Notebook
'Mae Buzby yn gofyn: Ydych chi'n caely gorau o'ch teleffon ?' Welsh is reputedly a beautiful language, but did those who have struggled for its survival ever foresee the use 10 which the Post Office would put it ? The only Welsh most people in Wales ever see is the rubbish on leaflets sent out by the government, in this case a drawing of some fat bird sitting on a telephone wire yapping about the Cheap Rate ('Cyfraddau Rhad-0').
If they cannot find a more sensible use for language, any language, it might be more dignified to return to an infantile system of semaphore and grunts. `Ogy, ogy ogy' : another notice from the Post Office. Is this Buzby telling me that before I dial I must li.ft the receiver? No, the little half-wit is signalling that he will cut off my phone if I do not pay the bill ('Bil'). I have to signal back that a cheque has been in his possession for some time and he has still not replied to lnY letter. What is the Welsh for 'Sorry'? The government does not seem to print it O n any of these leaflets.
The search for topical items in the deadest week of the year is brought to an end by the Honours List. Yes, it's Lord Short who has served his time in the heat of the battle and now takes his reward from a grateful party : a life peerage and £9,000 a year as chairman of Cable and Wireless. Meanwhile shivering through the winter in Ford Open Prison the former chairman of Dan Smith Associates nears the date of his release. It is high time that Mr Smith, DCL, and Lord Short, CH, came together and explained how it was that they lost £250. For Mr Smith says that !le Paid Lord Short £500. Lord Short says It was only £250, spent on entertaining in the House of Commons. But why were the expenses not itemised, and why was the Money paid in cash ? Mr Smith has said that when he is released he will tell the ;.'hole story. His memory may have been Jogged by his recent overnight stay in Wandsworth prison, where he shared a cell With John Stonehouse, PC.
The Royal Council on Alcoholism brings out a well-timed report called Alcohol and Work. Apparently more than two million of the work force are costing us billions of Douncls through taking wrong decisions When drunk. The report provides an invaluable table of 'drunks by occupation.' Insurance brokers are tragically high on the liSt of those who die from cirrhosis of the liver; and how curious that judges and barristers should rank higher than barmen.
The thought of all those drunk judges Muddling up the law and throwing away our money is a sobering one. Since journalists do not appear on the cirrhosis table at all, one must conclude that Fleet Street's reputation for drinking rests entirely on the hunched shoulders of the intoxicated judges and barristers who pour out of law courts every lunchtime disguised as journalists.
Last May a letter in the Spectator proposed that a public monument be raised to the memory of the two million people forcibly repatriated to the Soviets after the last war by our own Foreign Office (the Earl of Avon and Lord Brimelow at the helm).
This proposal has now been discussed by the IvIazepa Society which represents the interests of the 25,000 Ukrainians living here. The names of supporters are being collected by the Secretary of the Mazepa Society at 78, Kensington Park Road, London WI 1, and a committee representing the interests of all parties will then be formed. The terrible story of these repatriations was told in Nicholas Bethell's book The Last Secret, which is now in paperback. It may even be possible to raise the monument within spitting distance of either the Foreign Office or the Soviet Embassy.
While leafing through a back number of the International Journal of Gynaecology and Obstetrics I came across an interesting article by Dr Shettles called 'The factors influencing sex ratios.' A more appropriate title would have been 'How to be eighty per cent certain of choosing the sex of your next child.' This information is dynamite and I
imagine that is why it has been suppressed. By a method which involves no machinery or chemicals, the aspirant parents can eliminate almost all of the traditional uncertainty.
On the other hand if it is too late and the child is already conceived, they can at least predict its sex and plan accordingly. I have tried this calculation on one expectant mother and was able to inform her that she would have a boy. Three months ago she gave birth to a fine girl. So what ? Either she was one of the 20 per cent who just won't be helped, or there is a more sinister explanation. This mother had her baby in an enormous new maternity unit. It is standard practice in such places to remove the infant immediately after birth, stick an identity tag on its wrist and place it in a vast soundproofed ward among dozens of other infants. Obviously in this case there was a mistake, and having given birth to the expected boy the mother was later presented with someone else's girl. Just remember how often doctors amputate the wrong limb (even when the diseased one has been clearly marked with blue paint) and you will be able to calculate the likely frequency of such mistakes. They may even be due to judicial-scale drunkenness among the nurses.
When this scandal has received the publicity it deserves, think of the consequences for those engaged in the great controversy over inherited genetical ability.
The book which I have missed most in 1976 may not now appear. This is Ruling Passions, the autobiography of Tom Driberg (RIP). According to the publishers, Jonathan Cape, the manuscript was never completed.
One story which Driberg might have included concerns the manuscript diary of Aleister Crowley. Some years ago on a dark and stormy night Driberg came into a Soho pub clutching a little black book and looking rather smug. The book was Crowley's diary for one of the pre-war years and Driberg had just been offered £1,000 for it by an American collector. (He accepted.) For half an hour Driberg regaled the company with readings aloud and consequent speculations. But the best part of the story was how he himself acquired the diary. He said that many years before, on another dark and stormy night, he called on a young man who had obtained possession of some letters which Driberg had written to 'the Beast.' A crisp white five-pound note secured the return of these. Then, turning to go, Driberg noticed the little black book. It was full of hieroglyphs and ancient signs, but Driberg recognised its value and for only five pounds more purchased this as well from his impoverished and unscholarly host.
'So seldom,' murmured Driberg, 'that one is able to make a small fortune out of being blackmailed.'
Patrick Marnham
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