DIARY
Spotted that old crook Ernest Saunders lunching in the Savoy Grill. One cannot think of him as having paid his debt to soci- ety, since he wormed his way out of Ford with a passing attack of Alzheimer's. I sup- pose one shouldn't be surprised to see the ex-Guinness chairman tucking into the good things in public places, when no Lon- don social event is complete without the attendance of his dear old mate Gerald Ronson, who now lives in hope of seeing his Guinness conviction overturned on a technicality. I didn't notice whether the Grill head waiter shook hands with Saun- ders as he came in. If he did, I trust he counted his fingers afterwards.
The Rides of the Game is the best book I have read for months. I picked it up on William Waldegrave's recommendation (being for ever in his debt for introducing me to Patrick O'Brian). When it was first published, I thought I could not be bothered with yet another huge tome on the battle of Jutland. I only got the paperback when it was published a month ago. It is as much social as naval history, exploring the roots in Victorian England of Jellicoe and his senior officers, who failed so wretchedly to close with the German High Seas Fleet when their opportunity came on 31 May 1916. I had never heard of the book's author, one Andrew Gordon who teaches at Shriven- ham. He researches brilliantly and writes compellingly. Expertise gained as a naval reserve officer has enabled him to work out all sorts of course and position details about the battle which had escaped earlier stu- dents. His fans are now clamouring for him to write another big book. He is much too good to be allowed to rest on his laurels.
One of the many pleasures of editing is the chance to read new bookS first — this week Anthony Powell's A Writer's Notebook, which hits the shops in January. I thought the publication of the journals, written in old age, a great mistake. They reflected Powell at his pompous worst. By contrast, his note- book — no more and no less than an author's jottings over 50 years — is fascinat- ing. He lists names for possible inclusion in novels, and titles for his characters' books in which he took such pleasure: Sad Majors, Match Me Such Marvel, Camel Ride to the Tomb, Sweetskin. There is a host of one-lin- ers, some from life, some from literature: Pam Berry's observation that 'falling out of love is almost as enjoyable as falling in'; 'the nearest some women get to being faithful to their husbands is being disagreeable to their lovers; 'no doubt it was Tamburlaine's bad leg that made him such a nuisance to the world'; Dffa's Dyke, a study in Anglo-Saxon lesbianism'. My own favourite from the nov- els remains: 'A certain kind of man is only stirred to the heights of passion by adminis- trative inconvenience.'
Newspapers do many shameful things, so it is nice when occasionally we do some- thing that works. Two years ago, we intro- duced the Evening Standard education awards. We give substantial cheques to two primary and two secondary schools in Lon- don which have made notable headway dur- ing the year, as judged by HM Inspector of Schools, Chris Woodhead. We hold a party for governors, teachers and some children at the National Portrait Gallery. David Blun- kett presents the prize money, to be spent at the schools' discretion. Everybody seems to have a good time. In addition, we invite the heads to lunch to talk to us about life at the coalface. Each one has proved wonderfully impressive. It is nice to be reminded just how good and how committed the best state-school teachers remain.
After a splendid Tosca the other night, I was chatting to a military veteran who reminded me that until a few years ago the ROH firing squad was provided by volun- teers from whichever Guards battalion was serving in London. Some monarch declared, on seeing the opera's climax, that his Guardsmen could shoot people more convincingly than mere thespians. The cur- rent CDS, Charles Guthrie, was among those who took a turn on the boards, enjoyed himself, and even got £3 an hour for his trouble. Then, in the dark days of 1978, Equity stepped in, insisting that scab labour should be banished. Nowadays the execution is carried out by professional per- formers. I am sure they could sing like larks. Their drill is awful.
Iwish more theatre-goers would join my boycott of programmes. There is an iron- clad rule of political correctness among modern actors that the only biographical information they will provide for audi- ences lists their past performances nothing about age, enthusiasms, habitat. Some programmes contain helpful essays on the piece, but most are worthless. I won't buy any more until performers con- descend to tell us something interesting about themselves.
Every October I fish for a few days on that wonderful river, the Tweed. Each part of Britain has its special season — May in the chalkstream lands of Berkshire and Wiltshire, high summer in the West Coun- try and autumn in the Borders. Although we are sometimes rained upon, the weather is usually balmy, the trees at their most magnificent. This year was no exception. The Tweed is almost unique, in that many of its autumn salmon run glittering and sil- ver, unlike the stale old brutes which fill most rivers from August onwards. The pink stone of the bridges, the mellow master- pieces at Mertoun or Coldstream, glows in the October sunshine. Sound echoes for hundreds of yards, not least the splosh of a jumping fish. I love to catch salmon, and I have been lucky on Tweed over the years. Last week I caught three and lost a monster (no, I won't bore you with the story). But the greatest pleasure is simply to be in Scott's country, with one of his novels beside me on the riverbank. Eric Anderson and A.N. Wilson are the only other people I know who read Scott nowadays. The rest of you are missing a treat.
Afriend's father died the other day, and he set about the melancholy task of clearing out the old man's desk. He cheered up no end on discovering from let- ters and photographs that his 84-year-old parent, far from being the sad and lonely figure he feared, had been honking a seri- ously beautiful woman of 35 until the day he died. 'I thought — Go! Go! Go! Dad!' said my friend happily, punching the air. The woman turned up at the funeral. He took her number.
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