Diary
For a few months after Mr Neil Kinnock's election, his supporters and old opponents were pleasantly surprised. Though his performances at Prime Minister's Questions left something to be desired, which was put down to inexperi- ence, he seemed to be impressing the voters. Now there is talk of a 'Neil problem', as there used to be of a 'Michael problem'. His admirers attribute this problem — or the talk about it — to the miners' strike, as If this were an act of God rather than of Mr bArthur Scargill. Mrs Ann Clwyd (a sort of hardic name, by the way: her real name is Roberts) has been saying at Cynon Valley, Aberdare as I still call it, that the 'real issue' IS Jobs rather than a miners' ballot. This is roughly the Kinnock line. But it will not Wash. Mr Kinnock would have been better This to urge a ballot from the beginning. This course would simultaneously have reflected his private views and been popular With the voters — a rare conjunction in politics.
Mr Peter Palumbo has been in the papers a lot lately. He is the 'property developer' who wants to erect some modem Monstrosity in the City. He is also described as 'the next' chairman of the trustees of the Tate- He is already a trustee, but I gather there is a row about whether he should assume that additional post. The dispute is not surprising, in view both of Mr „, ahlmbo's injudicious remarks about the rosent director of the gallery, Mr Alan wness, and of his assumption that the chairmanship is automatically his. There is another aspect of Mr Palumbo which in- aterests me: this is his attitude to violence s is quoted as saying that 'I'd had a fan- tic unarmed unarmed combat instructor for three Years'. This chap's axioms came in handy °Ile morning when Mr Palumbo was setting ,Ont to play tennis with his daughter and was 7ttacked, according to his own account, by Chargingtw ths: 'In the end the big idiot came h; at me again. I tripped him, turned L:n1 over and broke his collar-bone and ,icked him; as luck would have it, I got him 11111in the face, there were teeth and blood rrverYwhere.' Did this sanguinary episode eaIIY occur in quite that way? I have often men that some men, particularly small rather ther exaggerate their pugilistic prowess — fo as others boast of having 'turned out r Llanelli a few times just after the war'. event, Mr Palumbo seems to have an Uunwholesome relish for the damage he in- —Led. And does a gentleman need an -narmed combat instructor as he needs, ay, a solicitor or tailor? If he is also a pro- s:rtY developer he may well do. But it mains an unusual functionary for the chair- 'In of the Tate to have in tow. The most that can be said for the rugby season which has just ended is that it was better than the previous one. For me, it was overshadowed by the death of Ricky Bartlett at 55. He played seven times for England in its most successful post-war period and was never on the losing side. At any other time he would have played more often, though given the vagaries of the English selectors over half-backs one can- not be certain. He was a marvellous compa- nion, with a quiet flow of unexpected stories and opinions. As a schoolboy at Stowe he was suddenly summoned to play for the Harlequins. Thereafter, he said, the headmaster, J. F. Roxburgh, treated him with markedly more respect. Roxburgh had a regard for worldly success, in whatever sphere it might be attained. Ricky admired Welsh rugby not so much because of its dedication as because he was recognised in the clubhouses. 'Ricky Bartlett ... I remember you . • ', complete strangers would say. He attributed this to the Welsh's greater knowledge; I, to my fellow-country- men's relative lack of shyness. He used to say that excessive demands were now made on the players' time and fitness, that if he were still performing he would resent these impositions and perhaps not play at all (which I doubted), and that the only solu- tion lay in semi-professionalism on Rugby League lines. For a Cambridge Blue, a former England selector and the President of Surrey, this last was a surprising view to hold. But Ricky undoubtedly held it, as he did other surprising views. .I shall miss him.
Commentators on the press, like gen- erals, tend to fight the last war. Most who wrote about the troubles at the Observer took the dispute between Mr Rupert Murdoch and Mr Harold Evans at the Times as their guide. Thus: editors and proprietors must be able to get on; pro- prietors always win in the end; independent or national directors are a charade; who pays the piper calls the tune. But there were several differences between Mr • Evans's dispute and Mr Donald Trelford's. The Observer journalists were united. The independent directors were not broken reeds. Indeed, it is arguable that these direc- tors did their stuff too vigorously — that, at the beginning, Mr Tiny Rowland did not breach his undertakings. Mr Trelford had his say. Mr Rowland then had his, telling President Mugabe he could make such use as he pleased of his missive. So it went on, adding to the public stock of harmless pleasure. When the journalists met, part of the original resolution 'deplored' the public joust that had developed between Mr Trel- ford and Mr Rowland. Some were uneasy about this lofty deprecation, taking the view that the very publicity surrounding the dispute was all to the good. Accordingly the bit about deploring was excised. Last week Mr Trelford made clear to his col- leagues that, if the continuation of the dispute was harmful to the paper, he would offer to resign. There was therefore nothing inconsistent in his offer of last Friday which was rejected by Mr Rowland. For him, the prodigal son had returned, and he killed the fatted groudnut. He and Mr Trelford got on after all, for the time being anyway. An historical footnote is that independent directors are not novel creations. In 1918 a tribunal of between five and three notables was set up to arbitrate finally in disputes between Waldorf Astor and J. L. Garvin. It had Garvin out in the end, but in 1942. On this precedent, Mr Trelford would be editor until 2005. I do not think he wants to go on quite as long as that.
Both as pedestrian and as passenger, I find myself increasingly nervous about cars. Black drivers, I notice, do not stop at zebra crossings. Is this racism or racialism on my part? My friends say it is that I do not take account of the white drivers who refuse to stop. I remain uncon- vinced. That different peoples have different characteristics, abilities and ways of carry- ing on seems to me so obvious as not to be worth making a fuss about. Often this has to do not with race at all but with nation- hood. Americans are credulous — about cholesterol, aerobics, jogging or whatever — irrespective of their racial origins. In foreign countries, similarly, they are obsess- ed by the rate of exchange as no other peoples are. Often, however, race comes in- to it. How else can one explain the disproportion of outstanding mathemati- cians, philosophers and performing musi-
cians (not singers or composers) among Jews? Likewise the Asians are better shopkeepers than the English. I smoke Gauloises cigarettes from time to time. Go into an Asian shop and the man has a whole range of French cigarettes. Moreover he knows their names, and how much each brand costs. The equivalent English shop has none at all.
Alan Watkins
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