School for scandal
Bill Grundy
Due to a curious concatenation of circumstances too complicated to detail — which roughly means I have no idea how the hell I got there — I found myself, the other day, discussing the validity of the gossip column with that prince of the ignoble art, Mr Nigel Dempster. Mr Dempster, unusually for him, seemed to be having doubts about the meaning of life and his purpose here on earth. In particular, he appeared to be worried about his role as a gossip columnist. Was it a suitable job for a healthy lad, he asked. Putting on the avuncular manner for which I am famous throughout Fleet Street, I told him, much to my surprise, that I thought it was. My surprise was occasioned by the fact that whenever before I have mentioned the members of this sub-branch of journalism, it has usually been to have a go at them for their boring triviality and general irrelevance. But as I listened to myself talking to Mr Dempster — for, like the celebrated little girl, how can I know what I am thinking until I hear what I'm saying? — I realised that I had found some sort of justification for Nigel and his colleagues after all.
Broadly, the argument goes like this. People are human beings and, as such, have a habit of being human. What they get up to, on or off duty, is worth observing, since it all helps to form a picture of what they are really like. And only in the context of the total personality is it possible to judge what they say or forecast what they are likely to do. For example, those who know that a certain MP is likelier to be found in the bars of the House rather than at the bar of the House are obviously going to look at that MP in a different light than do those who are not aware of his habits.
Now I personally don't think this is much of an argument, even though I formulated it myself. But it seemed to satisfy Mr Dempster, and •he went off happier. As a matter of fact, he has less to worry about than most, since his column in the Daily Mail is far and away the best of what can be a distinctly grubby breed. Mr Dempster is an entertaining man, and his wit comes as noticeably off the page as it does from his lips. The people he
mainly writes about are not my cup of tea, but I've a strong feeling that they're not his either, since he seems to get a great deal of fun out of observing and recording their varied idiocies.
But the question, I suppose, is really whether that sort of clown really is worth writing about. This, of course, is where so many gossip columns fall down. The chief qualifications for appearing in them seems to be the possession of a title, wealth, a notorious girlor boy-friend, and a cast-iron stomach to enable you to put up with all the ghastly food and drink you have to consume in all those clubs and restaurants where you apparently have to go to see and be seen. The relevance of these creatures to the crumbling Britain of today is doubtful, to say the least. And as newsprint gets evermore expensive and scarce, one really has to wonder if those acres of space couldn't be better filled.
As it happens the generally boring world of the gossip columns is marginally more interesting at the moment, since there are changes afoot among the practitioners. Mr Dempster has not been contributing to the Mail for a week or more now, as a result of a dispute with the acting editor, Mr Peter Grover, over the deletion of certain paragraphs of his copy. The dispute does not seem to have been handled too wisely, but the return of Mr David English from holiday has, after a good old row, cleared things up. Which is a good thing. I would miss Mr Dempster's daily dose of fairly irreverent rubbish.
Mr Paul Callan, that other notable diarist, as gossip columnists prefer to be called, is also being blown along by the wind of change. Mr Callan, he of the stern glasses, the implacable bow tie, and the fairly outrageous suits, is going to the Daily Mirror in March (always assuming the Natsopa dispute is settled and the Mirror is graciously allowed to go on living, an assumption which I take leave to doubt, having heard Lord Briginshaw say that he didn't think there'd be another Mirror before Monday at the earliest, and say it in a way that suggested he was absolutely delighted with the prospect). But let us leave the newly-ennobled Richard of Natsopa and return to our Paul; Mr Callan used to do the Londoner's Diary in the Evening Standard. Then went over to the Mail, at a salary which was reputed to have turned Mr Vincent Malchrone puce with anger when he heard it. After that he had a go at London Broadcasting -with the incredible Miss Janet Street Porter. The editor of Punch then threw a bone or two in his way, so Mr Callan's countenance stared at us each week from its pages. And now he goes to the Mirror at a salary which, including expenses, is said to be around £12,000 a year, a figure vastly in excess of what Mr William Woolf, the present incumbent receives. Mr Woolf is not amused, fairly understandably, and I am told he is likely to punch high-ups on the Mirror, if any of them are unwise enough to get in his way. His 'Inside Page' has always
seemed good to me; it could also have been good for the Mirror. Just what Mr Callan's Old Etonian prejudices will do to the readers of that proletarian paper is anybody's guess. Enrage them, I should have thought. But Mr Callan will survive. He always does. He has a highly developed talent for it. And the way things are in the newspaper industry at,the moment, that may turn out to be the most valuable talent of them all.
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