DIARY
DOMINIC LAWSON Ihave been here before. It was about 22 years ago. In October 1967 the Daily Express repudiated the D Notice system and published extracts from an American book called The Espionage Establishment. The Daily Express's main interest — and the substance of the scoop — was that the book named 'M', the head of MI6, as Sir Dick White. Such information was ge- nuinely sensational in those days, and the Times dipped its toe in the water only two days later by noting nervously that the Daily Express has published the names of men alleged to be the heads of the secret service'. (The Express has not changed so much: 'What is he really like, this white- haired ruddy-faced man?' it delightedly burbled on). Nigel Lawson, the then editor of The Spectator, was able to follow up the story in rather better style than the Times. He remarked, in 'Spectator's Notebook', the forerunner of the Diary, that he had known a year and a half previously that Sir Dick was 'NC, because 'it was then that my small son said to me, "It's a pity you're not famous like Stephen White's father: he's head of the Secret Service." ' When I came across this old column last week I assumed I must have gained the information about White from an extraor- dinary book called Me. This was the autobiography of Stephen White, printed privately by the school we attended, Cum- nor House, in Danehill. I don't suppose many 12-year-olds have published an auto- biography, still less one with a preface by C. P. Snow, whose son Philip was also one of about 70 boys at the best of Sussex's countless prep schools. But having dug up my slightly foxed copy of Me, I can find no reference to Stephen's father's occupation, except for one passage about 'weird' sub- terranean car parks full of 'huge shiny cars, and men in grey uniforms'. I can only guess that it was common knowledge at the school. My feelings now are first, that it was naïve even for a nine-year-old to think that to have a famous father would be an unmitigated joy, and second, that to obtain one's best scoop before becoming a jour- nalist is a shame and a waste.
Auberon Waugh's demolition last week of the mendacious campaign by the RSPCA to restore the dog licence was only reinforced by an advertisement in the same issue, one which also appeared in many other papers. It purported to show a dead dog in a body bag. Underneath this photo- graph is the punchy copywriting: 'This doggy bag contains a dead doggy.' It doesn't, of course. An RSPCA spokes- woman told me that 'we would never use the body of a real dead dog to make this point.' I don't see why not, but if the RSPCA was consistent in this sentimental- ity, one might not take exception. But what about that pile of dead dogs apparently photographed for the earlier advertisement addressed by Mr Waugh? What were they? Convincing examples of the taxidermist's art? A job lot from a doggy Madam Tussaud's? No, the same spokeswoman from the RSPCA admitted, those were indeed real freshly killed dead dogs, those were. Dead men tell no tales. But dead dogs do, it seems.
It may not rank alongside Bull 1, Man- olete 0 in the ring at Linares as a 'shock result', but Nigel Short's demolition of Anatoly Karpov in the same town last Sunday was still a great achievement. (Nigel chose the Spanish opening, which should have pleased his hosts.) We spent the week before this chess event touring Andalucia with Nigel and his wife, and I would like to be able to claim that I was part of an intensive last-minute brain- storming exercise. But in fact Britain s greatest — and the world's third strongest — chessplayer did not even pack a chess set. Instead the four of us played countless games of 'Oh Hell!', a sort of perverted whist. Nigel kept winning at that too, dammit. Incidentally I was surprised to see the Times, in its report of the tournament, refer to Boris Gulko as representing the Soviet Union. Boris spent, many terrible years trying to avoid that dubious distinc- tion, and only after an excruciating hunger strike two years ago in which his wife joined did the Soviet authorities let the couple emigrate. But Boris must have felt he had never left, when he arrived in Spain to find that the tournament organisers had specially flown in Viktor Baturinsky from Moscow to act as referee. Mr V. P. Baturinsky, a squat, toad-like figure, had been a political prosecutor during the Stalin era. Isn't glasnost wonderful?
In Wapping, England, where the Gulko gaffe originated, journalists have found that their already inadequate car park Is being chewed up by machines taking core samples for a projected 16-floor 'Media Tower'. An executive at News Internation- al seemed almost to share my Murdochian sentiment that this disturbance would only serve to improve efficiency, since it would mean that the journalists would have even more incentive to arrive early at work, and grab one of the few remaining parking places. It appears that the newspapers will eventually all move in to a section of the Parking Lot Tower, and the listed rum warehouses which now house them will be turned into a 'walk-through shopping mall.' I can see it now, with copies of the Sunday Times instead of chocolate bars as the impulse buy at the end of the mall• Yummy.
Until now I had never seen the point of those front doors which open in halves, top and bottom. Until, that is, we went last week to the best bar in Granada, La Tribuna, in the Carrera del Darro, next door to the Convent of Santa Catalina de Zafra. Very convenient for the nuns. Luis Ceron, the owner, regularly keeps the lower half of his door shut. Then, if he likes the look of the people who poke their heads in, he adopts an open door policy, Luis used to be a rally driver, or at least that is what I think he said after he drove us ear-poppingly from the top of the Sierra Nevada to the bottom in under half an hour. But it was getting on for four o'clock, he apologised, and he had to think about cooking lunch for the customers on the wrong side of the door.
Previous page
