THE SPECTATOR'S NOTEBOOK

The gross scandal of the manner in which the Arts Council distributes largesse continues. Opera and ballet, inferior arts at the best and at less than the best suitable for entertaining visiting statesmen by displays of vulgar opul- ence or speechless mime but for little else save to keep their performers gainfully occu- pied, hog the cash, needless to say. Lord Goodman, our official patron, writes in his introduction to the Arts Council report words with which I find myself in total agreement: 'whatever the political faith of the Govern- ment administration there is an area of acti- vity that must wither and die without help from the public purse'. Let Covent Garden and Sadler's Wells wither and die, for a start.

There is something outrageous about a public subsidy system which lavishes a couple of million pounds on the tiny minority of largely privileged visitors to Covent Garden and Sadler's Wells, yet can find only L73,923 for literature. There is also something outrageous about all the cream that goes into London, compared with the skimmed milk that is left for the provinces. It would be altogether better to shut Covent Garden and Sadler's Wells down, and keep the Museums open and free: or alternatively, to give the money these two extravagant show-places get to the provincial theatres, libraries and galleries.

The trouble with the Arts Council is that it lacks discrimination, which is to say that it lacks taste.

New man, old type

I see that the successor to the Parliamentary Commissioner or Ombudsman, Sir Edmund Compton, who is to retire in March after a not particularly auspicious inauguration of that novel office, is to be Sir Alan Marre. presently Second Permanent Secretary of the Department of Health and Social Security.

Thus the lamentable practice of appoint- ing a senior but not indispensable member of the Administrative Class of the Civil Service to be the citizen's safeguard against administrative injustice is continued. A third such appointment and it will have become a tradition. However, should Sir Alan prove to be like Sir Edmund, there may be no call for a third.

Child whores, call girls

There is nothing new—it all is old—in the account of children aged twelve, thirteen and fourteen being used as prostitutes in a Birmingham slum. It is squalid. It is tragic. The explanation given to Mr Peter Harvey. of the Guardian, by a social worker is true enough: 'The sort of thing that we find time and again is that one parent will either have some form of mental or nervous illness or will be in gaol. The kids have almost no direction or control--they start stealing and soon get into trouble with the police. They leave school very early. In some cases a mother living on her own will be a prostitute and she brings up her daughter in that en- vironment.

This is not, nor is it supposed to be, the whole truth. Two years ago I was told by a Governor of the school that there was an organised call-girl system operated by some of the sixth form girls of the show-place Holland Park Comprehensive school. A couple of weeks ago in conversation the sub- ject cropped up again and the father of two girls who were at the school confirmed it: the younger of his daughters had supplied much detail of the goings-on. It is not only from slum schools, or from girls who leave school early, or from girls with deprived homes, that whores' ranks are filled.

Lose battle, win war

I was rebuked last week at a British Steel Corporation party by Mr Anthony (Anatomy of Britain) Sampson, who most earnestly said that this weekly had got it all wrong in criticising the eight, nine or ten green bottled chairmen of statutory boards, corporations and councils who might, or should, eventu- ally fall. He was extremely vigorous in his repeated observation 'You've got it all wrong', and angry withall. 'The problem' he explained 'is not whom to get rid of. The pro- blem is finding people to run these things' I said I could think of plenty of able busi- nessmen who would be only too glad to run such things if asked by Minister nicely, and promised a peerage or a baronetcy or even a decent gong at the end of their stint. 'No you can't' said Tony Sampson. 'Tony Crosland told me that he could never find anybody that was any use.'

Feeling that I was losing this battle, I retired from the fray. Since, I have reflected that if indeed it is the case that governments and Ministers cannot find sufficient people able enough to fill all the posts and positions that governments and Ministers have on offer, then the answer can only be to abolish such posts and positions and not bleat at those who mildly criticise the shortcomings of the present incumbents. The war remains to be won.

Steel appeal

The party otherwise was most pleasant. affa- bly presided over by Mr William Camp, who is looking much better now he is back at Steel House than he did at the end of the general election, driving down to join us at a Summer Ball at Wivenhoe straight from supervising Harold Wilson's defeat. He look- ed a bit grey then. He is now looking very much back in the pink. This is his natural colour. There is something to be said, if we are to have nationalised industries (and I don't suppose anybody wants to buy coal back, or even a lot of steel), to have people who believe in nationalisation engaged in running them and selling their corporate images.

Mingling among the guests was Sonia Mel- chett, wife of Lord Melchett, chairman of the Steel Corporation and one of our green- bottled bosses we thought (and think) might fall. A few weeks back my colleague from the back-end of the paper, Skinflint, had been rather rude about Lady Melchett, linking her with Lady Antonia Fraser. the Countess of Dartmouth, and her mother, as 'tiring, pushy women' a friend of his had said he would least like to be married to. Sonia Melchett took particular exception at being linked so ungallantly with Barbara Cartland and I can't say that I blame her. I disown myself from Skinflint.

At the height of the party, taking place at the top of the Carlton Tower hotel (which now. I gather, we must steel ourselves to call the Sonesta Tower. which sounds like a tooth- paste or gramophone office block) the lights went out. This and the fluttering candles pro- duced by the waiters greatly improved the party which, since few felt like walking downstairs from the top of the tower, went on longer than anticipated. When one nationalised industry blacks out a party given by another, the brandy somehow flows more easily and the laughter rings more loudly.

Valour, not discretion

Last week Mr Geoffrey Rippon spent a diffi- cult Tuesday in Brussels over the Common Market negotiations. The following night he was seen relaxing at the far end of an enor- mous cigar at a London night club. Business- men. also relaxing, seem to become extra- ordinarily annoyed when they see a politician doing likewise.

A businessman's chauffeur exchanged notes with Mr Rippon's chauffeur and ac- cording to the chauffeurs, the first day Mr Rippon arrived at his new Ministry (then Housing. for this was before the death of Mr lain Macleod caused the removal of Mr Barber from Europe to the Treasury and Mr Rippon to Europe) he said 'What do I do to get a Rover three-litre car like the -Prime Minister?' The procedure was explained to him. According to this report, Mr Rippon thereupon departed for lunch.

Such anecdotes suggest a lively relaxed style: although I would not myself have thought a night clubbing trip every now and then was the kind of trip an ambitious and discreet Minister would make. It exudes excessive confidence.

Candle power

The news was flashed across the screen The Queen has proclaimed a State of Emergency'. My wife said 'I suppose she's run out of candles'.