DIARY
Every Labour government that has last- ed more than a few months has suffered a financial crisis. This has occurred two years after its election, as in 1931, 1947, 1966 and 1976 — though the Wilson governments of the Sixties really had a succession of crises, from 1964 to the devaluation of 1967. In view of all this history, I cannot understand why the present Labour leaders are not keener on a single European currency. It is not as if they were any longer in charge of a party that was either hostile to Europe or even vaguely neutral, as the present Gov- ernment tries to be with conspicuous lack of success. And yet, floating the pound was once supposed to restore our economic freedom. Floated it duly was under Sir Edward Heath's regime; floated it stayed. This did nothing to prevent the 1976 crisis. We were then told that entering the ERM would have the same virtuous effect. In fact it led to the forced devaluation of 1992. There may be a snag with the single curren- cy too. But unless we join, I feel fairly con- fident in predicting the Blair-Brown ster- ling crisis of 1999.
We are just leaving the month when I give thanks that I am no longer 22 or, for that matter, 11. In every single year from 1944 to 1955 I took examinations of one sort or another. Was it worth it? Did I learn anything? Well, at 15 I had read for the School Certificate English Literature paper Macbeth, Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man and, in order of publication, 'Tam O'Shanter', 'The Eve of St Agnes' (cause of much giggling in Form V), 'The Lotos- Eaters' and 'The Scholar-Gipsy'. We were the children mainly of teachers, bank offi- cials, shopkeepers, farmers, farm-workers and, predominantly, miners or those con- nected with the mines. Educationists today would say such a reading-list was 'irrele- vant' to our experience. But it was precisely our experience or lack of it which gave the books their value. I suspect, however, I was influenced more by Wodehouse, Richmal Crompton and Conan Doyle and by prewar Powell and Orwell. They were even more irrelevant.
Having begun a rugby column in 1986 with the foundation of the paper, I am among the oldest surviving inhabitants of the Independent. But meeting one of its edi- tors during this period, Mr Ian Hargreaves, was a pleasure that was denied me. He came and went like a ship in the night or a fox from the woods. As the new editor of the New Statesman, one of his first acts was to dismiss the paper's widely admired ALAN WATKINS political columnist, Mr Ian Aitken. I specu- lated that this was because Mr Aitken represented, or was thought by Mr Harg- reaves to represent, Old Labour. But Mr Aitken tells me that what had aroused Mr Hargreaves's particular displeasure was a column of his asserting that religion had caused more of the world's misery than anything else. I now learn from a separate source that Mr Hargreaves's wife is a Non- conformist minister.
Not that I have anything against Chris- tians. I am one myself, having been con- firmed in the Church in Wales by the then Bishop of St David's, who placed his hand on my Brylcreemed head. In his Journals 1987-89 Mr Anthony Powell, who is expert on many matters Welsh, comments that the last word of the first line of `Cwm Rhond- da' should not be 'Redeemer' but, correct- ly, 'Jehovah'. The hymn is a translation from the greatest of Welsh — perhaps of all — hymn-writers, William Williams (Pantycelyn'). Accordingly, I compared the version in Hymns Ancient & Modem with the one in E. Stephen and J.D. Jones's Llyfr Tonau ac Emynau or Book of Tunes and Hymns (Wrexham, 1868), the standard Welsh collection which, however, includes a small choice of English hymns. I put Stephen and Jones's version in italics after A. & M's in brackets: 'Guide me 0 thou great (Redeemer) Jehovah, pilgrim through this barren land; I am weak, but thou art mighty, hold me with thy powerful hand: bread of heaven, feed me (now and ever- more) till I want no more. Open (now) thou the (crystal) living fountain whence the healing (stream doth) waters flow; let the fiery cloudy pillar lead me all my journey through; strong deliverer, be thou still my strength and shield. When I tread the verge of Jordan, bid my anxious fears subside; (death of death and hell's destruction) bear me through the swelling torrent, land me safe on Canaan's side: songs (and) of praises I will ever give to thee.' I shall ensure we get the authentic 19th-century version at my memorial service.
Isn't it a bit conceited to assume you're going to have one?' my old friend Professor John Griffith remarked some years ago when I was dilating on similar matters. Not at all, I replied. Every journalist got a memorial service at St Bride's, Fleet Street. It went with the job. Even the deputy motoring correspondent of the Daily Express had one laid on. No longer. There were many who would have liked to pay tribute to Cyril Ainsley, who epitomised the decent side of the old Express but had, when he died, been long retired from the paper. Nor was there any service for Henry Fairlie, who had worked for so many papers in his time that a whip-round (a device very familiar to Henry) would hardly have dented the petty cash at any of them. For it is parsimony on the part of the papers which, I am afraid, explains the decline of memorial services: just as it accounts for self-punishing redundancies and employing people of 22 on short-term contracts of £15,000 a year of which, if they are lucky, they will see half before being given the sack. Kingsley Amis will not, it appears, be getting a memorial service either, but the reason is different. His fami- ly do not want one.
The other day, a friend of mine was offered a glass of port after dinner, which he accepted. His host left the dining-room to reappear clutching a dusty bottle, explaining it was one of a batch bestowed by a godfather on his son at the christening. My friend, uneasy that the bottle was being opened, said, 'But it's for your son.' Don't be so silly,' his host replied. `Simon's only six. He couldn't possibly drink it at his age.'
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