DIARY
PETER McKAY Friends who have met him say that the Foreign Secretary, Robin Cook, is good company in private life. He likes a drink and is fond of gossip. In appearance, he's a mixture of the cartoon hero Popeye and the fierce, girning Scotsman who used to ter- rorise Laurel and Hardy in long-ago comic films. Added to these exotic influences, he has that slightly ruffianly air we associate with racing fans. I can picture him running an Epsom Downs three-card-trick school on Derby Day, telling his cohorts to keep their eyes skinned for rozzers. The black- comedy circumstances of his recent divorce and remarriage — with Mr Cook's then mistress, now wife, sitting in a darkened flat to conceal herself from the snooping press — require no rehearsal here, but they add an element of Beachcomber's caddish Cap- tain Foulenough to his persona. Handled properly, Mr Cook possesses enough natu- ral comedic resources to become the most popular minister in the government. In fact, it is hard to recall a more annoying foreign secretary. Am I alone in finding him literally intolerable to listen to on the radio? I fantasise about smashing my wire- less into tiny, beyond-re-assembly pieces, possibly on an anvil. When interviewed, Mr Cook sighs impatiently like an ill-tempered Scottish headmaster being questioned for the school magazine by a nervous third-for- mer. His bristling manner suggests that here he is, knowing everything there is to know, and some fool persists in wasting his time by misunderstanding his answers. On television, he's even worse. The 'took, I'll try to explain this as simply as possible' manner is accompanied by theatrical facial expressions. We know in our bones it is an act. How does he get away with it? By avoiding broadcasters who might go for him. Since becoming Foreign Secretary Mr Cook has appeared on Frost on Sunday 17 times but declined all invitations to take part in John Humphrys's On the Record show, which goes out three hours later.
Lwyers for the Stansted alleged hijack- ers — 'alleged' because they've now been charged — applied to the court to prevent their names being published. I don't know whether the point was to shield them from public attention here or in Afghanistan, but the application failed. Three barristers and six solicitors — presumably on legal aid represent the 13 men, who are aged from 18 to 36. We are told the cases could last for months, if not years. Lay folk hopelessly ignorant of legal matters wonder why the case can't be dealt with straightaway. In our ill-informed way we imagine there can be no dispute that the men used guns and threats of violence to cause the airliner to be flown to Britain. But what if they argue that they are political refugees, enemies of Afghan's ruling Taleban, and took this action to save their lives? Ordinary criminal cases routinely take months to prepare, weeks to fight and further months in appeals. Each refinement to our laws requires more paperwork, evi- dence-gathering and argument. The Lord Chancellor frightens lawyers by saying he's determined to slash the legal-aid bill, but there's a limit to how far he can go without being shamed out of his reforms by cries that he's diluting the quality of justice. We only have speedy, arbitrary 'tough luck, old chum' justice in the case of crimes we really deplore, like drunk and disorderly cases.
Acomputer graphics expert, Karl Hackett, aged 37, receives a suspended five- month jail sentence for pretending he'd been killed in the Paddington rail crash, which claimed the lives of 31 passengers. Beset with personal problems, doolally Mr Hackett sought a new identity. His real offence was causing grief among his rela- tives, some of whom visited the crash scene after he phoned an emergency line, falsely `That's no obelisk, that's my wife.' reporting his presence in burnt-out Coach H, but he was charged with wasting police time. It's a curious offence. I imagine half of those who ring or visit stations waste police time. Police themselves are obliged to waste enormous amounts of time. A boyhood friend in Scotland who became a bobby told me that boredom arising out of their inabili- ty to devise novel ways of wasting time sometimes drove him and his colleagues to time-consuming practical jokes. One of them took a great deal of time to tape a half bottle of whisky to his head beneath his hel- met. He enjoyed the startled looks he received when he took his hat off during on- the-beat conversations with the public.
Nasa plans to send astronauts on a three-year mission to Mars in 2020. There's a strong chance that they won't come back. Even the modest-by-comparison space mis- sions thus far completed have disclosed a whole range of peculiar diseases. Years of zero gravity and cosmic rays — iron particles travelling at near the speed of light — may tear human bodies apart. A Nasa spokesman tells the New Yorker, 'No explor- er has ever been guaranteed a return ticket.' Space exploration is all about mathematics and moolah; intricate computer calculations and huge sums of public money fed to aerospace contractors. But I doubt if we'd bother without the human drama and romance. One of the astronauts who hopes to be chosen is 50-year-old Bonnie Dunbar, who says, 'I think of my grandfather who came from Scotland. He had a dream to come to America, took a rickety boat across the sea, and went west into wilderness. If my life ends on a Mars mission, that's not a bad way to go.' I was at Cape Canaveral to see Sally Ride become the first American woman in space in June 1983. Her Majesty's press were allowed one question to Nasa experts who were describing rocket trajecto- ries and launch windows. Imagine our pride when the Sunday Mirror's space expert stepped forward to inquire, 'Will Miss Ride be carrying lipstick in the capsule?'
Feminists adore this one. Drunk in dark bar lurches up to three women and asks if they'd like to hear his joke about 'a sexy blonde'. One of the women says, 'Perhaps its too dark for you to see, but I'm a blonde. I'm also a 1801b tri-athlete. My friend Doris here, who's also blonde, is a top weightlifter. Tracy here is a blonde wrestler who could tie you in a small knot and stuff you down the loo. Do you really think you should tell us a joke about a sexy blonde?' The drunk considers the matter, then replies, 'Not if I've got to explain it to all three of you.'
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