DIARY
RICHARD LITTLEJOHN
To the victors, the spoils. But in caring, sharing New Britain all must have prizes. Thus Robin Cook, one of the big losers in the Cabinet reshuffle, is allowed to stay on at the foreign secretary's official London residence in Carlton Gardens despite being demoted to Leader of the House of Commons, a job with all the gravitas of cinema usherette in our emasculated Mother of Parliaments. The only condition is that Cook and the lovely Gaynor confine themselves to the upper floors, so that Jack Straw, Cookie's successor, can use the house for his official engagements and receptions. I have visions of Cook peeping enviously out of a top-storey window as Jack's glittering guests arrive for a party; or sitting at the top of the stairs in his pyjamas, like Christopher Robin, perhaps sucking his thumb or clutching a security blanket, gazing through the banisters at the revelry from which he has been excluded. Cook seems to think that he secured a great victory in being allowed to remain at Carlton Gardens under this bizarre Upstairs Downstairs arrangement. Does he not realise that he is a complete laughingstock? There is milage in this for the Tories. Some years ago the 'actress' Pia Zadora persuaded her sugar-daddy to bankroll a Broadway production of The Diary of Anne Frank, with her in the title role. Halfway through the first act, as the German soldiers stormed through the front door, the audience cried in unison, 'She's in the a-ttic!' This was not intended to denigrate the memory of Anne Frank, but to reflect Miss Zadora's risible performance. Robin Cook, like most of the New Labour crowd, is vulnerable to ridicule. Two Jags still bridles every time Bunter Soames taunts him with a curt 'Gin and tonic, please, steward.' Whenever Cookie gets to his feet in the Commons, Conservative MPs should greet him with a pantomimestyle 'He's in the a-ttic!'
What is it with New Labour and property? They're obsessed with their grace-andfavour homes and the value of their own houses. The Wicked Witch is said to complain constantly to her husband, the Prime Minister, that they took a bath, profit-wise, when they sold their house in Islington and moved into No. 10 Downing Street in 1997. Peter Mandelson's property-related travails are well documented. Even though Mandy was forced to sell up and repay his IMF-style home loan from Geoffrey Robinson, he still managed to make a tidy profit of about £250,000 on the house that Geoff bought. Given that the home in Notting Hill was purchased with money he shouldn't have borrowed, a debt he couldn't afford to service, would it not have been reasonable to
expect him to donate his windfall to charity? I've never understood Mandy's need to live in Notting Hill. Why should ministers expect to live above the shop, or in fashionable London media ghettoes? I know one newly promoted member of the Cabinet who lives in Bromley, and still manages to get to his desk in Whitehall before everyone else. Why can't Mandy and Cookie buy themselves neat little semis in Metroland? Cookie can certainly afford it, since the Cabinet gave themselves a 47 per cent pay rise last week. Mandy's not short of a few bob after selling his last flat. Yet now he's shacking up with Reinaldo, his exotic companion, and another confirmed bachelor, at Shaun Woodward's Queen Anne's Gate molly house. I would rather live in a cardboard box in the Strand.
Speaking of living in a box, that's how I've spent the last couple of weeks, confined to radio booths at Broadcasting House and White City, plugging my new novel, To Hell in a Handcart. It's a ritual with which all authors are familiar. The big shows, the Steve Wrights and Mark Law
sons, are recorded face-to-face, The local stations are done down the line from a remote studio not much bigger than Robert Maxwell's coffin. If it's Tuesday, it must be Radio Wisbech. The presenters are only doing their job, and are a cheery bunch, considering that some of them must be aware that foot-and-mouth has wiped out 75 per cent of their available audience. But one starts to tire of the same seven questions for the umpteenth time. What struck me most, however, was that all the Eddies and Freddies, from Cleveland to Cornwall, sounded exactly the same. Alan Partridge is alive and well. Eventually, you lose the will to live. After my fifth — or was it sixth? — interview last Wednesday, I took a break. The charming studio assistant told me that the record number of interviews from that studio in one day was 78 — a Stakhanovite performance from the BBC's political correspondent Paul Rowley. He should write a book. He's done the hard work already.
To Hell in a Handcart is set against the madness of modern Britain, and was partinspired by the case of Tony Martin, the farmer who shot a burglar while defending his home and his possessions. For many of us, Martin is a political prisoner, a victim of the perverted system that passes for British justice and law enforcement these days. To the fascist Left, he is a mad vigilante. I'm delighted that the book has been warmly received and generously reviewed on the Right. But I'm even more thrilled that it has sent the Left into paroxysms of vituperative, bilious condemnation. They can't resist it, can they? They always rise to the bait. The Guardian called the novel 'racist, sexist, homophobic trash'. I'm going to put that on the cover. Writing the novel was worth it for the book launch alone. Geny's Club in Soho was packed to the rafters with fully paid-up members of the Forces of Conservatism. At one stage, Kelvin MacKenzie turned to Simon Heifer and suggested that if someone threw a grenade into the room it would wipe out 50 per cent of the right-wing opinion in Britain at a stroke. 'More than that, I hope,' Heifer replied. 'I account for 30 per cent.'
It's that time of year when many of us find ourselves sitting in marquees at cricket matches, race meetings and garden parties. I have one golden rule. Eat before you go. They always give you poached salmon, which I loathe. It's got worse since footand-mouth. At a polo tournament a couple of weeks ago, I politely declined a plate of the ubiquitous fish. 'Would you like the vegetarian alternative?' the waitress asked. 'I thought that was the vegetarian alternative,' I said.
Previous page
