SHARED OPINION
There is only one person in Britain to touch Miss Hurley and that is Mr Blair
FRANK JOHNSON
Driving from central London to Hen- ley-on-Thames over the Bank Holiday weekend, we were delighted to discover on the way there that there is a village named Hurley. I mused: about time they named a village after her. Appropriately, there was a suspicion that the village had had a certain amount done to it by way of enhancements and alterations.
Whatever the reason, the place shares a name with the most famous living English- Woman — with the possible exceptions of the Queen and Lady Thatcher. Miss Hurley is often dismissed as being famous for being famous. If that is true, it makes her fame even more remarkable. Despite the 'celebrity culture' by which we are supposed to be sur- rounded, there are few people in the world Who are famous to everyone. Famous foot- ballers are not. Football is less popular now than it was 50 years ago. Probably there are more men at the gardening centre of a Satur- day afternoon than at football matches. For myself, I have never heard of those soap- opera stars who are always in the tabloids. Likewise, the people who follow soap operas Would probably not recognise in the street „.allY of my own heroes or heroines, such as tiarcey Bussell, the ballerina whom I revere. But nearly everyone has heard of Miss Hurley. Nearly everyone knows what she looks like. She doesn't do anything, they say. All that happened was that, about five Years ago, she arrived at a film premiere wearing nothing but enormous safety pins held together by bits of frock or possibly the other way about. She has been doing the same ever since, her detractors add. She has been in films, but no one can name any of them. The only thing she does is arrive at film premieres and parties. So the critique of her goes. But to be famous for being famous is the most remarkable form of fame. The only Llgure comparable to her in Britain is Mr lair: A plausible case could be made out for his not doing much either. He is entirely the creature of the camera. He appears on talking television and agrees with anyone he is to or about. On a Wednesday after- kn°011, at Prime Minister's Question Time, hardly pretends to disagree with Mr Hague, but nardly anyone believes that his heart is in it. *. Blair, like Miss Hurley, would prefer to i„ front mute, to confine himself to being :,', ont of the cameras looking delightful. That is what he does best. Thus when Mr Gordon Brown started this present alterca- tion about the young woman being denied a place at Magdalen College, Oxford, Mr Blair soon made it known that he wanted no part of it. He wished Mr Brown would drop the subject. For Mr Blair did not achieve his fame by standing for anything in particular other than for being himself.
Like Miss Hurley's, Mr Blair's is an aston- ishing achievement. All prime ministers, while they remain prime minister, are famous. Fame comes with the office. But nearly all until now have been famous, while in Downing Street, for some policy, even though the public usually forget the policy shortly after the prime minister leaves office. Sometimes they are famous for a pol- icy proving to be a failure; Harold Wilson and John Major endured fame for having to devalue after a long defence of a particular exchange rate. But Mr Blair has no policy for which he is famous. The government has a few policies, but Mr Blair is not especially associated with any of them.
Who else is famous; famous in the sense of being recognised wherever they go? Mr Hugh Grant, certainly; Mr Beckham, the footballer; Mrs Beckham, his wife, though I personally would be hard put to identify her either in a photograph or in the street. Mr Gordon Brown, Mr Peter Mandelson and Mr John Prescott are the only famous Cabinet ministers apart from Mr Blair. It is often said that this is an exceptionally unfa- mous Cabinet, but having three famous ministers, other than the prime minister, is quite good going for any Cabinet.
Their fame, however, will not long outlast their ceasing to be in active politics. When I worked in the Commons press gallery and walked through the parts of Westminster open to the public, I would often overhear visitors speculating as to the identity of some passing politician, especially a politi- cian once mighty but no longer in office. Sometimes — as, say, George Brown, wan- dered past — I would be asked, 'Excuse me, do you work here? Who's that?' To which I would confidently reply, 'Rat, Butler'; for I never thought it healthy for a free people to attach too much importance to transient office-holders. `Ah, of course,' the visitor would reply, still scrutinising George Brown, 'he looks smaller than he does on the telly.' Likewise I would always identify Richard Crossman as Anthony Crosland and vice versa. Had I been working there at the relevant time, I would have done the same for Bevin and Bevan.
Political fame is the most transient fame of all. The public is not interested in the retired politician. Thus, few politicians can ever enjoy one of the privileges of true fame: the right to bore in old age.
Last Sunday the Observer reprinted the transcript of a lunch conversation it pub- lished between John Gielgud and Ralph Richardson in 1975. During it, each told of being mistaken in the street for the other. It contained such exchanges as 'Shall we have oysters?' to which the reply was: 'Good idea! And to follow?', after which Gielgud remembers 'being taken to the Naval and Military Club as a very young man and being given oysters and grouse for the first time. I thought I really was living it up.' At one stage, one of the great men asked the other whether he had ever tried Indian restaurants, to which the other replied with a long account of a visit to Bombay during which nothing much happened.
Had they been one's unknown uncles, none of us would have listened. But, because it was Ralphie and Johnny G., as they were known in their profession, I read every tedious word. Why? Because they were famous.
Could we imagine being interested in a conversation years hence between the aged Gordon Brown and Peter Mandelson?
GB: 'You look awfully well. Shall we have haggis? It will remind you of being secretary for Scotland.'
PM: 'Actually, it was secretary of state for Ireland, Gordie.'
GB: 'Of course it was. I was crossing the street the other day, and a man pointed me out to his wife as Peter Mandelson, the bloke who made a mess of Ireland.'
No paper would be interested in printing such a conversation, even though the talk would be just as boring as that of Ralphie and Johnny G.
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