truly against nonsense surely it is a bit odd to spend hundreds of thousands of pounds saying so in television commercials of all things. David Astor, under whose editor- ship the Observer reached great heights, was not afraid of nonsense. Indeed he had an unerring eye for it. So should any editor who wants good journalism since the paper that is the enemy of nonsense will soon become the enemy of truth.
M. heart bled for Cecil Parkinson the other evening. He thought he had been invited to say just a few polite post- prandial words at Robert Anderson's annual dinner at Claridge's. (Robert Anderson founded Atlantic Richfield, the oil giant, and is about as unlike J. R. Ewing as it is possible to be.) In the event, however, Cecil found that he was expected to make a full-fledged speech to a vast company that included all the best and brightest from both sides of the Atlantic. I suppose Harold Macmillan or Quintin Hailsham and one or two others of an older generation might just have been able to rise to that kind of occasion on the spur of the moment. But not Cecil Parkinson, who took one look at the upturned faces and gave forth instead a stream of platitudes the like of which would have fallen flat even at a small-town Chamber of Com- merce. For a moment or two I thought he was going to get the slow handclap. But then, inspired, he recovered completely. `Last year', he interjected, 'your guest speaker was Dr Henry Kissinger who is always paid a fat fee. At least my speech, although less erudite, is entirely free.' All was forgiven.
The Conservatives really should be doing more than they are to preserve Dr Owen, who is in danger of sinking without trace. Although himself not a Tory, he is obviously a Tory ally and potentially quite a useful one, perhaps not in the near future, but certainly in the long run. Would it not be a good idea, therefore, to vote him in as the next chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee — a job which would give him extra status and which he would do very well. Not only would this make him beholden to his Tory benefactors but it would also serve the national interest, since he would be much freer than any Tory to call a halt to Mrs Thatcher's growing infatuation with Mr Gorbachev. Giving the chairmanship to Dr Owen would infuriate Labour. But oh! what sport there would be. While on politics let me warn the Government of a superb pam- phlet due to be published early in the new year attacking their plans to 'reform' high- er education. The author is that great historian Elie Kedourie. More to the point, however, the publisher is none other than Mrs Thatcher's very own think-tank, the Centre for Policy Studies.
Instead of the New Statesman I now take the London Review of Books, which seems to me much the best left-wing journal of the period. It is not, as the title suggests, simply a literary journal and has general articles of a very high order as well. For example the current number has a power- ful polemic entitled `Kinnock must go' by the Oxford don, R. W. Johnson, and even many of the book reviews are much more than that. Here at last is a journal of the Left which can be read with profit and enjoyment by educated people who do not share the New Statesman editor's obsession with minority causes. The LRB plus The Spectator — at long last I have found a combination eclectic enough to meet my needs.
Ilooked in the new Hatchards in Kens- ington for a children's book with a Nativity theme and there was not a single one to be found. When this lacuna was pointed out to the shop assistant she kindly said she would order one. 'But I am afraid it won't be here until after Christmas,' she added.
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