DIARY
ANNE Mc E LV OY
Ai inauspicious start to the New Year. 1996 approached by stealth while I was locked in fierce debate with Norman Lam- ont about the future of European monetary union. Around us the party swirled, female laughter tinkled, men grew expansive. The host was Mr David Hart, property million- aire and Svengali to Tory politicians past, present and future; the setting, his Suffolk mansion. There was only the faintest resemblance to a George Grosz painting. The Hart family's annual revue mis- chievously suggested that the problem of what to do with Princess Diana could be solved by her ruling a federal Europe from Versailles. The more one thought about it, the more practicable it seemed. But Nor- man had eyes and ears only for Euro-follies and ventured that the best way to cure the British of the desire to have their economy run by someone else would be to let them go ahead and repent at leisure. This was so drastic — rather like taking arsenic so that one will know how fatal it is and not do it again in a hurry —that I hurled myself back into the discussion with renewed vigour. At 3 minutes to 12, I realised that there was no turning back. What a terrifying feeling it is to be standing next to someone you do not know particularly well at the turn of the year. Should we simply carry on discussing convergence criteria? Or was I required to smother him with kisses? By now, everyone was singing 'Auld Lang Syne', or rather as the southern English do, `Zyne'. Syne means 'good times gone by'. Zyne does not mean anything. I wish someone would tell them. When neither of us could politely ignore the great event any longer, we bobbed uncomfortably towards each other, clashing noses, and muttering, 'Happy New Year, and I think you're so right about the unforseen foreign policy implications of EMU.'
Upstairs the dancing had started. In juvenile fashion, I consider the spectacle of grown-ups in black ties and ball-dresses waving their bejewelled fingers in the air to the sound of Village People comical, even when I happen to be one of them. On the other hand, the nice thing about disco dancing is that like ironing, it frees the mind to concentrate on higher things. The predominant political leaning chez Hart suggested that a special musical selection was called for — perhaps a K-Tel collection of Top Tunes for Troubled Tories. In view of the PM's dwindling majority, I would have thought that 'Staying Alive' by the Bee Gees should be dedicated to frail or elderly members of the Conservative benches, in the hope that it might persuade them to hang on for dear life until May 1997. Mr Norman Lamont's heart-rending search for a seat somewhere, anywhere, in the British Isles could be commemorated by Diana Ross's 'I'm Still Waiting'; Mr Peter Lilley's and Mr John Redwood's obsession with single mothers would find its echo in Sister Sledge's 'We are Family'. Emma Nicholson would be immortalised in Aztec Camera's 'Rip it Up and Start Again'. As for Mr John Major, you might in the course of 1996 chance on him singing along to Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive'. Then again, you might not.
Even discotheques are retrospective affairs these days. Only the very young and constitutionally robust can face up to more than three minutes of thudding techno-jan- gle. The rest of us are content to exhume the sounds of bygone days in the fond belief that they were the musical wallpaper of our youth. In fact, we were probably nos- talgically crooning to something else then, and so on back to the beginning of time. According to BBC 2, which rarely emerges from the mists of memory lane these days, a bout of Eighties nostalgia is about to break over the country. They have commis- sioned Mr Peter York to guide us through Here's a pound, go to France.' a six-part analysis of the decade of shoulder pads and filofaxes. 'Now it's over,' he intones, 'people tell me that they feel a bit guilty — in denial about their Eighties selves.' This is a splendidly witless example of television journalism packaging random blocks of time whose tedious events remain all too fresh in everyone's minds as an 'era' and then applying a liberal dose of psycho- codswallop. Genuine rather than manufac- tured nostalgia is a far more potent emo- tion than reruns of politicians' speeches and antiquated sitcoms can ever reflect. Culinary memories induce a special yearn- ing. Visiting my parents in their village in Co. Durham over Christmas restored a long-suppressed desire for those true northern delicacies, black-and-white pud- ding, and a mysterious spicy concoction known as savoury duck. When my grandfa- ther was alive, Sunday breakfast consisted of this meaty feast which is one of my earli- est memories of taste, smell and ritual. Twenty-five years on, we set off on a Prous- tian search for the ingredients perdus to the nearest town. The supermarket cold-cuts counters groaned with Hungarian salamis, German garlic sausage, Italian hams and Belgian pâtés. Of Geordie puddings, sadly not a trace.
Being appointed deputy editor of The Spectator is a joy and an honour. The only depressing aspect of the change was the ordeal of leaving my old job at the Times. The farewell card bore a sobering mixture of messages. 'Look forward to seeing you back here soon' ran one vote of confidence in my future with a new publication. 'I did not know you, but will miss you' was anoth- er delphic offering. The editor Mr Peter Stothard decided 'persuasive' was the word which summarised my character. He insists that it is a compliment and that no journal- ist can get by without this trait. But it is amazing how detrimental 'persuasive' sounds if used repeatedly. Do I really sound like an insurance salesman? What do I make people do that they regret after- wards? My husband will shortly have to endure a similar transition and must brace himself for the awful moment when you realise what your colleagues have thought about you for so long. We shall pass Jan- uary thinking up 'compliments' about each other which would make the recipient feel queasy rather than appreciated. Being praised as 'spirited' would not be welcome (translates as frenetic). Neither would lard-working' (talentless), and certainly not 'an institution' (been here for years, no idea what he did). Worst of all would be `sweet', a word only ever used about people who aren't.
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