Diary
To Blackpool, more than to most places, it is better to travel hopefully, or even resignedly, than to arrive. Thus one rather welcomes a train that dawdles, stops every- where and never gathers a speed much above 50mph, particularly if your section of the compartment is filled with friends, as mine was last Sunday — Peter Jenkins, Paul Johnson, and, best of all, Colin Welch. Efficient trains nowadays go so fast that the scenery flashes by in a haze of blurred images, none of which can be enjoyed or savoured. No danger of that on this train. As a result, we could eat our shared picnics while gently rolling through Some lovely Staffordshire countryside with just enough halts — a great many — to allow the wine to be poured and drunk Without slopping all over the place. So far as I was concerned, the five hours were a Perfect delight, since it is very rare to be in the company of friends for so long without having to break up the session because one or other has something more important to do- Moreover, there is something about the gentle motion of a train that can, in conjunction with alcohol and good com- Pany, induce a unique sense of timeless ease and amiability; incomparably more so than plane or even ship. Paul Johnson, too, IS an excellent train travelling companion Who, even in the most unpromising stop- ping places, like the outskirts of Wigan or Warrington, can point out some Pugin Church and spire which lends enchantment to an otherwise less than obviously uplift- ing scene. Long may British Rail remain so Incurably inefficient, since the knowledge that this annual journey north can be hell gives us journalists an incentive to take Precautions which, on this latest occasion at least, produced an interlude not unlike one of those dormitory feasts that also gained from having to overcome conditions In themselves so totally unsuited to the Pursuit of pleasure.
At Preston, where we had to change trains, there was a long wait for the connection, which provided an opportunity to observe something of the 'other Britain' about which Jeremy Seabrook writes so sadly and indignantly. Certainly the Lan- castrian locals travelling in the small elec- tric trains to Liverpool, Manchester (and all stations to) did look pretty put upon — most young mothers with squawling babies and paper parcels, yes paper, stuffed to overflowing with rubbish — very much the flesh and blood proles of George Orwell's fantasy about 1984. Yet sitting eventually among some of them who were going on holiday to Blackpool, there was no audible sign of dejection or bitterness. Quite the contrary. Normally in any group where two or three holidaymakers are gathered together — airports for example — one hears fearful premonitions of disaster — on the outward journey — and angry recri- minations and complaints on the way home. Nothing of that kind could be heard on this train, except of course from the journalists. The locals sounded delighted to be returning to Blackpool for the umteenth time. How can they be, given the awfulness of the hotels, restaurants etc? The explanation, I think, is that although the hotels and restaurants may be awful, they get slightly better every year, thereby creating an impression of gradual improve- ment which may be a far more generally acceptable kind of progress than the giant steps forward so much preferred by radical reformers. Improvement has been at a pace which never much disappoints be- cause it never greatly excites, rather as is said to be the case in Russia where, too, people are quite happy with small but regular improvements in their standard of life. The Russians, of course, have no standard of comparison, whereas our northerners must know that conditions in the south are much better than their own, if only through watching the television. Theoretically, yes, but in practice I suspect that northerners are much less psychologi- cally integrated than is generally assumed, their expectations still being quite different from those of southerners. Again, in theory one is supposed to deplore this two nations business, but in practice it is altogether to the good, since if there have to be poor and backward sections of society, then it is far better that they should be as geographically separated from the rich and the better off as is possible. Ideally, I suppose, there ought to be one nation, all living at roughly one standard. But failing that, a clear-cut division be- tween the haves and have-nots has much to commend it, at least from the point of view of the have-nots, as backward Blackpool's continuing popularity makes encouragingly clear. One purpose of my Blackpool visit was to take part in a fringe meeting on the media organised by New Socialist, a very left-wing journal published by the Labour Party. The panel consisted of Peter Jenk- ins, Bea Campbell, a highly- intelligent communist of sorts, and Susan Crosland, with Roy Hattersley in the chair. Incred- ibly enough I turned out to be much the most popular member of the panel, in spite of being the most openly right-wing, con- firming the theory of the attraction of opposites. At first it was a bit disconcerting to hear one's faltering arguments described as 'the Worsthorne formulation' and to be challenged to reconcile the 'inner contra- dictions of Worsthornianism'. But after the initial shock of being, for the first time, and at long last, taken very earnestly, I found the experience wholly pleasurable. In the past people like myself have been dismis- sed as romantic reactionaries. No longer. We are now accorded the much more honorific title of Tory Marxists, which guarantees us an immunity from the boos and catcalls provoked by, say, Peter Jenk- ins' advocacy of social democracy. The theory is that at least we are good class war warriors, prepared to fight it out to the death, instead of pretending, as social democrats tend to do, that jaw, jaw is always better than war, war. Roy Hatters- ley, who initially thought he could win some easy cheers with this left-wing audi- ence by insulting me, soon learnt how the wind was blowing and ended up champion- ing my winning cause. He would, wouldn't he?
In the Telegraph lift on Tuesday a burly mechanical asked me how I was feeling, a reference, I thought, to my present foot affliction (which incidentally is getting much worse). In fact he knew nothing of that, and was only inquiring about my health out of concern for my ability to withstand what he suspected was going.to be a terrible blow to my self-esteem and peace of mind. 'I was hoping you were feeling top o' the morning sir, because you sure as hell ain't going to be pleased when you see what we have just carried into your office', which turned out to be a giant desk, twice the size of my own, designated for the use of the new assistant editor, Alexan- der Chancellor. 'Looks as if they think the world of that Chancellor,' said the burly mechanical. 'Bloody shame, if you ask me, sir,' he added, along with an appropriately grave-digger-like expression of sympathy and condolence. In any other organisation, say I, the arrival of a desk so much bigger than one's own might signify some dreadful message of doom. But in the case of the Telegraph, I insist, in all seriousness, it
simply means that the management has made a mistake. Exit burly mechanical laughing loudly at what he plainly mistook to be a brave example of my gallows sense of humour.
Peregrine Worsthorne
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