Another voice

A star is born

Auberon Waugh

Of all the various forms of press censor- ship, an unspoken agreement between newspaper editors to exercise voluntary self- censorship strikes me as the most sinister. One such suspicion occurred to me at Easter of last year, when they showed a documentary film about the private life of Princess Anne and Captain Mark Phillips on television. In The Princess Anne Mrs Mark Phillips (or Dame Anne Phillips, as I maintain she should be called after receiv- ing the GCVO for bravery in resisting kid- nap by a madman called Ian Ball a short time after her marriage) it seemed to me that a new star had been born. I expected the television critics to be raving about her.

Instead of which, they all tastefully looked the other way. I did not see a single mention in any newspaper of this supremely comic performance, I was in hospital at the time, and it had the patients falling out of their beds. My family, quite independently, wat- ched it in Somerset, and felt so moved they had to telephone me about it. Everybody I me, who had seen it felt the same. Yet not a word appeared in the newspapers the next day.

The qualities of gracelessness and charm- lessness portrayed in that memorable film were of an epic order in themselves, but when coupled with a readiness to be exposed on television they approached the sublime. To be as awful as that, and prepared to show it off without the slightest awareness of what you were showing, suddenly became distinct- ly lovable. Princess Anne was the original pantomime dame, and if she could reconcile herself to the role she would win an instant place in her people's hearts as well as adding hugely to the general gaiety of the nation. But the newspapers, as I say, ignored her.

From that moment, I followed her career more carefully, even making her the object of a private cult. Her friends, we were told, included Mr Jackie Stewart (the racing driver) and Mr Anthony Andrews, the actor who delighted us all by showing us his bot- tom in Brideshead Revisited. She won golden opinions at the time of the snows by driving a sack of coal (or possibly potatoes or nuts) to an old age pensioner in her neighbourhood. Earlier this year, she open- ed an abattoir in the North of England and stayed to watch some animals being slaughtered. More recently she visited the Royal Veterinary College in London and stayed to watch some operations being car- ried out on a cat and a dog. This Dame, as I say, had star quality.

Then suddenly last week, the truth dawn- ed. Those lucky enough to see her on televi- sion in New Mexico being told that the Princess of Wales had given birth to a son — I saw it three times, and for the first time in my life wished I had a video machine to capture the magic moment — will never forget it: `Your Royal Highness, any word about Princess Diana?'

'I don't know. You tell me.'

`Your reaction to her having a son?'

'I didn't know she had one.'

`This morning.'

'Oh, good.'

The Palace later explained that she was not sure the reporter was telling her the truth. Earlier, she had heard the rumour of a royal birth which turned out to be false. But this does not explain her answers to other questions on the tour, or, indeed, her answers on this occasion: `How are you enjoying your visit to New Mexico?'

`Keep your questions to yourself.'

As an answer, this must rank with the classic reply of the prison warder in Two- Way Stretch: 'Silence! when you're talking to me.'

It was a bravura performance from start to finish. Asked how it felt to be an aunt for

the first time, she riposted: 'That's my business, thank you,' which prompted an old lady present to ask (according to the Daily Mirror): 'Who would want her for an aunt?'

Well, I would for one. She belongs to a grand old tradition of English aunts, stret- ching from Wodehouse through Saki and Wilde to Jane Eyre's Aunt Reed and no doubt further back than that. Every child should have at least one aunt like that, and it is one of the sorrows of my life that I never did. The Americans had a word for her, to contrast her with the Prince of Wales — 'his sister's a sourpuss but he's a real sweetie' — and it was this word which

the Mirror seized on for Thursday's memorable leading article, PRINCESS SOURPUSS: 'If Princess Diana is the best advert for Britain, Princess Anne is the worst.

'It is bad enough when she is miserable and rude in this country.

`When she behaves like that abroad, as she has in America, she lets Britain down: `She doesn't appear able to share the joy over the birth of her nephew . . .

`Princess Anne is paid £2,050 a week from public money, tax free. For that, we are entitled to expect a lot.

`And we don't even get a smile.

'She has earned herself a new title: Princess Sourpuss.'

Oh dear. Poor Princess Anne. But when the press and public have digested their new

discovery, I hope that they will settle down, like me, to loving our Sourpuss Princess. .Why on earth should she be anything but a

sourpuss, if that is her nature? The great embarrassment of her previous image, while the press and broadcasting people were tacitly agreeing to protect her, was that we were expected to revere a nondescript young woman who was plainly neither very intelligent nor very charming. Now, at long last, we learn that she is not nondescript at all, but a genuine and un- mistakable eccentric. For my £2,050 a week, I would much prefer to see her scowl. Her smile, through no fault of her own, is rather a horrible thing. We have been living with it now for over 31 years, and it added nothing to the good cheer of the nation. Her scowl, on the other hand, is sincere and genuine and immensely enjoyable, making a huge contribution to the Royal Family showbiz package.

Perhaps to discuss the monarchy in showbiz terms will be though irreverent, even disrespectful. I holm not. Like most loyal Britons, I feel an enormous respect and love for the Queen. I would even own to an admiration for Prince Philip, and an affection for the Prince of Wales as well as an adoration for his Princess and a loyal fascination with their progeny. The monarchy has many useful roles, and Bri- tain would be an immeasurably more bor- ing country without it, just as Thailand would be, but it will wither and die without that essential element of gossip, of black sheep, of a Bad or Malevolent Fairy at the christening of our young Prince. Willie Hamilton, for all his qualities, is simply not up to the role, and if the Princess-Dame takes it on, she will earn the gratitude of the entire nation.

My late father used to give as his reason for not voting in parliamentary elections that he would not presume to advise his Sovereign on her choice of ministers. Nor, in the normal course of events, would I, but since her Prime Minister has proved deaf to the most sensible suggestions, I wonder if I might grovellingly submit a humble petition to Her Majesty. If anything in this article has displeased her, this is because her prime ministers have discontinued the practice of creating hereditary peers, so there is no in- centive for any of us to behave ourselves. Perhaps she might graciously consider ad- vising her next prime minister to resume these creations. Then I, for one, will im- mediately start trying to be respectable and take an interest in sickies, oldies, blacks, women, and all the other things which are supposed to engage the attention of respect- able persons.

Finally, one of the more moronic newspapers — I forget which — last week suggested that Her Majesty might consider making Mrs Thatcher a Lady of the Garter for her victory in the Falklands. This was a particularly idiotic suggestion, as the only Ladies of the Garter are also Queens. Nor has Mrs Thatcher done anything to deserve it. If she were made one, it would almost certainly spark off a revolution. But there is a vacancy among the Knights Companion. I do not know if Her Majesty is familiar with the writings of Mr Peregrine Worsthorne .