DIARY
ALAN CLARK The news that John Major and Tony Blair are to debate live on television at last puts in sight a possibility of the Conserva- tives winning the next general election. Blair will be seen as totally vacuous, pump- ing out platitudes from Peter Mandelson's book and wired discreetly up to a tiny ear- piece down which Alastair Campbell will be dispensing 'advice'. He will, furthermore, be attacking head-on at our strongest point, allowing Major to perform the same last- minute salvage job which he brought off in 1992. Given that he has surrounding him a goodly quantity of nerds and incompetents, it is remarkable — and to his credit — that Major has not found himself placing more reliance on the counsel, as have practically all his predecessors, of courtiers and `experts'. Sarah Hogg, of course, was one such. And that recollection may well pro- tect her diminutive and unusually likable husband Douglas, whose rapid sequence of crisply executed gavottes on the subject of infected beef have so entertained connois- seurs. Another, in the next Parliament, could well be the saturnine Viscount Wat- ford — provided Tristan Garel-Jones can persuade Rouge Dragon Pursuivant that this courtesy title, presently attaching to the progeny of an obscure earldom, can prop- erly be released. In contrast Blair, were he to become premier, looks likely to activate a whole mothballed fleet of unelected dig- nitaries, from Melvyn Bragg upwards. Indeed, the only explanation I can think of for Will Hutton's ascending to the bridges of the badly waterlogged Observer is that he must see it as an apposite staging-post on the way to administrating the National Plan (and putting Gordon Brown's nose out of joint) from the Lords.
If we consider long-serving Conservative prime ministers, Churchill had Bracken, Lindemann, Randolph (off and on) and Max Beaverbrook; Mrs Thatcher had John Hoskyns, Alan Walters, David Young, Woodrow Wyatt and Charles Powell. (At her court only Ian Gow had actually fought an election for the Tories and his period of real influence — as distinct from an increasingly uncomfortable proximity did not last for very long.) Harold Macmil- lan, however, enjoying the intellectual self- sufficiency of a classical scholar, would con- fine himself to discussion with his own fam- ily — son Maurice and son-in-law Julian Amery. Yet Macmillan (having so adroitly outmanoeuvred rivals with more obvious claims to the premiership) did certainly understood how to protect his back. After the Night of the Long Knives, there was not a single realistic contender left in the Cabi- net. And here we can compare the skills of the present Prime Minister. No contender for his job has ever been executed. But it is just that magazines of blank practice ammunition suddenly, indeed quite often, turn out to have included the odd live round. Was it all a dreadful accident? Cer- tainly, there can be few more effective ways of handicapping a rival than to allow him `fact finding' tours in distant parts, or another example — that he be the subject of an approbatory column from Hugo Young.
One attribute that I do share with the boyish and fresh-featured editor of the Sunday Telegraph is that we both of us, wherever we go, are recognised. Of course recognition factor and approval rating are not necessarily, or even usually, coincident. But as I never get hate mail, my anticipa- tion tends, whatever my private mood, to be benign. The other day, though, I was at King's Cross and had a disconcerting expe- rience. Walking across the 'concourse' to the sweet shop, I passed near to a group of (male) inadequates. 'We hate you!' I heard, shouted in coarse tones. Perhaps they were talking to each other. Staring fixedly at the attendant, I fumbled for loose change for my Mars Bar. Dum-de-dum . . . 'Alan Clark!' — this was bad. People sometimes get knifed at King's Cross, don't they? Is it not a notorious location of the 'passers-by declined to intervene' syndrome? De-dum . . . 'Fucking Taw-rees!' A tyro would have tried to 'make friends', explain that he was actually on the way north to address as guest of honour a trade union dinner. I, though, made my way back to the Trav- ellers' Lounge, using that rigid gait so often adopted by walkers on a pedestrian cross- ing as fast-moving vehicles approach. Often I think of that episode in The Candidate (still the best ever political documentary fiction), when Redford is knocked out by a total stranger in the urinals and then has to go and address an audience of eight in a hall set up to seat 300. If you really love politics, you can never get enough of it.
Iwas interested, though not surprised, to see that Mrs Vivien Duffield had invited paparazzi to attend her 50th birthday party, so as better to publicise her great wealth, impeccable taste and wide circle of influen- tial friends. As social historians may con- firm, this kind of display usually predicates bad news. Often in not more than a couple of generations, the money has all gone. Just as most of it has already in the case of Mrs Duffield's brother, the tortured and intro- spective male heir, Alan. Their father, Charles Clore, was a nasty bit of work, and was once put in his place by Bert Marlbor- ough (grandfather to that excitable socialite, the present Marquess of Bland- ford). This great reactionary, who once complained, when his valet was incapacitat- ed, that in the mornings his toothbrush `didn't foam properly', took a dislike to the toad-like property dealer, who had turned up at Blenheim with a couple of brand-new Purdeys. The birds were high, and in spite of assistance from an accompanying func- tionary on the gunsmith's staff, Clore's bag was minuscule. At lunch-time Clore asked if his 'loader' could join the guns' picnic: `You see, he's teaching me to shoot. . . . ' The Duke wasn't too keen on this. 'Join us? Whadjer mean join us? Teachin' you how to eat too, is he?'
Good food is frightfully difficult to find, and the last place I would expect to be offered it would be at a restaurant fre- quented by 'celebrities'. Somebody asked me to meet them at Daphnis (as in Chloe, I assumed). One of my children, more street- wise than I, said, 'Oh, Daphne's, there's always a photographer outside in a leather jacket', and told me where to find it. The dining-room was completely full of reporters who compose gossip columns, or `diarists', as they style themselves. And there was a separate annexe where fashion- ably dressed ladies were complaining to each other about their predicaments. Nor- man Lamont was visible — thus maintain- ing, as far as I am concerned, his 100 per cent je-suis-partout rating. But the food was absolutely delicious. I doubt if you could go there alone, though. Not like Wilton's.
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