DIARY
DAVID STARKEY The journalist from a leading American news magazine (as she'd described it to me on the phone) carefully sat down on my sofa. There was an interesting clash between its opulent gilt carving and cut vel- vet, and her neat, anonymous modernity. Indeed, she was so anonymous that, after only a few days, I can't remember her face. But, beneath her well-turned-out efficiency, there was an underlying anxiety. She was worried that we were sitting so far apart; fussed about the placing of her tape recorder and microphone, and, most dis- concertingly of all, kept jumping up and down during the interview to check that the tape was still turning. Her questions were of a piece. The subject of the interview was the royal finances. Her peg was Duchy Originals — the marketing and manufac- turing arm of Prince Charles's Duchy of Cornwall. This is responsible for turning out such modern necessities as superior bis- cuits, made — it goes without saying as it's one of the potty Prince's hobbies — from organic grains. But the grains come from the Prince's own Highgrove Estate. `Doesn't that lead to a conflict of interest?' she said. I tried to explain that the Duchy was run as a private estate and that, as a private landowner, it was Charles's duty to maximise the yield of his estate. She found the idea of a public figure dependent on private finance difficult to swallow (unlike the Prince's biscuits, which are, apparently, delicious). And back, terrier-like, she came to her conflict of interest. I hope I was courteous. But I was relieved when the arrival of her taxi released me. I had, how- ever, breathed too soon. 'I should file my story in the next four or five weeks,' she said. 'And then, if you don't mind, our fact- checkers will ring you to confirm details.' I acquiesced with not very good grace. A dull interview was bad enough. But what had I done to deserve an even more dreary fol- low-up?
Thhe contrast between the American Miss Mouse with a microcassette and the Daily Mail journalist who'd sat in the same corner of the sofa a few months before could not have been greater. Bright and bouncy, feeling at home in one minute and Confidential in two, she made sure that the interview fairly rattled along. It was fun. It was relaxing. And we parted the best of friends. Until, that is, I read the result. It was like hearing myself through a glass, darklY. 'Keats' became 'Yeats', while, even More ludicrously, the phrase 'George III's small hands' was rendered as 'Richard III's'. 'Richard III,' the bemused reader must have muttered, 'wasn't he famous for his big hump, not his small mitts?' I know that the Daily Mail is written, according to
Lord Salisbury, 'by office boys for office boys' (though with equal opportunities per- haps that should read 'by office girls for office girls'). But couldn't they take a leaf out of the book of my American news mag- azine and employ the odd fact-checker? Or would that interfere with the bright and bouncy flow where comment is free and facts are . .. damn, I can't read what's in my notebook . . . scarce?
Last week I had to go to Newcastle to lecture to the branch of the Historical Association there. I left in a bad temper as I was reluctant to interrupt the writing of the book I've begun. My mood was not improved when my hosts, who kindly met me at the station, suggested that we walk to get some refreshments and then take the Metro to the school where I was to lecture. (My view is that lecturers should travel by taxi, as nature intended.) All was forgiven, however, when we arrived at our first desti- nation. It was a tea-room in an art deco cin- ema. In front of me was a scene such as I have not seen since I was a boy, eating with my parents in the Kardomah in Liverpool in the 1950s. The time was about 5.30 p.m.: drinks time in London, but high tea time in Newcastle. Everyone was eating — solid food off solid crockery. Ham and chips and buttered, toasted tea cakes and tea with everything. I had a mineral water and felt conspicuous. Around the wall sat stout ladies in outdoor coats, who were waiting for tables to be vacated. They were hawk- eyed but touchingly polite. 'You're sure you've finished?' said the one who took my seat — clearly concerned that I was about to brave the northern night on nothing more than water.
t was the same in the station buffet the following morning. When I went to the till with my espresso (which you wouldn't have found in 1950s Liverpool), the cashier asked me if I wanted something to eat as well. Rather hesitantly, I said I'd have a croissant. Instead of an impatient gesture to the display on the counter, she went to fetch it for me herself. Truly, the North is another country, where they do things differently. I had a glimpse of the even more different country that it once was on the train coming back, when I read the pamphlet I'd been given on the histo- ry of the Newcastle branch of the Histori- cal Association. One of the founders was Thomas Hodgkin (1831-1913), 'an archetypical Victorian Nonconformist man of business and philanthropist'. The biographical sketch ended with a general reflection: 'In countless local communities and associations like our own, men like Hodgkin provided help and stimulus. Having rejected paternalism and lost the local basis for industry and commerce, society has found it difficult to fill the gap left by their passing.' Here, in a nutshell, is the dilemma of late-20th-century poli- tics; the disappearance of men like Hodgkin is why Tony Blair laments the loss of community and John Major pines for an idealised 1950s. But does either Blair or Major understand the scale of the counter-revolution that would be needed to bring the Hodgkins of this world back?
In my Talk Radio show on Saturday, there was a discussion about ageing. One plain-spoken caller rang in to say she was fed up with `whingeing crumblies'. It was only the following day that I discovered that the term was not so much an insult as a description. I was doing a broadcast with a distinguished lady journalist. When I'd last seen her she was having trouble with her teeth. To my initial enquiry she replied that things were worse. They were falling out and would have to be replaced by implants. 'By the way,' she continued, `when you kissed me did you notice my skin? When I was in Hong Kong I applied a cream to get rid of liver spots and it's made my skin fall off.' Closer inspection revealed she was right: a sort of dandruff lay under her make-up and scattered flakes onto her spectacles. Just before we went on air she fluffed up her hair, but gingerly. 'It's coming out as well,' she said. I could have recommended ginseng, I suppose. But Barbara Cartland, its most famous consumer, crumbles as well. As a wicked friend of mine says, 'Every time she smiles, an unbaked scone crashes to the floor'.
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