Another voice

A letter to Sid

Auberon Waugh

A week ago I had occasion to buy a copy of the Daily Express, something few people do nowadays, because a friend advised me that I was libelled in it. When asked to produce evidence for my theory that the English, as a race, are growing rapidly stupider, as well as less literate, I usually point to the Sun, whose intellectual level is so conspicuously lower than the Mirror's of fifteen years ago, or to the Sunday Times, whose dismal books page and general intellectual banality may yet send the English back to church, if not to the one surviving literate weekly. Nobody thinks of the Daily Express as illustrating the point, partly because it was always nasty, philistine and half-witted, partly because since Mr Victor Matthews bought the newspaper, nobody who might discuss such matters appears to have seen it.

Perhaps it is time we caught up. Matthews has appointed as editor a fellow-Cockney called Derek Jameson whom I used to know slightly as the amiable, oafish pictures editor of the Sunday Mirror when I worked for that newspaper, writing captions for bathing beauties. In those days we never exposed a lady's breast, and I was interested to learn in a recent radio programme that Jameson has taken this scruple with him to the Express. The listening millions heard his solemn pledge: 'Us four oz Oim conncerned, ye Dighly Express will never carry nippoos'. (As far as I am concerned, the Daily Express will never carry nipples.) Where on earth, one might ask in that case, does the Express think it is going? It is a crude and tasteless thing to mock a man for his accent unless it is upper-class, but to ignore Jameson's cockney would be more insulting, like ignoring the man who arrives at a party in a false nose. In appointing him, Matthews plainly intended to make a statement about something or other, whether about the future role of the Express or the new role of the Cockney in the modern world. Now it falls on us to unravel what the pair of them are trying to say.

On Monday 23 October 1978, the day of which we treat, the banner headline across the top of the Daily Express reads: TODAY: MY KINGDOM FOR LOV.E. Edward and Mrs Simpson. ALL THIS WEEK THE STORY THAT ROCKED BRITAIN STARTING ON PAGE 28. The East End of London, of course, is famous for its devotion to the Royal Family, so I suppose a few senile Cockneys might be expected to read on; but if they turned to page 28, they would have found it entirely taken up with the day's TV programmes. Eventually, on page 23, the Express's aged readers may have found the Royal Romance retold yet again, this time in unmistakable pastiche of Sylvie Krin: 'When Lady Furness arrived at Fort Belvedere that Friday she found Mrs Simpson already having tea with the Prince , . . Mrs Simpson, sitting with the teapot beside her in the position of "mother", was saying . . . "And you, Sir? Another cup of your lovely English Tea? With milk, but I'll not give you any sugar, it's bad for you".' Finally, on Lord Moyne's yacht, we reach the long-awaited leg-over situation: 'One night as they walked hand in hand along the deck and a song faded behind them under the sounds of the sea and the night breeze . . . she shivered and let go his hand. . . "I must go to my cabin" . . .

'"Shall you be coming out again, later on?"

"Not tonight, Sir." She kept her voice cool. She curtsied lightly, but slowly enough to leave some meaning in the action . .

Is this ludicrous publication seriously to be called a newspaper? The question arose in its most poignant form when I saw the libel, glowing like stacks of £5 notes on a gaming table, from the William Hickey page: Auberon confesses. He ignored a suicide warning sent to him by a woman who later died . . '

No, we must be resolute. After some happy fantasies of spending the money re-gilding my picture frames, restoring my Burges settle, draining and dredging my lake I wrote Jameson a personal letter which, as he has not yet had the courtesy to acknowledge, I offer for wider scrutiny: Derek Jameson, Esq., Editor, The Daily Express, Fleet Street,

London, EC4 24th October, 1978 WITHOUT PREJUDICE

Dear Sid,

I would not expect you to have much success in trying to follow a Spectator article, but it might have been prudent to employ a lawyer with greater powers of concentration before lifting a story from Spectator of 21st October, 1978, for your Hickey column of 23rd October, 1978: 'Auberon Confesses.'

This starts 'Writer and critic Auberon Waugh, son of novelist Evelyn, is making the astonishing confession that he ignored a woman who wrote to him threatening to kill herself. Now the woman is dead.'

As anyone who read the Spectator article will know, there was no threat contained in the woman's card. She merely stated her intention of killing herself next day. As I did not open the parcel until nine days later, the moment was long since past and the only logical reason for pursuing an enquiry would have been to satisfy vulgar curiosity. After considerable thought I decided against this course of action and wrote the letter reproduced in full in Spectator but not, of course, in Hickey. Your report omits to mention this vital feet that I knew of her intention only when it was too late to do anything about it. Instead it creates the deliberate impression that I callously turned nlY back and ignored her 'threats' while the issue was still in doubt. Perhaps in your world it is perfeetlY acceptable to accuse someone of murder by net lect but the Daily Express lawyers, if you stir employ any, may suggest that different standards

apply elsewhere.

When your reporter, who said he was called

'John Roberts', telephoned I warned him of the danger of trying to compress a complicated and rather sensitive argument into a lurid gossiP paragraph. He chirpily replied that he doubted whether this consideration would influence his

superiors. In recklessly ignoring this warning, rut' also printed an account of my conversation Witu Roberts which is exactly opposite of what I said: `Of course the mystery woman was not a "totally strange woman" to Waugh, as he saYs in his confession in the small circulation Spec' tator magazine. 'yesterday he told me: "Frankly I know she has children, That is why I cannot reveal her name": . If you ask Roberts to play you his tape of the, conversation you will find I explain at gra(' length how I know absolutely nothing about the woman beyond what is in the Spectator, but I was not prepared to reveal her name in case she had

children.

Yet this false allegation — that I deliberately misled Spectator readers on a vital point — is Mt Roberts's only substantive addition to the storY which he incompetently lifted from the Spectator. He also adds the usual gratuitous pieces of olis: information — that I will be forty next month, 08: I have written over fifty books — which are WM' pass for news nowadays, I suppose, on the Express. One day you might teach him how to use

the standard reference books.

From my experience of the libel law (possib,1! not so extensive as your own), I should judge " gravity and recklessness of the main libel to be worth a minimum £5,000 in out of court set" dement and any sum you care to name after ation. The secondary libel — alleging deception ot my readers — is of value only in establishing

malice. •led

You may have read that I have a princip objection to suing for libel even where such a rich and unworthy newspaper as yours is con' cerned. Alas, this is true although I am sorelLY tempted on this occasion. The injury is delr. erate, damages are tax free. But I give you ott' warning. I propose to make various utterances on this matter in the course of the next few weeks and months which may well include remarks on the subject of your personal habits and fitness for the job of Editor. If these remarks should seem your judgment to exceed the proper limits of fall comment or good taste, please bear in mind that am reserving my position over this malicious ane unscrupulous attack on my character. Yours ever' Broil Next week (hopefully): the story of Jacqueline whatever happened to the firs' Mrs Jameson? The searing account of a marriage that failed; Partners Witt; Pauline the true-life romance of Sid an his second wife, from languishing looks t° leg-over; A Mother Remembers: Mrs Elsie Jameson looks back on struggles with Sid Part One, nappy rash. All in next week's star-studded Spectator. The voice of Britain.