DIARY
PEREGRINE WORSTHORNE About 20 years ago, I took Andrew Knight, who was then just starting on the Economist, to stay with Claud Cockburn in Youghal and as we drove away the follow- ing morning even a blinding hangover could not stem Andrew's enthusiasm for the great man. 'Is there any possible doubt,' he asked, 'that journalists make the best company in the world?' I recalled these words when reading that he had been appointed to manage, rather than edit, the Telegraphs. For if Fleet Street journalists are some of the best company in the world, Fleet Street managements (with notable exceptions) must be among the worst. So is it really conceivable that Andrew Knight will be content to spend the years ahead simply managing? I don't believe it for a moment. Initially he may, to get the papers back on their feet financially — a challeng- ing and time-consuming job if ever there was one. But surely as soon as Lord Hartwell retires as editor in chief, that will be the job for Andrew Knight to take over. Nor would this necessarily require him to renounce his managerial responsibilities, since Lord Hartwell has been supremo over both for years. This would not mean that Andrew Knight would interfere with the leading articles any more than Lord Hartwell has ever done. But contrary to what the general public imagines, leading articles are the least important part of editing newspapers. Even I have occa- sionally been left in charge of them.
he only establishments I ever visit
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nowadays where your bags are unpacked and your clothes laid out for dinner are those run by the armed forces. Sandhurst, where I spent a night last week as guest of the commanding general, is a good exam- ple. I suppose some critics — none of them Spectator readers I hope — will say that `there is no excuse for generals living in this old-fashioned style, with soldier-servants doing these menial tasks'. But why should such practices need to be excused? No soldier has to do domestic service and those who volunteer — such as the sergeant who looked after me — obviously find the satisfactions of comradeship even in this work. I was the guest speaker at a grand dinner where all the staff and cadets were in full regimentals — jangling spurs, medals and so on. Even more overpower- ingly impressive was the military band which played throughout the meal. What an act to follow. Imagine being introduced by a roll of drums. Never have I felt my speech-making gifts, poor at the best of times, so hopelessly inadequate. Fortu- nately I was able to start my speech with a useful reminiscence about the last time I had spoken at Sandhurst many years ago. Bored to tears and anxious to get off to London for a dance, several young cadets had stolen away while I was still in full flood. Their departure, however, did not escape detection by the commanding offi- cer and one of the culprits told me years later that his army career had never reco- vered — had indeed been blighted — from the black mark — conduct unbecoming etc — earned on this occasion. Suitably chas- tened, the cadets this time not only sat tight throughout but actually succeeded in simulating a most gratifying — although not wholly convincing — measure of en- thusiasm. I have only one tiny complaint, and that has to do with the drivers who fetched me and took me home, both of whom were women. Normally, with male army drivers, one can have a, jolly con- versation; pick up a bit of gossip and so on. But these women drivers seemed to think that my conversational gambits were a demeaning form of 'chatting up' which did not do justice to the dignity of their uniform. Their driving was superbly pro- fessional but does their demeanour have to be quite so forbiddingly formal?
Ayoung West Indian computer de- signer, Mr James Ashbee, who has set up a rapidly growing self-help organisation for blacks in Camden, tells me that much of the tension between blacks and police would be eased if there were fewer very young officers. The problem, he insists, is not so much one of race as of age. Young blacks deeply resent being searched, or ordered to move on, by their own age group whose authority they automatically question. If the police were older, and endowed with the authority of age and experience, their orders would be much 'I'm dreaming of a tight Christmas.' more readily obeyed. At the moment, he went on, the police assumption is that young officers are more likely to be free of colour prejudice than their elders, having been brought up in a post-colonial era. All nonsense, says Ashbee. Colour is only relevant in the sense that there are too few policemen with grey hair. Incidentally, this charming and highly intelligent young West Indian is exactly the kind who ought to appear more often on the telly screen, instead of the ranting and whining Bernie Grants or Paul Boatengs.
Iwas amazed to be told by a fellow performer on a television programme on `class' that my 'success' as a journalist owed much to the privilege of having been at Stowe. If my school had been Eton, possibly. But I have always felt slightly under-privileged and de-classed by having gone to Stowe, unlike my father who went to Eton. Indeed, at one time I had rather a chip on my shoulder about this relative deprivation and loss of status. The pro- gramme in question was called Thinking Aloud, chaired with heroic self-effacement by Bryan Magee, and my fellow perfor- mers were Patricia Hollis, historian and leader of the Norwich City Council (very glamorous indeed) and Dr Roy Foster, also a historian of distinction. Overawed by such scholarly competition, I did my best to be as serious as I know how. But to no avail, as they obviously found every- thing I said a great joke, particularly the illustration I gave for my contention that the class system has changed out of all recognition in my lifetime. In the old days, I argued, the plainest daughter of a duke would have had a great advantage in Fleet Street over the prettiest daughter of a working man (assuming them both to be equally educated). Today, I maintained, it would be the other way around. I know this is not how dons talk about class. But did they really have to dismiss the remark quite so patronisingly?
Iam told that Lord Thomas has resorted to lawyers against me over the Alfred Sherman quotation about him in last week's diary. What a misunderstanding. Having always assumed that an insult from Sir Alfred was the highest form of praise, I am afraid that it never occurred to me that anybody would imagine such a thing to be libellous. Some of the best men in the kingdom have felt the rough edge of Sir Alfred's tongue and if I am ever included in that distinguished galere I shall certainly __not keep the news to myself. All the same, unreserved apologies to my old friend Hugh whose reputation, in my view, stands too high to be harmed by arrows of abuse so utterly wide of the mark.
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