Notebook
In his last book The Art of Memory, due to be posthumously published next month, the late lamented R.A. Butler tells us that the only row he ever had with Chips Channon — in whose Belgrave Square home he spent the war — was over the Tat- ter's habit of lacing his guests' cocktails with benzedrine, so as to make his parties go with just that little extra zing. I do see that such concern for the success of his hospitality may have been a bit excessive, but is it all that worse to put benzedrine into the cocktails than, say, brandy into what Purports to be an innocent fruit cup — a Practice common even in the most respec- table of homes? Surely every family has a story of how a straitlaced old killjoy sPinster aunt was transformed out of all recognition by having alcohol surreptitious- IY introduced into her veins by some such stratagem, the results of which would then be observed with general merriment. In such cases, however, there was never any stigma attached to the host's deceit, which would be justified as very much in the in- terest of good cheer and human jollity.. But benzedrine, it seems, is a different matter. Rah does not give his reasons for making this 'distinction, except indirectly when he remarks that benzedrine once gave him a bad hangover. Apparently his Treasury Private Secretary had brought him one, wrapped in a white napkin, before a big sPeech, explaining that his predecessor as Chancellor, Hugh Gaitskell, used to raise his spirits in this way (rather as at a later date Anthony Eden fortified himself with Purple hearts for the same purpose during the Suez crisis). In my experience, however, the hangover effects of such amphetamines are far less severe than those of alcohol, and the uplift at the time far more agreeable, Particularly in the sense of stimulating con- versation. Nor, to my knowledge, do they (1,,,o more long-term damage than alcohol. ' wherein lay what Rab calls Chips Chan- non's 'immorality'? Perhaps the real cause th(141Rab's uncharacteristic censoriousness in thts matter had something to do with the 'act that the guests in question were often crowned heads, including Queen Mary not the kind of guests on whom practical Jokes are usually played. But if benzedrine had the effect of making even them sparkle, surely this really might be a case of the end Justifying the means? Incidentally, this Rab reminiscence may help to throw light on a story rumoured to have been deleted from the Published version of the Chips Channon diaries — to the effect that at one of these Parties the great Field-Marshal Lord Wavell once pirouetted down the Channon stair- e. ase dressed up in a female dancer's tutu. If that was the result of benzedrine-laced
cocktails, one does begin to see why Rab felt so shocked.
Acouple of weeks ago the Sunday Times carried a story about how easy it is for a non-member to penetrate into those oh so disgracefully exclusive London clubs. They sent a reporter to experiment and published an account of his experiences. Needless to say, it made quite a good read, confirming that paper's well-deserved reputation for investigative journalism. But what was the point of the whole operation, apart from making mock of these old-fashioned establishments, most of whom were shown to be very easily gulled? Yet are they wrong to operate on a system of trust; on the assumption that those seeking entrance are bona fide guests? Unfortunately, the answer must be yes, as the Garrick has recently discovered to its cost, having had one of its treasures stolen by just such an impostor. All too possibly the Sunday Times story, by showing how easy it is to get into these clubs, encouraged the thief to have a go. In future club porters are going to have to impose much more rigorous security measures, to the point of issuing members with passes and so on, all part of what is known as coming to terms with the modern world. By the time women are allowed to become members, these places will not be worth joining. While on the sub- ject of clubs, all credit to the Athenaeum for having elected Sir Robin Day under Rule 11, an honour reserved for those of ex- ceptional distinction. At least the porter will have no difficulty in recognising him.
One of my most pleasant days during a recent visit to Japan was spent visiting Murray Sayle, whose dispatches from there lend such distinction to this journal. The only time we had met previously was years ago in London, when neither had taken to the other one little bit. (The row, as I recall, was about Ireland.) Out in Japan, however, we got on very well. Normally it is the other way around. Holiday friendships formed abroad wither when transplanted back home. In our case, a professional enmity formed back home did not survive exposure to foreign climes. Murray lives miles out of Tokyo, in a remote mountain village, in Japanese-style conditions which even the natives would regard as somewhat simple, eschewing all western comforts, and his writing is done in a tiny, isolated shack overlooking a waterfall—At first I feared that the warmth of his welcome to me had something to do with the fact that in such lonely circumstances any visitor might be better than none. Not so, since almost every British visitor to Japan seems to make the pilgrimage to this ravishing retreat, where the diet is fresh trout from a nearby stream. If the book Murray is writing about Japan is even half as coruscating as his conversa- tion, it will be a tour de force, as difficult to put down as the author himself.
ALondon taxi looks like John Bull on wheels — solid, truculent, thick- skinned and not to be trifled with. The sight of one of them is enough to reassure, far more so than those garishly striped modern police cars which look and sound so menac- ingly alien and unfriendly, far more American than British. Not for much longer. The decision to allow their owners to plaster the sides with advertisements threatens to transform them into just another species of commercial vehicle. How to explain the folly of this greed for easy revenue? For decades the London taxi has been a national institution, like the BBC and roast beef. Now, for the sake of a few pounds, they are prepared to sacrifice the dignity of the dreadnought for the frivolity of the pleasure steamer. Could not the Spectator lead a campaign to save us from this sacrilege? If enough users boycotted those drivers who have succumbed to temp- tation, there would soon be a return to aesthetic chastity. The police still prohibit the fouling of public conveniences. So why this new permissiveness in respect of a much more important aspect of urban culture?
T hear that the new editor of The Times has
decided to drop both Henry Fairlie and David Watt, whose columns will not be ap- pearing for much longer. This is said to be part of an economy drive. On the other hand, Lord Chalfont, sacked by Harold Evans, has hopes of reinstatement, since it was he who arranged for young Charlie Douglas-Home to get his first job on the paper, as Defence Correspondent in succes- sion to himself. Quite a lot of blood, however, has flown under the bridge since then, and even young men can sometimes forget.
Peregrine Worsthorne
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