DIARY KEITH WATERHOUSE
Iintend to be 64 this Saturday, for all that I cannot convince myself that I am a day over 40. I discussed my semi-immaturi- ty syndrome with a contemporary at the Oldie of the Year lunch, who asserted that all of us who passed our childhood in the war years have a touch of the Peter Pan. I think there is something in the theory. Air- raids were a lark, roaming smouldering bomb-sites was fun, the prospect of inva- sion a great adventure. We grew into ado- lescence thinking life was a game. Be that IS it may, friends have asked what I intend to do about my 64th. The answer is noth- ing. I have never had a birthday party in my life, discounting only the splendid dinner some of these same friends gave for me When I really was 40. Next year, however, it Is all going to be different. I do plan a .P,!rty, but not specifically for my birthday. The invitations will read, 'Keith Water- house invites you to celebrate the coming to maturity of Scottish Life policy no XYZ 1234567.' It's coming near to the time when I should start looking for it.
Iam glad that someone — the redoubt- able Ann Leslie in the Daily Mail — has at least had the courage to question the received intelligence that 'up to' 60,000 Moslem and Croatian women have been systematically raped by Serbs. No one, of course, doubts that there has been Widespread rape and worse. But only some- ? on the spot could dare challenge that 'uglily dubious figure; it also helped that .Alln had the foresight to be a woman. There here are far too may of these 'up to' statistics rattling about these days, from Projections of the number of Aids victims by the year 2000 (a wonderful Armageddon date for doom-watchers) to the probable billions to be invested in the National Lot- tery. We have begun to believe any figure the Department of Guesswork cares to "'row at us, provided it has a lot of noughts after it. Years ago I drew attention to the curious coincidence that every single esti- mate of the probable cost of this or that side-effect of any piece of new legislation was always £100 million. This was in the days of raging inflation, when by rights the following year's estimates should have risen 4ecordingly to £114 million or whatever. ,r3, id, no, they remained steady at £100 mil- lion, and do so to this day — notice for Yourself how often the figure crops up: an Illustration that even exaggeration finds its twvn natural level. For myself, I have mis- trusted all official statistics ever since a City editor friend passed on to me his discovery that the entire turnover of Marks & spencer was going into the Board of Trade figures under Women's and children's Clothing' long after Marks & Sparks had
built up their huge food side. So every pound of oranges was being clocked up as a St Michael's vest.
Iwonder if it would spoil Sir Kingsley Amis's lunch to show him the catalogue of modern first editions in which Lucky Jim, near fine in VG clean dustwrapper, is priced at £895? It must be several times more than his original advance. And I believe he doesn't even own a first edition himself. Anyway, he should be pleased to know that he outstrips even the collectable PGW, whose prices long ago went through the roof — Ukridge in nice dustwrapper £395, Mr Mulliner Speaking in chipped and creased dustwrapper with a couple of larg- ish pieces missing £355, The Luck of the Bodkins near fine in VG d/w £475 . . . I must stop reading these catalogues. When I was 17 or 18 I used to collect Wodehouses, then freely available at standard second- hand book prices. I got rid of the dust-jack- ets in the belief that they were garish and that my collection of about 20 or 30 titles would look more like a library without them. Then, to finance my cinema expedi- tions with girls, I sold the lot for less than the price of a present-day paperback. Laughing Gas, I distinctly remember, was among them. Near fine in VG dustwrapper, £475. But how was Ito know? And how am
I to know even now? In this same catalogue have surfaced from somewhere a couple of duplicated film scripts in which I had a hand — quite run-of-the-mill ones, I may say, one so run-of-the-mill that it was never even made. The prices are respectively £38 and £48. Not in the Amis or Wodehouse class, I know, but for years I have been using the backs of my old scripts as scrap pads.
Iwas sorry when Miss Clare Latimer was projected into the limelight. Ever since I first heard the preposterous canard about the Prime Minister and the cook, I have nursed a pleasing image of a plump, Upstairs Downstairs Mrs Bridges figure in snowy-white apron and cap, hobbling into the No 10 dining-room on her bad feet with a steaming apple-pie hot from the oven, and reproaching her employer in a lawks-a- mussy way for not eating up his greens. A saucy wink to show she doesn't really mean it, then she waddles off below stairs to still the wagging tongues of Boots and the skivvy with a clip around the ear. Miss Latimer doesn't fit the bill at all. Thus are harmless daydreams shattered.
David Montgomery, the new chief executive of the Mirror Group, learned his trade at the group's own training scheme. He doesn't seem to have absorbed the most important lesson, which is that the whole point and purpose of working in popular journalism is to have a lot of fun and spend a lot of money. Otherwise one might as well work in a bank. When Hugh Cudlipp was in charge of the shop he ran the group like an all-night party, and the papers had more zest than an orange grove. Now the atmosphere is funereal and the product, as I believe Mr Montgomery calls it, is deadly dull. All right: the old Mirror carried a lot of passengers and expenses were high, though not all that high if you counted them as overheads. But it was jolly to work for and that's how it got the best people. Mind, it's possible to have too much of a good thing. There was one legendary fea- ture writer on the Mirror whose daily rou- tine was to turn up to collect an advance against his expenses and then repair to Soho where he ran a drinking club. His retirement party at the Ritz somehow got mixed up with the Queen Mother and her entourage who were on their way in to din- ner. Our man found himself being present- ed by the paper's theatre critic, Arthur Thirkill, affectionately known as Upper Thirkill. `Ah yes,' said the Queen Mother with a regretful smile. 'We shall miss your articles.' No one liked to tell her that he hadn't written a line for 12 years.
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