DIARY
JULIE BURCHILL I'm in the Dome: a six-ft light-box of me looking rather ravissante bundled up in a blanket on Brighton Beach. I'm in the Self- Portrait Zone, which has 00.00 queuing hours, rather than the Body Zone, which apparently has 02.00 queuing hours. I hope the two aren't connected. That Dome, eh? What a tragic monument to all-party vanity. To add to the suggestions about what to do with it afterwards, I would like to venture that we herd everyone involved in its con- ception, creation and marketing inside and then set fire to it; I'll strike the first match. On hearing news of the fire, old ladies dying of pneumonia in the corridors of NHS hos- pitals which could have better used that obscene amount of money will rise from their trolleys and dance like teenagers, the blind will see, the tumours of the cancer- ridden will wither and the autistic will throw their loving arms around the world. Truly, the Dome is such an offence to the human spirit, to the best that we have been and can be, that it is getting easier and easier to believe that amazing events might follow its violent destruction. I've never been much of a one for Magic Realism, but I think I'm beginning to see the light.
In fact the only blot on the horizon for us Dome-hating, Blair-burying New Bolsheviks is the fact that Mandelson isn't still in place to take his lumps. You have to admit he's coming up a treat in Northern Ireland, though, and not about to take crap from either side. Being a Jew, he has the advan- tage: neither side can accuse him of covertly rooting for the other, as they might if an English Catholic or Prod had the job. Jews are an unknown quantity in Northern Ire- land; they're neither fish nor fowl, and therefore OK. In the Eighties a beautiful young American Jewish friend of mine was engaged to a Northern Irish Protestant from a stern but fair family. Michele was really worried about this family's reaction, but her trepidation turned to glee when she met her future mother-in-law: 'So what reli- gion are you, dear?' I'm a, a Jew,' Michele squeaked. Putative ma-in-law looked con- cerned for a moment, then her face broke into a smile. 'A Jew? Why, that's the oppo- site of a Catholic, isn't it?' It certainly is: Logic vs Superstition, the Book vs the Boot, Enlightenment vs Ignorance. And such a difference in the attitude towards sex. Can we imagine the Catholic equivalent of the Song of Songs? — 'Brace yourself, Bridget!' The Republic of Ireland has a long and sor- did history of anti-Semitism; Angela's Ashes is. thought to come down hard on prewar Limerick, but it didn't mention the routine boycotting of the few Jewish shops on account of them killing Jaysus. De Valera sent a note of sympathy to the Nazis on the death of Hitler. As recently as the Seven- ties, the respected actress Siobhan McKen- na shocked (we hope) Southern Irish view- ers when, on being asked on a television chat-show what was wrong with Eire and its economy, answered blithely, The Jews'. A country where even the luvvies are anti- Semitic has what the Yanks call issues. It's always odd, then, when a Jew is revealed as trying to pass as an Irish Catholic, as the late Patrick O'Brian was recently. Then there is the Labour MP Denis MacShane, whose real name bears more than a whiff of the matzo. And in Hollywood Winona Ryder is always saying she's a daughter of the Blarney; well, it must have been a swel- tering day in the Auld Sod when the Horowitz (her real name) tribe were creat- ed. One of the most grotesque sights to be seen in the US of A — and you really are spoilt for choice here — is the American Jews marching in the St Patrick's Day Parade. Even weirder are the names they give their daughters, like Shannon Wein- blatt and Caitlin Moskovitz. Indeed, Julia Roberts's next film is called Erin Brockovich. It can only be some sort of spir- itual Stockholm Syndrome: the sad phe- 'It's OK folks! Apparently he can fly.' nomenon of the victim taking on the colours of the bully. Good for Mr Mandel- son (never thought I'd say that) for resisting.
Iwonder what Mandelson's pet name for his boyfriend is? The late Professor Eric Berne identified the 'Secret Kingdom' as the sign of a healthy romantic relationship; you can fake enthusiasm for sex, apparent- ly, but not for the little voices and names that lovers use to create their own reality. Every year, on 14 February, the personal columns in the newspapers bear witness to the withered and cheapened state of the modern imagination. I am in the fifth year of going steady with someone whom I've got one of these Secret Kingdom things with. On holiday the other day, he asked me if I'd had a Secret Kingdom with both my husbands. Sure, I said. He waited for the fun to start. Then I realised with horror that, give or take an antler here or there, I'd been exactly the same creature in my last three relationships! I found this a much more shocking realisation than understand- ing that I was a bad mother or an adulter- ous wife. Am I really so lazy and callous that I cannot be bothered to create a differ- ent Secret Kingdom character for each seri- ous relationship? I fear so.
They say you know you're getting old when you read the Deaths before you read the Births. Well, I still read the Births first, but only because I've just signed a contract to write another two novels — you lucky people! — and am always on the look-out for interesting names. Instead, I've been rather annoyed by the new habit of not just announcing the child's given names, but also its nicknames and diminutives: Freder- ick 'Freddie' Mungo Faux and Edward George 'Ned' White were two such recent examples. I find this extremely common and coy; the Births column isn't meant to be Valentine's Day greetings, but rather a solemn and dignified record. There's some- thing a bit sad about sticking sub-Oscar Wilde nicknames on tiny babies too young to protest; what if Master Faux decides to become a class-war activist and call himself Fred? What if Master White ends up in the clink? 'Ned' could get him killed in the showers. If you want to call your child a cutesy name, then give it that cutesy name, like the thousands of girls who are chris- tened Sophie rather than Sophia. Other- wise, keep your cheesy domestic tableaux to yourselves. Personally, I can't help hop- ing that all the families who stoop to such public gloating end up horribly shattered — preferably because Dad was shagging his PA stupid all through the pregnancy. That'll teach 'em!
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