A poignant tale concerning the late Lord Wilson has come my way. It shows that there comes a fruitful time in every politician’s life when rivalries may be overcome and political agendas eschewed. Seven years ago, when Lord Wilson’s illness was setting in, his great enemy of old, the former Tory prime minister and current Father of the House Sir Edward Heath, invited him to dinner. “He was coming to Salisbury to visit his second son, who was teaching at Salisbury Cathedral Choir School, which is not far from my house,” explains Sir Edward. “As a conciliatory gesture, I invited him and a few other friends of his to dinner. Mary, his wife, explained when they arrived that he was not well, but none the less I think he really enjoyed himself. He wasn’t talking much politics, none of us were. I was greatly saddened then by his illness and I am very sad that he has gone.”
Roll on old age, if it brings such magnanimity with it.
I have news for all those tabloids referring to Jemima Goldsmith’s impending nuptials as “the wedding of the year”. They are wrong. My impending nuptials (on 15 July) will be, instead. (Well I would think so, wouldn’t I?) But there is a further error: it concerns wedding present etiquette. “Surprisingly, guests have not been invited to give presents to the couple,” spouted the Mail last week. Tut, tut. One never actually asks for presents, one merely prays (facing Mecca if you are Jemima) that your guests are generous enough to give them to you.
The rules, as delineated by Debrett, are as follows: you may, if you wish, compile a list at an up-market store or two, but it is up to the guests to inquire where it is and what the bride or groom particularly want from it. If she has no list, she may well follow the example of the Tory MP’s daughter Kate Viggers, who got married in Lisbon over the weekend. Being materially well-off, Ms Viggers couldn’t thing of anything specific that she wanted, so friends who inquired what to give her were told: “Something beautiful or old.” (Memo to all my guests: I am not nearly so fussy.)
Tonight sees an unusual debut at London’s Wigmore Hall, normally a venue for conventionally classical perfomances. A concert is being staged by the London Metropolitan Ensemble, whose number includes the composer- players Michael Kamen, Barrington Pheloung, and Dave Heath. These names may mean little or nothing to most, until it is pointed out that Kamen wrote the music for the Lethal Weapon movies, as well as Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves and recently Circle of Friends; Pheloung wrote the music for Truly Madly Deeply and Channel 4’s The Politican’s Wife, while Heath writes concertos for James Galway and Nigel Kennedy.
One of Kamen’s pieces is called Cut Sleeves, based on a true story about a Chinese emperor who fell in love with a page boy, who one day fell asleep on his arm. Mid-siesta, the emperor was called to a court meeting, and rather than wake the page boy, he cut off the sleeve of his kimono. Ever since, according to Kamen, the sign of the cut sleeve has been the symbol for homosexuality in China. How many of you can honestly say you knew that?
To the Halcyon Hotel, Holland Park, for the launch of Bodypure – a guide on how to purge one’s body of fat, poisons, etcetera by the ex-model Marie Helvin. If one follows its instructions religiously, one is supposed to end up looking as svelte as Marie Helvin – but alas, that would mean giving up everything enjoyable. Still, I was relieved to see Ms Helvin with one champagne glass (drained) in her hand, so she can’t be taking it all too seriously.
In one corner I stumbled across Julia Carling (Will’s wife) in conversation with Michelle Lineker (Gary’s wife). The former, whom I found, to use my mother’s phrase, “quite charming”, told me that she won’t be joining her husband for the Rugby World Cup in South Africa until Friday this week, one week after most of the other wives have gone out. Mrs Carling was carefully counting her holiday allowance. “You never get to see your other half,” she explained, “so we’d rather have a holiday at the end of the summer when we can spend quality time together.” At least she always has Marie Helvin’s book to read during the lonely evenings this week: “I can see its uses,” she pronounced sagely, “There will, after all, come a time when you want to prevent everything from sagging.”
Tony Kaye, the adman, who last week made the headlines for being the New Tate’s first exhibitor (by dumping a huge photograph outside it in the night) has finally made some money from his campaign of art terrorism. A whole pounds 1. Several days ago he organised five ambulances to turn up outside the opening of Damien Hirst’s exhibition “Medical Cabinet” in the White Cube gallery, St James’s, and videoed their arrival. He titled the work Empty Vessels and offered it for sale at pounds 1 a video. The writer Peregrine Hodson actually bought one – or rather a receipt for one. “I thought Kaye’s work of movement provided a good contrast, since Hirst’s exhibition was incredibly static,” explains Hodson. But he is not entirely satisfied with his purchase. “You might tell Mr Kaye that it is now several days later and I have not actually received the video.” Mr Kaye remains undeterred. “Next time, I will ask for pounds 2m-pounds 3m per item.”
All those who thought it unlikely that Michael Crick’s unofficial biography of Jeffrey Archer, Stranger Than Fiction, would go unremarked by its subject were right. Lord Archer has written to Crick’s publisher, Andrew Franklin of Hamish Hamilton, and to Penguin’s MD, Trevor Glover. The content is as you would expect: how could they have lowered themselves to be involved with a biography of a living subject that is not authorised … “I will have nothing to do with this book or its author … Mr Crick has repeatedly pestered my friends … blah blah blah.”
What has particularly amused Crick is Archer’s recent crash course in vocabulary expansion. “It is,” says Crick, “the first time in several years that he has used two words that I’d never heard of before: ‘factitious invitation” (a reference to Crick’s book launch) and ‘I trust you will agree that it would be quotious to refuse your invitation.’ ” With the aid of a dictionary, Crick has unravelled Archer’s meaning. “Factitious means artificial, and quotious, superfluous or futile,” he says, pausing thoughtfully – “I bet Mary Archer wrote that letter.”
Yesterday saw the launch of Michael Crick’s unofficial biography of Jeffrey Archer, Stranger than Fiction, at the Travellers Club, where Crick’s old English teacher, Peter Farquhar, was among the throng, presumably to reprimand his 36-year-old pupil for any grammatical errors. Archer was not present – but then he and Crick have not enjoyed the most cordial of relationships over the past three years while Crick has been researching his book. Crick recalls one moment in 1992 when he and his family arrived at Archer’s house in Grantchester to visit the garden, which was open to the public. “There was Archer, sitting at the entrance, collecting the money,” explained Crick, “and he instantly recognised me. Given that it would not be seemly to actively obstruct us, he merely turned to my daughter, Catherine, and said: ‘You don’t want to come in here, do you?’ Catherine, then four, sagely said nothing.”
Speaking of the Archer biography, I fear that should she read it, Archer’s wife, Mary, may feel differently about going to Archer’s old school, Wellington School (the one in Somerset as opposed to the smarter Wellington College, Berkshire), to give out prizes at speech day in July. In his introduction Crick notes that at first the school was “very dubious about helping me” – until he pointed out that the work was not authorised. “Oh well, in that case,” said a spokesman, “we can help you with anything you want.”
The coming bank holiday will have overtones of the last (huge crowds, security and general bonhomie) in one area of the country – Birmingham, where the BBC is having a three-day epic musical broadcast, Music Five Live, including celebs such as Andrew Lloyd Webber, Tammy Wynette, Elaine Paige and Jools Holland. It is thought to be the biggest musical broadcast ever mounted. Yet, despite two years of planning, the event has been very nearly kiboshed by the West Midlands police, who, a few weeks ago suddenly demanded to be involved on the Sunday, when the city centre will be closed – for a fee of more than pounds 50,000. The BBC was furious, not least because Showsec, the security company it had hired (and which managed the VE Day celebrations in Hyde Park) has been organising events such as these for more than 30 years and charges a quarter of the police’s fee. The matter has been resolved and the police ostensibly placated, but not before an article mysteriously found its way into last weekend’s regional press, stating that the police feared for crowd safety at the event, which might have to be banned. “Rubbish,” is the BBC’s pithy comment.
A colleague went to the football writers’ annual dinner (the Royal Lancaster hotel, Bayswater, for gawd’s sake, and “lounge suits” – not my kind of do at all). But despite the presence of dazzling stars such as Sir Bobby Charlton, Gary Lineker and Jurgen Klinsmann, the evening’s most intriguing sight was Piers Morgan, editor of the News of the World, huddled in a corner in deep conversation with George Graham, the recently sacked manager of Arsenal. While the rest of the company busied themselves getting or signing autographs, these two were locked in earnest discourse for nearly an hour. It turns out that Graham, who has some old scores to settle, had wandered up to Morgan, who is in need of a respectable scoop following his recent public admonishment for running a story about the illness of the Countess Spencer. I’ll give you one guess as to what they could possibly have been discussing …
“I’m looking forward to meeting the people of Croydon,” announced the veteran comedian Jim “Super, Smashing, Great” Bowen on a press release billing a one-off performance scheduled for last Friday night at the Clocktower theatre. Unfortunately, it appears that the townsfolk of Croydon did not reciprocate his feelings. Only 10 people bought tickets – eight for pounds 20.00, to include dinner, and two at pounds 8.00 for just the show. Now the event has been cancelled. “It is a very great shame,” said a Clocktower spokeswoman. “We just can’t explain it.”
An unusually sombre note to end with, I’m afraid, but one of importance to all choral concert lovers. This week the Vaal Reef choir from South Africa starts its debut tour of Britain at Bath, from where it moves to Salisbury and thence to Birmingham and Croydon. It was at the Vaal Reef mine in South Africa that there was a tragic accident involving the deaths of 102 miners two weeks ago. If the 47-strong choir had not been in rehearsal for the British tour, its members, too, would have met their fate that day, since they worked in the very same shaft. The choristers, whose music is mostly African folk songs, spirituals and ballads, had to think long and hard before deciding to embark on their tour. They eventually agreed to go ahead, but money from all the ticket sales will go to a memorial fund, to which many will want to contribute.
On Saturday, putting aside all professional rivalries, I attended the glorious and touching wedding of two (I must admit to it) great friends on a rival broadsheet. Politically, it was a highbrow occasion. One could not move without running into a cabinet minister or newspaper editor or twentysomethings hell bent on becoming either of the former. Interestingly, though, the smalltalk was not of Lord Nolan, but of Imran Khan and his impending nuptials with Jemima Goldsmith. “The really strange thing about it,” enunciated one politico “is not so much the matter of race, age or suddenness, but Ms Goldsmith’s proposal to use a British designer for her traditional Pakistani costume-style wedding dress.” Quite.
I bring, however, good news for all those similarly concerned. The designer Catherine Walker, who has been approached to make Ms Goldsmith’s Muslim gear, is thoroughly experienced in making them look truly authentic. Her last client requesting a genuinely ethnic look? The Princess of Wales for her royal trip to India.
One of the throng was Steve Hilton, the prodigy who used to run the Conservative Party account for Saatchi & Saatchi. (Nowadays he works for the New Saatchi agency, set up by Maurice Saatchi after his ignominious ousting from old Saatchis, which he and his brother had founded).
It seems that in addition to taking the £60m BA account from old Saatchis, New Saatchi intends to make further headway by setting up a branch in Hong Kong. Hilton, who has a new marine-style haircut, and his colleague Nick Hurrell are responsible for getting it under way. “I am just going for a few months to kick-start the whole thing,” Hilton told friends on Saturday. His flight, apparently, was on Sunday morning. Only one thing about the trip puzzled me: why was he flying Cathay Pacific?
I glean from my flatmate (a City man) that after the Barings fiasco, employees of certain British banks are, for the time being at least, showing an above-average appreciation for the daily presence of their colleagues – tea and coffee-fetching, dry-cleaner runs and trips to the shoe shiners are becoming regular features of office camaraderie. Alas, I fear the same is not true of certain American investment houses. On Friday, I was on the phone to a senior executive at Goldman Sachs. He suddenly interrupted me and said brusquely to someone who must have just entered his office: “No, I don’t want that.” Then he resumed his conversation. “Oh, that,” he explained airily, “was one of those collection envelopes that people bring round when one’s colleagues are leaving.”
Call me a snob but I’m afraid I associate Whiteleys shopping mall in London’s Bayswater with hordes of children, licking ice-cream cones, accompanied by harassed-looking parents trying in vain to look as if they are enjoying the family’s weekly outing to the shops. So when I received an invitation to visit the Ridley Art Society’s annual exhibition on the third floor last week, I was filled with dread at the incongruity of the prospect. The RAS is a genuinely serious artistic body and the modernity of some of their younger exhibitors would leave, I imagined, the ice-cream brigade somewhat bewildered.
On this point, I discovered, I was right. Pram wheels had left ugly tyre marks on Patricia Mackinnon-Day’s floor-work of red carbolic soap tiles – supposedly a work reflecting the very serious issue of Catholic guilt. Somebody had tried to get into the high chair of the RAS’s president, Brian Robinson – “I have to put it away in the evenings now,” he explained. But the mass exposure of the venue did pay off for Alexandra Julyan, whose design “Woody”, a striking cardboard sculpture of the rear end of a dog, was bought by one Whiteleys meanderer who chanced to be in the music industry. It will feature on a CD cover for an album called Woody’s End by a group called Officer.
Jill Morrell (you remember, the loyal girlfriend of the former hostage John McCarthy) has clearly been able to put the past behind her. Despite (or perhaps because of) her partner’s terrible experiences in Beirut, when he was kidnapped by Muslim fundamentalists, she is shortly to release her own book – on safe travel. “I hope she will do it in conjunction with a BBC TV series on the subject,” says her agent, Mark Lucas, adding, appropriately, in highway code: “We are just waiting for the green light.”
Though everybody else in Perth and Kinross, the former seat of the late Sir Nicholas Fairbairn, is expecting the SNPs to trounce the Tories at the by-election on 25 May, the Tories themselves remain blithely optimistic – at least in public. So much so that their candidate, John Godfrey, is launching one campaign from an erstwhile funeral parlour in Scott Street, Perth. “I can see the irony,” a spokesman admitted, “but in these situations you’ve just got to grab whatever premises you can.”
Dinner last week at Langan’s Brasserie in Mayfair was made even more entertaining by the arrival near midnight of the renowned conjuror Fay Presto, whose tricks really are quite something. “No, you do not have to be drunk to appreciate this,” she rebuked me sternly as she appeared to push a wine bottle through the table without the faintest tremor. Yet Ms Presto’s confidence ebbed when one bright spark round the table recognised her. “Fay Presto? You sold your Austin Allegro 10 years ago to a friend of mine.”
Ms Presto went a vivid shade of crimson, which I’m sure was merely down to the fact that the car had been mustard-yellow with brown Velcro seats, and not possibly because it had proved to be a complete proverbial “crapheap” with a lifespan of only 18 months for the poor buyer. Either way, there was a poof! and Ms Presto vanished from the restaurant.
So, Blackburn Rovers have won the Premier League championship, narrowly defeating Manchester United points-wise. I do not pretend to be a footie expert, but even I realise that it was a close thing. Blackburn, however, clearly never doubted the outcome. Last Thursday (the decisive match was on Sunday) a newsagent in Milcombe, Oxfordshire, received a list of forthcoming “one-shot” publications, one of which was a 32-page poster magazine called Blackburn Champs Special. The prescient blurb went on: “to celebrate Blackburn Rovers winning the 94/95 Premier League season.”