A lesson from America

Nicholas Lezard

If the book has a weakness it is perhaps that London is viewed so much in its own light. The civilising influences of its im- mense trade, and of the foreigners associ- ated with it, are overshadowed by the de- tails of possession and expenditure. Refu- gees from religious oppression, chiefly the Huguenots, also played an active part in the city's life — one thinks of Pepys's friends the Houblons who helped to found the Bank of England. Some may think the author's definition of the middle class too exclusively mercantile and industrial. Lawyers and clergy, for instance, are ex- cluded on the grounds that they did not turn over capital to make a profit. It is the citizenry that Mr Earle is really writing about and it would be hard to think of a book that could bring us closer to their day-to-day concerns.

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hen publishers wake up, as they periodically do, to the fact that young people look good on dust-jackets, the results can be pretty inspiring. Geoff Dyer's first novel, The Colour of Memory (Cape, £11.95, pp.228), has inspired me to leave the country. It is a plotless novel, not so much written as observed, where young- ish people on the dole in Brixton with mildly precious names like Foomie and Steranko sit on roofs, drink beer, go to parties, name-drop a lot and smoke loads of grass. It is a pleasant existence, based more on the continuous capitulation to desire rather than the life of the mind, at times poignantly evoked. There is a great deal of the elegy in Dyer's book: he

GRAHAM

GREEN

High life

Down the

tube

Taki

0Athens nce famous for its blue sky and wonderful quality of life, this ancient capit- al has now become one of the most polluted cities in the world. Athens is bounded by sea to the south and mountains to the west, east and north. About 2,500 years ago, its position helped keep out the ancestors of the present ghastly towel- heads from Iran, although once the Spar- tans had decided the Athenians were too gay for their taste, it was curtains for Athens, natural defences and all.

Now the mountains help trap coal and sulphur compounds, at times turning day into night and making life in Athens almost as dangerous as that of a Palestinian child under Israeli occupation. And 80 per cent of the atmospheric pollution is to be blamed on the automobile, which to a modern Hellene has replaced such old- fashioned ideas as honour, motherhood, country and even wife.

Call a modern Greek's mother a hooker and he will attack you, but denigrate his car and he will knife you for sure. When the crooks who posed as socialist saviours came to power in 1981 the pollution problem was the first on their agenda. The biggest crook himself had sworn to do away with it by the year 1984. Looking back, his might be the most vastly mistaken assessment since a Hollywood talent scout said of Fred Astaire, 'Can't sing, can dance a little.'

Mind you, when people are busy emptying safes the last thing on their minds is clean air. But to be fair, they did try to do something about pollution. They spent nearly 40 million greenbacks per annum on filters and emission controls, yet the only automobile in the entire nation that can boast that it doesn't pollute is . . . mine. The reason? Easy. I bought it in Switzer- land.

Where did all those millions go? That is like asking a French traffic policeman which way the French army went in the spring of 1940.

Another stupid question would be the one about the underground railway built by the socialist saviours, or SS for short. My father just before his death had offered the archaeological society of Greece a one-million dollar prize if it could locate it — the subway, that is. Millions were spent but the only proof of an underground system we have at the moment is a small hole at the back of the Caravel Hotel (proprietor T. Theodoracopulos) two feet deep, which I suspect was made by the Arab who got taken by a hooker and threw out a television set in frustration.

Needless to say, I haven't exactly been thinking of the disgusting Papandreou late- ly, not while cruising on my father's boat with my family, and expecting to sail for Mykonos the moment the mother of my children and my flock fly back to Tel Aviv-on-the-Hudson. While in Spetsai last weekend I saw the Christina, old Afi Onassis's brave ship, now renamed Argo and looking simply awful. When I approached I realised she was shipshape but it was the ghastliness of those on board that lent her the impression of being run down. She belongs to the state and is used exclusively by the greatest jerk in Greece, Christos Sartzetakis. He goes by the title of president but any connection with even Amin Dada is purely coincidental. To give you an example of his classy behaviour, when he recently returned from a visit to Japan his family brought back more than 85 television sets. It's so bad I almost wish the King would return.

Low life

Escape from the slammers

couldn't get to it because the bar was jam-packed. So why allow a little fire to interfere with a jar or two? It was the Irish Sunday Independent who beckoned me to come over here and I have been very lucky with the guide they have provided me with, a staff man called Liam Collins. In my experience such minders tend to be horribly serious and permanent- ly on their best behaviour. Thankfully Mr Collins hasn't been on his best behaviour since he left school. Yesterday he took me to a bit of a thrash given by the Festival organisers in a restaurant-cum-pub near Dingle. We had a couple of restrained drinks and then, to my surprise, the boss man said to the barman, 'From now on everything is on my tab.' Noble fellow. Of course they make a mint out of the Festival but that is no reason why they should extend their hospitality to me. The seafood in these parts is excellent. The idea yesterday was that we should leave after lunch and arrive at Tralee races at 5 p.m. In the event I never got to the races at all, at all. From the table I sat at for lunch I had a magnificent view of the hills beyond the estuary and not even a steady drizzle could detract from that. We had a seafood cocktail followed by salmon en cratte. Then they started playing a daft game, new to me, called slammers. A glass is half filled with tequila — revolting stuff — and topped up with ginger ale. A beer mat is placed over the top of the glass. It is then slammed down on the table to make it froth and foam and has to be knocked back in one go as quickly as possible. Thank God they didn't ask me to perform although I suppose I could have done it in vodka. But it smacked a little of a rugby players' game.