DIARY
ANDREW MARR The last red-gold light of evening flash- es along the south aspect of Westminster; the Thames flows almost sweetly; and at every terrace table Conservative MPs are at their happiest. They do love a nice assassi- nation, particularly when the potential victim has wandered into the one-way street shouting 'come and get me' at the shadows. One table has it that Portillo will be Prime Minister next month; the next that he is finished, trumped by Redwood. There is particularly savage criticism of Major's failure to ensure that when he said he had the support of the 1922 Committee and the Casbinet, he really had. I write this on Tuesday, but already it's hard to imag- ine that Portillo and Heseltine will be able to entirely keep their nerve until the results of► the first ballot are in; I'd expect some not so discreet weekend canvassing by both camps. In the meanwhile, I look forward particularly to hearing Portillo explain what parts of the Redwood manifesto he objects to. On the terrace there is an unwhole- some and regrettable debate about which is less human than the other. One experi- enced old right-winger takes me to one side and patiently explains: 'The differ- ence is this. If Portillo was convinced that the slaughter of all pensioners was in the public interest, he'd just go straight ahead and get on with it. John Redwood's not like that. Not at all. He'd shake their hands first.'
Norman Lamont, who shared an office with Redwood at Rothschild's many moons ago, seems very chipper about not taking on the role of chief challenger. But it repre- sents a blunting of his earlier ambition. He was sternly told by another leading Tory after he resigned that he had three choices. He could make a lot of money in the City; or he could make speeches from the back- benches and hope to return to government; or he could bring down Major. He could do any two of the above, but not all three. 'Oh, really?' replied Norman. 'I don't see why not.'
This contest is a nightmare for hackery, as well as for troubled Tories. I was taking a modest refreshment with one back- bencher who told me that a) Major was fin- ished and b) he would probably help kill him off, either by voting for Redwood or abstaining. Then one of his local hacks hap- pens along. My chum immediately informs him loudly that he is voting for the Prime Minister who he is absolutely sure will win on first ballot — and, yes, 'you can quote me on that'. Of such rotten straw are the most solid-seeming newspaper assertions constructed. People call it 'jogging'. In most cases, mine included, it is more like a cross between lurching and staggering — lugger- ing about, perhaps. I do my luggering round Richmond Park, which allows one to admire Nature in between wondering whether one is about to throw up all over it. Apart from that, I think about John Lewis. Not the store, but the forgotten hero, a Richmond brewer who, on 3 April 1758, won back the rights of public way across London's finest park. He had tried to force his way through the East Sheen Gate, the park having been closed to the public on the orders of the Walpole family, and then the daughter of George II. He was con- fronted by the doorkeeper, one Martha Gray. According to a near-contemporary account, 'the woman pusht, Lewis suffered the door to be shut upon him, and brought his action'. And then, bedad, he won it, at Kingston Assizes. Lewis was asked whether he wanted a door put in the surrounding wall, or a step-ladder over it? He apparent- ly hesitated but decided that walkers, see- ing a door, might assume they weren't allowed to use it, whereas 'a step-ladder, at first inspection, would signify its use to every beholder'. Step-ladders were duly set up. A 'vast concourse' poured in, and has been there ever since. Lewis later went `It's Saturday night, it's five to eight, now burn those National Lottery tickets.' back to the court protesting that the authorities had left so much space between the steps that children and old people were unable to climb in. This too was rectified. For me as a Scot, the story is particularly satisfying because it sums up the ambigu- ous attitude of the English to authority. There is Lewis himself, the truculent small- timer, who takes on the deer-hunting oli-. garchy and wins — the spirit of admirable English insubordination made flesh. But there is also Lewis's wry acknowledgment that his fellow countrymen may be too def- erential to push at an open door. For both action and insight, Lewis deserves a great big plaque on East Sheen Gate.
It was distressing to lose Giles Auty, The Spectator's art critic. But it was horrifying to read Marina Warner in his place even for one week. This woman appears to like modern art. What the hell is she doing reviewing? The obvious candidate for the job is surely Paul Johnson, whose brilliant scoop about Nicolas Poussin still reverber- ates through the 'art' world. Johnson point- ed out that Poussin was a bit of a French- man. Good point! I have visited the recent exhibition of Impressionists at the Hayward and made a terrible discovery. They are almost all of them French, too! This is pre- sumably why they paint with cheese, and can't be bothered to put haywains, or laughing children in their pictures. The authorities, with typical arrogance and con- tempt for native British intelligence, had even tried to hide the truth by changing a few names in the exhibition — 'Alfred Sis- ley' — just imagine! Johnson, who spotted that Poussin had stuck a lot of bloody wings on bloody babies, would soon sort that lot out. Yet of course he can't have the job and for the saddest of reasons. After years of reading him to work up a healthy rage in the morning, my entertainment has been ruined. I hear that 'Paul Johnson' is merely another of Craig Brown's humorous cre- ations, like 'Wallace Arnold'. Brown appar- ently hires a marmalade-haired fellow to wander around London parties to add to the jape, but even so I feel very foolish. How many Spectator readers, I wonder, have also been thus conned?
Meanwhile, a final piece of political gossip from my daughter Isabel, aged three. who was busy working on a strange humanoid figure made of cardboard. Who was it? 'John Major,' she replied firmly, `wearing his pink dress.' You read it here first.
Andrew Marr is political commentator for the Independent.
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