DIARY KEITH WATERHOUSE
I. was on the verge of buying the new edi- tion of the Highway Code when it suddenly dawned on me that I no longer drive. I hadn't realised it. While I have been vague- ly aware that I have been driving less and less lately, it had never properly registered that it must be three years since last I sat behind the wheel of a car, and that I must now be classified as a non-motorist. I had no particular reason for giving up — I have never had an accident, would not permit myself to drive after drinking, and was not given to fuming in traffic or ranting at other drivers. It was just that on long jour- neys I began to find the train more conge- nial, and on short ones the search for a parking place was more trouble than it was worth. Considering I have held a licence for 40 years, it is surprising how little I miss it. In fact I miss it not at all — on the rare occasions when a car is necessary I get myself chauffeured, otherwise I take cabs or public transport. The relief, now that it has come home to me that my driving days are over, is immense. Never again will I set off for Brighton only to find myself in East- bourne, having absent-mindedly pointed the car in the wrong direction while work- ing out a problem. Never again will I run out of petrol in the Hyde Park Corner underpass, as once did happen, and in a snowstorm at that. The time saved is incal- culable — I could have written War and Peace, let alone read it, in the hours spent edging my way along the Earls Court Road. So now I find myself a non-driver in much the same way as, after half a lifetime, I found myself a non-smoker. What will I discover I have given up next? Let me see, when did I last watch television?
I, read that Firstdirect, the Midland's telephone bank', are giving priority to Yorkshire accents among applicants for SOO new jobs after a survey showed that the flat, homely voice of the broad acres inspires an image of trustworthiness and friendly professionalism. It was not always so. When I was 20 and working on the Yorkshire Evening Post in my home town of Leeds, an attack of wanderlust led me to apply for a post on the Bermuda Star that was being advertised in the trade press. I was summoned to London for an interview and acquitted myself pretty well, so I thought. But I didn't get the job. Many Years later a mole on the paper showed me a report that had been sent to head office. While I was a skilled journalist, had an agreeable manner and all the rest of it, my Yorkshire accent would not sit well with my social obligations in the clubs and drawing- rooms of Hamilton. At about the same time, a friend of mine from Bradford, where the accent is much thicker, applied for an editorial job on the Daily Mirror. He was told to his face that his voice didn't suit. He emigrated to Canada, where in the fullness of time he became news editor of an important metropolitan daily. Coming over to Fleet Street on a head-hunting mis- sion, he installed himself in El Vino's and made it known that he would give prefer- ence to star talent from the Daily Mirror. He went back to Canada with honour satis- fied, having poached three of the Mirror's best reporters. Eee by gum.
Aong with half of London, I shouldn't wonder, I am invited to join Blacks, which as everyone knows has now been opened as an alternative to the Grouch() Club, which was set up as an alternative to the Garrick, which was founded as an alternative to the Athenaeum. I am too scared to cross the threshold. As is also well known, you have to be invited by a member of the commit- tee, which is said to consist of 100 women. I have an image of a hundredfold version of that famous Thurber cartoon, where a wretched little man is going home to a house which nestles in the arms of his predatory wife — like a fly going home to a spider. Who are these 100 women? What if some of them turn out to be Julie Burchill? Why, to the best of my knowledge, has none of them been named? Why, if they exist, has no enterprising picture editor got them together for a group photograph? It would be an historic Class of '93 snap. Meanwhile, if the committee member who put my name forward will make herself known, I will buy her a drink. Across the street at Groucho's.
'Boleyngate means trouble for the Church.' Wile I do not know Salman Rushdie at all, I am not surprised to see him as the subject of a literary squabble between Esquire and the New Yorker over whether he is a difficult person to have much sym- pathy for. I am not particularly proud of belonging to that substantial body of opin- ion which finds Rushdie a pain in the neck. A red mist forms before my eyes practically every time I see his name mentioned — the latest example being a report that on a visit to Dublin he failed to see Albert Reynolds, the Irish prime minister. According to the Evening Standard, quoting Frances D'Souza, organiser of the International Committee for the Defence of Salman Rushdie, 'the only other person to refuse to see him recently was the prime minister of Canada, Brian Mulroney, on the grounds that the British Prime Minister refused.' Why on earth is Rushdie collecting prime ministers? Prime ministers should seek out writers, not the other way round. But here's a rum do. Coincidental with the release of Richard Attenborough's Chaplin film I have found, without exception, that every- one I know who cannot be doing with Rushdie likewise cannot be doing with Chaplin. I imagine self-regarding arrogance is the common factor, as well as the fact that neither is funny. I first identified my own Chaplin antipathy at the time of the little chap's death, when Willis Hall and I were asked to write a musical based on his life. The distinguished choreographer and director Jerome Robbins was flown over and housed at great expense in the Con- naught, where we met him for dinner. Willis and I had only that day read Chap- lin's autobiography by way of homework, and we had had no chance to discuss it. After awkwardly crumbling our bread rolls for a few minutes, we both blurted out to Mr Robbins that having got some insight into Chaplin's life we could not stand the blighter. Jerome Robbins flew home and that was the last we heard of the matter. I hope Cameron Mackintosh doesn't have it in mind to invite me to write a musical about Salman Rushdie.
Railway stations will be up for sale under the British Rail privatisation scheme. I wish I could afford the magnificent 1930s booking hall of Leeds City Station, its high pastel-painted concrete arches hung with art deco lanterns. If it were in Milan it would be alive with restaurants and cafés. Since it is in the hands of brutish BR its faience-tiled floor has been covered in tar- mac, and the finest example of modern rail- way architecture in the country, perhaps in Europe, is in use as a car park. I should like to tarmac the head of the monster respon- sible.
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