Westminster corridors
The Great Secret, to wit the appointment of a New Editor for the Observer, has so much exercised the minds of the Lobby Fellows here in the Club that scarce a word has been transmitted to their Journals for some weeks past. What with Master Ian Waller of the Sunday Telegraph entering the lists and Serjeant David Wood of the Thunderer taking his cap out of the ring, the actual business of Politicks perforce has had to play second fiddle in the Bars and Corridors.
Why these Lobby Men (and, in the case of Miss Nora Beloff, Woman) think they should make suitable candidates for the editorship of a great weekly Organ is somewhat beyond my comprehension. Few of them have the faintest impression of how a newspaper is actually run (though on the evidence of most current Fleet Street editors, possibly that is a good thing). Some (to name Mr John Egan, the former chairman of the Lobby Journalists, for six) have never been to Fleet Street and of those who have most do so merely to visit El Vino.
You may wonder about my concern over the business of finding an Editor for the Observer. I have none, I assure you, except that our beloved Leader, Mr Harold Wilson, should soon be of cheerful countenance again.
Having, throughout his terms of office as Prime Minister, consistently taken the view that The Press at Westminster is manned by Tory Hirelings of the Tory Press Barons (how can he describe the appalling Mr Terry "Boy" Lancaster as a Tory Hireling, I wonder?) who will oppose him in and misinterpret all that he does, Mr Wilson saw the Observer crisis as his chance to "get even," as he put it to the Duchess of Falkender.
Now the Duchess is very close to one or two of the Lobby Fellows (closer to one than to two, though two would no doubt dispute this vehemently) and once her own candidature was ruled out by Lord Goodman — "no, dear, you are too valuable at Downing Street," he said — her object (on the instruction of Mr Wilson) became to secure in the post of Editor of the Observer someone who would be "amenable to reason."
The Prime Minister suggested Mr Gerald 'I'm a Toad' Kaufman, the Ruffian from Ardwick. Lord Goodman merely laughed. Then he said: "What about Dick Crossman? That will stop his Diaries." Lord Goodman was obliged to point out that Mr Crossman was no longer active in journalism. So Mr Tony "Compositors' Friend" Benn became the compromise candidate.
Surprise, surprise, Mr Benn said he did not want the job. "I have just gotten into oil fun," he remarked on his Wondertoy Ship To Shore. (red plastic) Telephone when Mr Wilson called him to make the offer.
How do the mighty suffer. Mr Wilson's worst fears about the Press were confirmed when it became apparent that one of the "secret'' candidates for the Editorship was none other than Mr Edward Heath, a visionary and man of letters.
"But he is the biggest Tory of them all,'" shrieked the Prime Minister. "Rubbish," retorted Mrs 'Harmony Hair Spray' Thatcher across the Dispatch Box, with a modest glance at herself in her two-way make-up mirror.
Perhaps it has gone unnoticed that since he lost the leadership, Mr Heath has turned his hand (as the saying goes) more and more to writing In this very journal we recently published an article written by him some forty years ago. It read like a dream — he might have written it yesterday. And those of you who say that he has no editorial experience should take note. Mr David Astor had none either, and look what he has done for the Observer.
• Tom Puzzle
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