DIARY JULIE BURCHILL
The Labour MP John Hepple is one of the hundreds of men in this country who has LOVE tattooed across the knuckles of one hand, and HATE across the knuckles of the other. Robert Mitchum's rabid preach- er in the 1955 film The Night of the Hunter was, as far as I know, the first person to avail himself of this adornment, but it really took off here in a big way amongst the skin- head youth of the 1970s. Arguably only bet- tered by CUT HERE across the neck ( suit- able perforation tattoos optional), the LOVE and HATE knuckledusters became the badge of meat-headed misanthropy: the mark of one who believed that society needed a good kicking. Everyone, of course, has committed youthful indiscre- tions. But there are apparently thousands of stupid and selfish men currently clogging up NHS hospital waiting-lists to have their Youthful indiscretions removed, at an aver- age cost, to us, of £2,500 per idiot. You can't hang a man for being a moron, though it would be nice to try.
Whyare the French so foul? Is it linked in some way with their massive consumption of indigestion cures, the greatest of any country in the history of the world? What came first — does their indigestion make them irritable or does their irritability give them indigestion? I have never bought the dumb bourgeois view of France — assidu- ously and tediously promoted by the Times in recent weeks — as a 'joyous' country Where the people really know how to enjoy life; the only time they seem to enjoy them- selves is when they're making life pure hell for everyone else. My friend Sasha Moor- som, trying to get past a French lorry driver in her car last week, was called a filthy Ger- man whore by him; the nerve of it — call- ing a well-born Englishwoman a German!
T
here have been worse leaders, and there have been more evil leaders: Edward Heath springs immediately to mind. But there has never, so far as I know, been a leader as teeth-grindingly, cringe-inducing- IY precious as Vaclav Havel. And what a gift for self-promotion — only he could have reduced the Divine Margaret to the level of the posing Pinters, as the great and the goody-goody of the West queued up to kiss his ring. They talked of his moral courage, his heroism and his visionary wisdom; you'd be forgiven for thinking he was a hybrid of Albert Schweitzer and Emile Zola. But to m e Havel always seemed more like a tradi- tional East European leader. There was the same posturing, the same wastefulness, the same lack of empathy with ordinary people. For the last few years of his rule, Havel spent too much time 'hanging out' with the Rolling Stones, riding his motorbike through the presidential palace and re- designing the uniform of the palace guard. But probably his most unforgivable act was the amnesty he announced just after his election releasing more than 50,000 violent criminals, including thousands of murder- ers and child rapists. Three quarters of them promptly re-offended, and, in the worst case, a child abuser was given a job in a children's hospital, turned up drunk on his first day, raped a sick seven-month-old baby and fell asleep on top of her, thus killing her. 'What is going on in Russia is taking the form of tragedy; here it is more like theatre of the absurd, boulevard come- dy or farce.' No, Mr Havel; what is happen- ing in the beautiful, brave country of Czechoslavakia as a direct result of the 'Velvet' Revolution is also a tragedy for the Czechs and the Slovaks. The only theatre of the absurd, boulevard comedy or farce was your political career, which is now fortu- nately drawing to a close.
0 n 18 July my old alma mater, the Face magazine, is throwing a fund-raiser at the Atrium, Millbank, London SW1. Tick- ets can be obtained from Julia Hobsbawn at 44 Malden Road, London NV/5 and the proceeds will help pay the (chivalrously reduced) damages to Jason Donovan, who claims that the Face called him a screaming mimi. When I heard that Mr Donovan had won his libel case, I immediately wired the editor of the Face, my old drinking pal Sheryl Garratt, with an offer of help. Rather dashingly, I asked, 'Will a grand do?' Over the next week, this fax was repro- duced in around half a dozen reports on the case and its aftermath. To my astonish- ment, both Sheryl and the publisher, Nick Logan, wrote separately soon after, both apologising for this awful breach of eti- quette, claiming that their hacks had seen my fax 'accidentally'. Let me use this opportunity to put their minds at rest once and for all — Sheryl, Nick: the only reason I gave you the lousy money was so that peo- ple would write about it.
John Major, of all people, has been bandying about the appallingly ill-sorted phrase 'Little Englander'. Anyone who uses this phrase marks themselves for life as a lower-middle-class counter-jumper who is sure that being identified as 'pro-European' will give him a sophisticated new image. Either that, or a crooked businessman. Those of us who are anti-EEC are usually so because we wish to embrace the world in all its diverse, free-trading glory, rather than one tiny corner of it: Little Europe, as it were. I propose a campaign to make sure that we 'Little Englanders' are given our proper name of 'Great Britainers'. As one who repeatedly and admirably trumpeted his support for the Union during the last election, I am sure Mr Major will be the first to join my new campaign.
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