Another voice
An orphan's curse
Auberon Waugh There was something unutterably sad about a recent article in the Sunday Times Where, under the heading 'The MiddleClass Defectors' Mr Hugo Young revealed that many of his middle-class friends were seriously thinking of voting Conservative for the first time. In five general elections it has honestly never crossed my mind that to vote Labour might be a clever or smart or amusing thing for me to do. But the middleclass Labour voter has always been a national institution, like the passionate Seaside landlady, the vituperative motherEn-law, the vicar with an eye for choirboys and all the other standard comics in our national repertory.
can't help wondering whether Mr Young's friends are not being as silly and unreflective in their new decision to vote Conservative as they were in their earlier affectation of voting Labour. It is hard to disentangle motives in a field where moral Priggishness and funk compete under a smokescreen of economic analysis, where Intellectual snobbery and sheep-like conformitY must pose as a battle between educational standards and the requireMents of social justice. But various reasons have been suggested for this defection, One Is that the middle class has come to its senses over education and has finally seen through all the turgid rhetoric about mixed ,bIlitY classes, the evils of selection and the li)dignity of second-class citizenship. Per it now realises, even in its silly, spoiled rInges, that the working class in power approaches the Great Education Debate armed with exactly the same concept of social justice as the proverbial dog in the manger.
Another suggestion is that the ending of 1ne war in Vietnam has put a stop to all !Ile Painless emotional luxuries of left-wing Involvement. Last year—about five years after everyone else—I got round to seeing a Performance of Hair in Bristol. What was °nee claimed as the expression of a whole generation's idealism had degenerated into a squalid and cynical sex show. One knew, course, by then, that America had lost 1,he war, that those who argued on the v„Priuno effect had been proved right, that ine retreat from South-East Asia was not dictated by noble ideals but by cowardice and moral indifference. More importantly, :riLe had learned from Phnom Penh exactly at, sort of heaven on earth this selfless 'ealisrn was directed towards. The baneful effects of trade union power 41.13 e most apparent, I dare say, in industry, L.ut few of us take much interest in this. 710st civilised Englishmen have a natural re
Pugoance from Heath-style industrial efficiency. We are in favour of as much inefficiency as we can get away with, whether it is over-manning, work-sharing and exorbitant tea-breaks for the workers or spectacularly long luncheon hours for ourselves. I honestly think this is the best and sanest approach to manufacturing industry and work in general; we can all learn something from trade union philosophy on this point, and it distresses me that so many don't agree. But it all depends on an exact judgment of what we can get away with and the chief trouble where the trade unions are in power is that they are too stupid, and too conditioned to bargaining, to make this judgment for themselves with the necessary degree of accuracy.
However, this scarcely adds up to a reason for voting Conservative when one reflects on the industrial consequences of a Conservative victory. One of the strongest cards in Mr Healey's hand as he travels round with his begging bowl is to say that if he can't get a loan there will have to be a general election which Mrs Thatcher will win. Those in this country who are not prepared to take the threat seriously should consider how much the foreigners have been prepared to pay to avert it.
No, the only real reason must be an accumulation of discoveries adding up to the perception that the working class—or more particularly a new gang of thugs representing themselves as its leaders—is now in control. In former times, the spectacle of a rich man railing against the idleness and greed of the working class was held, reasonably enough, to be both unattractive and ridiculous. But the time is fast approaching when the rich must either think of something to say and do in their own defence or accept their immolation on the altar of equality.
A great difficulty here has always been to identify the rich, since few people see themselves as rich, or hold any brief for those who are richer than themselves. But with the arrival of workers' power it becomes a little easier. To be rich is to be anybody—self-employed, retired, professional, managerial or entrepreneurialwho is not at one and the same time educationally sub-normal, a member of a powerful trade union and a council house tenant. When we have identified ourselves we must harden our hearts against the luxury of pitying the less fortunate.
It may be fun to read in the Sunday Times about the tribulations of a middleclass man's journey into the working class, but it is 1960s fun. It was always part of the pathetic fallacy to pretend that they rind it as much as we would, but the more
important consideration now is that unless we stir ourselves, we shall indeed find ourselves in exactly their position. To the , objection that we at least enjoy our jobs and find them satisfying the answer is surely that no form of work could ever be devised that would be enjoyable or satisfying to these whining slobs.
Over Christmas I received a letter from my accountant which has overturned all my previous convictions. In reply to what I thought was a facetious inquiry, he confirmed that I am indeed paying 80p in the pound on the 'top slice' of my earnings. Since nothing is less calculated to win sympathy from the multitude than the sight of a rich man complaining about his taxes, I shall not bother to describe the feelings of self-pity, melancholy and slothful inertia which now visit me in waves. One anecdote will suffice.
Some time ago I was asked by one of my editors if I would write an extra review. Not feeling particularly keen on the job, I stipulated a fee of £150—quite a steep demand, it is true. The editor consented after ritual moans about his wife and children and, after sending minions to report me for avarice to William Hickey of the Daily Express, eventually agreed.
I do not ask for sympathy. The rich, as I say, must learn to live with the jealous hatred of those less well-to-do. I do not even deign to mention that, like MajorGeneral Stanley, I am an orphan boy. [ simply record that fact that since I learned how only thirty pounds of this £150 will come to me and £120 must be distributed among the lower classes, all the joy has gone out of my life. This time the brutes have gone too far.
My first step, of course, was a New Year resolution to do no more work. I have cancelled an article for an American magazine and another for a French newspaper, on the grounds that neither Mr Healey nor his oafish, pig-like suppporters have done anything to deserve the foreign currency. As soon as my youngest son enters university, I. shall go bankrupt, owing a king's ransom to the Inland Revenue, and let the state look after me from then on. But is this enough?
I suspect that it was at around this point that Mr Hugo Young's finger-clicking, socially aware, middle-glass friends decided to vote Conservative for the first time. Needless to say, their addled little heads have once again come up with exactly the wrong answer. It would be the greatest disaster imaginable for Mrs Thatcher to win the next general election. There is nothing whatever she can do about the mess we are in except take the blame for it. The only chance this country'will ever have of revenging itself on the cowards and villains who are responsible for our present abject state, and the only chance ultimately of returning to a state of stability and concordia ordinum, is to ensure that these same cowards and villains are re-elected for another term of office.
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