INi r ell done the rapidrebuttal unit of the British Chamber
of Commerce. The announcement of the Corporate Social Responsibility Bill, tabled by the Labour MP Linda Perham and enjoying the support of Labour's latest back-bench desperado, Michael Meacher, was greeted forthwith by a declaration by the BCC's director-general, David Frost, warning that the Bill represents a 'threat to smalland medium-sized enterprises . . . would cost jobs as firms fold under the strain . . . increase the red-tape stranglehold' etc., etc., and urging MPs to `stop it immediately'. Ms Perham's office say that the BCC didn't contact them beforehand to ask about the actual wording of the Bill. Perhaps it was the phrase 'Corporate Social Responsibility' that got them steamed up.
The passing of the centenarian senator for South Carolina and nonpareil good ole boy Strom Thurmond leaves opinion divided. Thus the writer Harlan Ellison's measured appraisal of Strom's legacy; 'An active force for bigotry, homophobia, racism, hatred between individuals, pork-barrelling in aid of the murderous tobacco cartels, separatist divisiveness, calculated ruin of the lives of his opponents or people he just happened to lay a gimlet eye on, lies that short-circuited progressive legislation, fundamentalist elitism, revenge and just plain mean-spirited arrogant ignorance.' Kinder words come from his former personal secretary Sandra Courie. 'He was very generous and warmhearted.' she attests. 'You've heard the stories about he'd go to receptions and stuff his pockets with food. Well, he'd bring me some of that food. And it looked like it had been in his pocket. I threw it away. But if he had stood there and watched me, I would have eaten every bit.' Doesn't it make your heart, or something, well up?
As the second anniversary of the 11 September attacks peeps above the horizon, is it perhaps time to calm down even a tiny bit on the airline security issue? There's no question that it's prudent not to supply the average, don't-know-where-they've-been economy-class passenger with metal knives. But surely it's going over the top not to give the Queen of England the benefit of the doubt. At least twice Her Maj has been forced to eat her in-flight meals with plastic cutlery. History doesn't relate whether she has yet been obliged to remove the royal
shoes and stand in her stockinged feet on the carpet at Gatwick while her heels are checked for plastic explosives.
In the course of a perfectly absurd performance on Question Time the other night, Trevor Phillips made a shocking and unfounded allegation of corruption in public life. Discussing British sporting achievement, or the lack of it, he declared airily, `I think you can probably buy Eurovision.' Bloody cheek! You'd think a member of a government for whom the names Mittal. Hinduja, Sainsbury', Robinson and Ecclestone all have a painful plangency would leave off from speculating over what back-handers may be involved in the success or failure of Boom-a-ling-a-lang-a Spells Love and related works. Nut points!
Iife,' Jonathan Aitken remarked at his d wedding last week, is like a rope with many strands. No rope is easily made. There are Oxford days, Parliament days, Ministry of Defence days and prison days.' Too right. One guest at the event — thronged with luminaries from across the political spectrum from Michael Howard to Harold Pinter — reports falling into conversation with a man built like the very sturdiest of brick conveniences, and who referred to the former Cabinet minister as 'Me old bib 'n' tucker'. 'How do you know Jonathan?' inquires guest. 'We did time together,' he said, before launching into a eulogy.
Jonathan was a good listener, apparently, and 'good for advice'.
To return to a favourite theme, is there no level of idiocy which an advertising agency can attain which would prompt its client to think: 'These people are morons. Let's sack them'? And why is it that the more 'sophisticated' the product, the more stupid the pitch? Slogan of the moment; 'Carte Noir — un café notnme desir.' A coffee called desire. It's not a bleedin"cafe nomme desir'. It's a 'café nomme Carte Noir'. Go into any restaurant in France, ask for a demi-tasse of `desir' and see if you don't get a slap.
In this week's Unlikely Bedfellows section, what about the pairing of Margaret Hodge, our embattled children's minister, and Howard 'Mr Nice' Marks, the amiable stoner who used to smuggle dope into the UK 30 tonnes at a time? In an interview with the London Student, Mr Marks says that he and Mrs Hodge are old pals, and have `shared many social occasions'. Few are the social occasions at which Mr Marks is to be seen without an eye-wateringly enormous spliff bobbing from his lower lip. Did he ever offer Mrs Hodge a toke? 'I have always smoked around whoever I'm with,' he says, but adds punctiliously: 'lam absolutely certain Margaret never took any drugs in my presence.'
I f his granny gets her way — and, I need scarcely say, she usually does — Prince William will be getting a second 'gap year'. I understand that Her Majesty has expressed herself very keen that the future King get to know some of his overseas subjects by spending up to a year after he leaves St Andrews touring the Commonwealth. Quite so. Modernisation is one thing; neglect of the Empire another.
If you don't want to know who dies in the new Harry Potter, LOOK AWAY NOW. Anyone still reading? Right. It's Sirius Black. Isn't that a swizz? The jewel in the crown of the stupendous advance hype for The Order of the Phoenix was J.K. Rowling's artful revelation that a 'major' character dies — leaving the nation's children boiling with anticipation at the prospect of Hermione, Hagrid, Dumbledore or Ron handing in their dinner-pail. Instead, it was a character who was only introduced in book three. He spent the first two books in jail, the third disguised as a dog, the fourth on the run and most of the fifth — until it was time for him to buy the farm — sulking in the kitchen.
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