Diary

AA fter a week in which two well-

■ -connected young men, the Marquess of Blandford and Lord Glenconner's eldest son, Charles Tennant, have appeared in court on charges arising from their addic- tion to drugs, there has been a spate of sententious talk. A man in my train, totally unknown to me, brandished his tabloid newspaper and forced upon me his view that with the aristocracy in such a plight no wonder we were in decline. Historically, this is piffle. Social records of the 18th and 19th century, to go back no further, are strewn with examples of young sprigs of nobility suffering from self-inflicted wounds. Without naming families, most of us can think of dukes who were both mad and bad; of marquesses who killed them- selves in youth by excesses of one kind or another, often drink; and I know of at least one stately home which was left open to the sky because the young earl sold its roof to pay his gambling debts. Some other Young members of our aristocracy, to be fair, were also among the first to fall in battle. In times past I took a close interest in dangerous drugs, sat on various commit- tees, official and unofficial, and worked alongside doctors dedicated to finding ways of curing addiction. At the end of five years of this I came to a cruel and indefensible conclusion. Public money spent on clinics, rehabilitation centres and so on will never do the trick. To get the self-corrective mechanism going, society must have public scarecrows as well. Poor Charles Tennant is a scarecrow. He is of service.

Rather late in the day they have awarded Dame Vera Lynn the Burma Star medal. She qualifies because as the Forces Sweetheart she entertained British guerrilla units in Japanese-occupied Bur- ma. Since the war ended 40 years ago, we have not hurried with this small honour. Indeed, we have never hurried to honour her. She was not made an OBE until 1969, 24 years after the war, partly, I suspect, because the BBC absurdly was anything but proud of her wartime programme Sincerely Yours. Extract from the Board of Governors' minutes, 4 December 1941:

Sincerely Yours deplored, but popularity noted. Val Gielgud was concerned about the effect of her songs on troops hundreds of miles away.

The first academic to take Dame Vera seriously was Asa Briggs, now Lord Briggs. In Vol. III of his History of Broad- casting, which deals with the war, Briggs explains why she won a place in history. What ninnies at the BBC could not grasp, though generals did, was that soldiers are more stirred by sentimental songs than by martial music. Anyone who has heard an

assembly of soldiers singing on the eve of a big battle knows about that. I have always suspected that what Briggs wrote played its part in the decision belatedly to make Vera Lynn a Dame in 1975. As for me, I have loved her from afar (though without ever meeting her) since the darkest days of the war.

All speculation about the Chancellor of the Exchequer's intentions ends with his speech; but not for me, this year. I am still left speculating about the costume in which Mr Nigel Lawson chose to be photo- graphed in the run-up to the Budget. There is a solemn ritual about such pictures of Chancellors relaxing before battle. They are invariably taken at the weekend retreat and present the Chancellor en famille in a leisurely, even playful, mood. In this re- spect Mr Lawson obliged. He was photo- graphed playing French cricket with his children at his home at Stoney Stanton, Leics. What disturbed my mind, while absorbing the pastoral scene, was the Chancellor's appearance in a dark three- piece suit, with matching collar and tie. Of course, there may have been more serious business to be done at Stoney Stanton that weekend, apart from photographers. But do we suppose that Treasury officials, visiting this Leicestershire nook, expected their host to be in city raiment? Standard Treasury attire for these weekends, as Nigel knows full well, is corduroy trousers, a thickish jersey and an open-neck shirt, preferably wool and cotton patterned with squares. Questions therefore arise. I feel bound to ask the most delicate of all: has the Chancellor's figure got out of hand?

T see it reported that the normally intelli- gent Robin Cook, MP, who is Labour's campaign coordinator and close to Mr Kinnock, was on record some while back as despairing of the media. Such was his despair, it is said, that he discussed wooing Labour sympathisers in journalism to play 'a more subversive role' within their organ- isations. No doubt he has put such foolish ideas behind him now, but the thought will linger — and not only with Mr Cook. It is one of Labour's most cherished delusions that newsmen are out to ditch them. When Lord Matthews first took over Express Newspapers, he was heard to lament that by contrast with the esprit de corps he had left at Trafalgar journalists seemed not to be interested in his company's affairs, but only in their own. It was gently pointed out to him that since time immemorial the main concern and favourite topic of con- versation with a professional reporter has been what the subs did to his story the night before; that this represented profes- sional pride rather than corporate pride, and was a fault on the right side. Lord Matthews was not comforted, though by now he may have acclimatised himself to the way journalists think. Labour will never be comforted, nor acclimatised; a fault on the wrong side, because it implies

that Labour cannot succeed unless mbre journalists become ideologues instead of professionals.

when, in 1945, Evelyn Waugh wrote a preface to a collection of his earlier travel writings, When the Going was Good, he entered the words:

The following pages comprise all that I wish to preserve of the four travel books I wrote between the years 1929 and 1935 — Labels, Remote People. Ninety-two Days and (a title not of my own choosing) Waugh in Abyss- inia. These books have now been out of print for some time and will not be reissued.

He reckoned without fame and the market. Regardless of his wish, Methuen published in full last September Waugh in Abyssinia and Duckworth have just republished in full Remote People. Does it matter? I think it did matter in respect of Waugh in Abyssinia (1936) which in some of its political passages carried warmer esteem for Mussolini than seemed sensible to Waugh in the aftermath of war against the dictators in 1945. Difficult territory. An author surely has the right in the light of his own experience to determine what he wants to pass on to posterity, what he wants to lapse. If, after his death, every- thing he put his name to becomes so much in demand that, regardless of his wishes, it has to be disinterred, that seems to me unfair. At least his earlier wishes ought to be acknowledged. But I doubt if I shall find many to agree with me, least of all among publishers.

Asunny day at Rye, but a critical little wind off the sea, and 200 or so well-wrapped golfing enthusiasts gathered to see the final of the President's Putter, delayed by the snows of January. The lure? Ted Dexter, a few weeks off 50, and perhaps the most exciting amateur left in any branch of sport. There are certainly not many left who had once to decide whether to seek to captain England at cricket or aim for a place in the Walker Cup side. Dexter won his final comfort- ably, the oldest man to win the Putter. As we strolled back, an oldish chap wearing a Hawk's Club tie was saying to his wife: 'He's much too good to be an amateur, really. He ought to be a professional.' That remark tells us where amateur status has moved since the days of Grace.

Now that Mrs Thatcher has introduced the cuckoo to affairs of Church and State, we'd better acquaint ourselves with

the bird's habits:

In April, come he will; In May, he sings all day; In June, he alters his tune; In July, he prepares to fly; In August, go he must; If he stays till September, 'Tis as much as the oldest man can . remember.

It should be all clear for the Conservative Party conference.

William Deedes