DIARY
CHARLES MOORE ntering the restaurant at the Highcliff Hotel here on Tuesday, I asked the waiter, `Could you tell me where Lady Thatcher's table is?"Sorry, sir,' he said, 'what name was that again?' It must be the first time for a quarter of a century that such an answer has been possible.
The woman of whom the waiter had not heard is now unreservedly pleased with the Tory leadership. William and Ffion Hague were at her table, and enjoying her praise. As a former junior minister for pensions, she is steaming about the fact that National Insur- ance now counts for so little. 'If they won't pay us our due, we should demand our con- tributions back,' is one suggestion from an angry OAP from Belgravia. Will William have a Tory Barbara Castle on his hands?
Michael Portillo readily admits that his famous 'SAS' speech during the last Tory government was an embarrassment; but I felt that his 'I've travelled a long way' speech this week was open to similar objec- tions. The first was contrived to appeal to the Right, the second to the funky, metropolitan, sometimes black, sometimes homosexual voters whom Mr Portal°, since looking down the other end of a television camera, has decided are 'the Britain of today'. Both speeches were entirely calcu- lated and therefore unconvincing. Poor Mr Portillo feels compelled by our culture to imitate Tony Blair in baring himself, or appearing to bare himself, to the world. A woman friend of mine said she loved his speech because it seemed to be saying `Let's have sex with everyone'. Everyone seems to think of Michael Portillo in rela- tion to sex. I'd much rather have a shadow chancellor's speech where I could just lie back and think of the economy.
Some have complained that William Hague laughed too much during Just William . . . and Ffion, the film about him shown last Sunday. I thought it was charm- ing. Laughter is not protected under the new Human Rights Act and is therefore 'at risk' in a world in which all rights not stated in law are considered non-existent. It will probably come to be classified as 'inappro- priate behaviour', so enjoy it while you can. Charlotte Metcalf, known in her youth as `Fruity', directed the programme. She is an old friend of mine, much loved for her laugh, which is raucous, huge, unstoppable. She was so surprised and pleased to find similar tendencies in the leader of the opposition that she left all the serious bits on the cutting-room floor. Iam not very old/ But I think I under- stand/ How the new Human Rights Act/ Would work throughout the land,' sings Alex Barry, 11, in the government's newspa- per advertisements on the subject published this week. If Alex really does understand, he has the advantage over his 50 million or so seniors. I would like to bring a case arguing that this government's use of children for political purposes — the 'Euan test', endless mentions of 'Baby Leo', the children's choir at the Dome — infringes the Act's article on 'respect for private and family life'. Cer- tainly, the worship of `giovinezza' has the worst possible political roots. My own son, aged ten, has spotted the trend. He comes home from school, pushes his eyebrows up into an inverted 'V, grins horribly and says, `Look, it's all about kids.' Sony, I seem to be catching the Blair habit and dragging my children into public view.
Michael Ancram, the Tories' amiable chairman, is really called Lord Ancram, but prefers to be known as Mr. Some attribute this to a desire for classlessness, but the real reason may be more to do with a mortifying incident in his past. It is said that, at a grand Scottish wedding where the guests' names were called out in the line, Ancram whis- pered 'Lord Ancram' and the rather deaf butler shouted out 'Mr NORMAN CRUM'. At which point, Ancram seems to have decided that the name was not worth the handle.
. and a small glass of Rioja for Mr Portillo.' This year, the Conservatives have dropped their custom of collecting and publishing motions for debate from the constituency associations. This is a pity. The huge compendia that used to appear reminded one that complaint is the domi- nant tone of all politics; rightly so. It was like reading a collection of parish maga- zines with their grumbles about manners, crime, transport, change and decay. Bring back all those sad shires, nervous suburbs, beleaguered inner cities and their woes.
It is an unusual and rather attractive thing nowadays to be famous without people real- ly knowing what your voice sounds like. The Queen Mother is an example. Ffion Hague is another. Her voice is quite lovely, and has suddenly made me wildly pro-Welsh.
Would Catullus have enjoyed the Daily Telegraph? Sadly, we shall never know since he missed it by about 1,900 years. I ask because the paper has just been awarded the Premio Catullo for its coverage of Italy. This entailed my going last weekend to Sirmione on Lake Garda, described by Tennyson: `Sweet Catullus' all-but-island, olive-silvery Sirmio.' There I was presented with the prize by Bruno Vespa, who is the Jeremy Paxman of Italy. I recited Tennyson for a bit, and then Milva, a venerable and famous singer, belted out 'Don't Cry for Me, Argentina' to the assembled throng. The citation by the judges — all journalists from Rai, the main television station — spoke of the Telegraph helping, I translate literally, 'to fix in public opinion the co-ordinates of a common Euro- pean feeling'. I was so touched that I quite forgot the absurdity of linking a great Latin poet with a British daily newspaper. In grati- tude, I think I shall ask Sir Trevor McDonald to give Catullus a slot in his poetry column for us soon.
Lecturing in Germany recently, I attend- ed a lunch of high-powered bankers and industrialists. They all agonised intelligently about European enlargement, the euro and tax reform. Suddenly one of them produced a photograph. It was of Beethoven's total tax return for 1818, three lines long, in the composer's own hand: 'The undersigned enjoys an annual income of 1500 [denomi- nation not stated] and has nothing in addi- tion on which he must pay taxes'. It was lovely to behold such simple 'self-assess- ment', and also to be informed that Beethoven was in fact cheating, having lots of other income which he did not declare.
Charles Moore is editor of the Daily Telegraph.
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