. . . about lucky generals
THEN Jock's luck turned once more. It was at the time of the Falklands war. His candid comment — 'being biffed by the Argies is a mug's game' — became public property. The Prime Minister, who appreciated Jock, let him off with a cau- tion, but Knutsford would not forgive. At the election, there was no seat, safe or unsafe, for Jock, and he and I found ourselves back writing columns for The Spectator. If he repined, he did not show it. His jaunty style, his nose for absurdity, his impatience of humbug,.his instinct for the interaction of character and policy, of the oddly-matched couple arguing over the garden wall in Downing Street, of big and small wheels revolving in the Treasury and the Bank of England — these were unique. Then one day he told me that he could not concentrate to type his work out. I blamed his bicycle (bucketing down to the Docks in all weathers) and urged him to go on holiday. It was a brain tumour. To that blow, he responded with the best of all his writing (reprinted on page 15) — looking at death, not with bitterness or stoicism or resignation, but with candour. Jock's can- dour, in alliance with his humour, was positively reckless. A less candid man, a more careful man, a duller man could have been a luckier general. Indeed, dozens of them are. They sit on the Treasury benches or in the back seats of their black cars with their red boxes, they are defined by their offices, they are interchangeable — and none of them is Jock.
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