Diary – July 5, 1994

Since Malcolm Rifkind is in the mood for ordering inquiries into the exorbitant cost of MoD official residences, he might like to cast his eyes towards Chelsea where, included in pounds 25.78m refurbishment of the Duke of York’s barracks, is a new three-bedroom flat for Brigadier Peter Bowser (retd), secretary of the London Territorial Army, the cost of which is undisclosed.
Drawing my attention to the matter is Lady Wynne-Jones, head of Friends of Chelsea society – a group which is up in arms, apparently, against the building’s refurbishment, since it considers it part of a long-term plot to sell off the barracks. Since Lady W-J believes that the premises, built in 1801 as an Army school, is public land, she finds the idea horrifying.

The secret cost of Bowser’s flat , she says, adds weight to her argument – although many, including Tory MP Andrew Robathan, who spoke out yesterday against the exorbitant formerly undisclosed cost of Air Chief Marshal Sir Sandy Wilson’s official residence, say that in Bowser’s case there is no cause for complaint.

‘I’m very keen that the Government should look after its historic buildings,’ he said yesterday. ‘If it is necessary, it is money well spent.’

Army spokesman Charles Winstanley concurs: ‘His (Bowser’s) flat is very much in line with what a brigadier would receive,’ he said yesterday.

Much jollity last Thursday evening at the annual meeting of the Nanking Club – named after the treaty ceding Hong Kong to Britain. Discretion forbids me from saying which Hong Kong wallahs were present, but they were minds capable of the most puerile humour. Take the menu as an example. Courses included: Grilled Duplicitous Dumplings; Chris P Lame Duck with Westminster Pancakes; Foreign Office Chicken Doubt and Lowing Hurd Beef Steak with Red Pepper Sauce. The remaining dishes are unrepeatable but I may divulge that the evening ended most successfully with Pass-port/liqueurs.

Malicious rumours concerning the sudden disconnection of Sir Edward Heath’s mobile phone may cease. Contrary to scurrilous Fleet Street whispers, Sir Edward has abandoned his mobile phone – not because some prankster kept calling it and hanging up – but because it was too expensive. ‘He has a new, slim-line version,’ explains a secretary, adding (unnecessarily) ‘in conjunction with his modern image.’

The launch of Bill Bryson’s new novel, Made in America, on Monday night, was a roaring success with one exception: the author was absent. Bryson had been struck down by a virus the week before and was told by his wife that if he wasn’t able to totter to the door, he couldn’t attend. Reasonable conditions really – but nonetheless one attending the bash, actor Kerry Shale, was bitterly disappointed. Shale, it transpired, has abridged and read two of Bryson’s books on Radio 4.

‘I was hoping to meet him for the first time,’ he explained. ‘We’ve written to each other for years.’ Ironically the evening resulted, nonetheless, in an advance in the pair’s professional relations: in Bryson’s absence, Shale was asked to sign copies of the book.

Hostile relations between Nuclear Electric and Greenpeace reached a nadir at the weekend when the band at the Kent Institute of Art and Design’s Annual Exhibition, Diploma Day and Ball, refused to play because the event was sponsored by NE.

The group, suitably entitled Cajunologie, arrived hotfoot from the Greenpeace boat My Solo, keen to perform, until they realised who the sponsors were. For a nasty moment it looked as if the proceedings would have to be cancelled – when suddenly two award-winning students shinned up the marquee pole, removed the NE banner and replaced it with a Greenpeace flag.

The show went on but, understandably, feelings are frosty back at NE HQ. ‘I don’t think I’ll comment,’ said a spokeswoman yesterday.

Why did Chris Green, head of Scotrail, miss Monday night’s BR briefing for transport correspondents?

A: Because he took the plane; it was delayed for one and a half hours and he lost his luggage to boot. . .

(Photographs omitted)

Diary – July 4, 1994

A PELICAN crossing is to be built outside the House of Lords, causing the inevitable mixture of mirth and derision amongst the Labour camp on Westminster Council, which is funding it. Last Thursday it agreed to spend pounds 120,000 on two crossings: one across Old Palace Yard – namely the Lords’ car park – and another across Millbank.
The proposal was initiated by Tory MP Andrew Robathan, who insists that the Lords’ safety was only a secondary consideration. ‘It was more the thousands of tourists who come here,’ he explained yesterday, before conceding: ‘Undoubtedly, some of the Lords are a bit unsteady on their pins.’

What niggles Westminster’s Labour group, however, is that an extra pounds 25,800 is to be spent on ‘consultant’s fees’ – a figure which, it argues, seems rather unnecessary. ‘How much consultancy can be required for drawing a few white lines on a road?’ asked deputy leader Peter Bradley yesterday, adding: ‘If Parliament want the crossings so badly, why does Parliament not pay for them?’

Even Bradley, however, is amused by the scheme which, he says, has been the cause of a sudden flurry of Zimmer-frame jokes. Robathan, meanwhile, is delighted: ‘It all started,’ he explained yesterday, ‘when I read Murder in the Commons by Rupert Allason (his office-mate). The crossing, I hope, will reduce the risk of such a horrible fate.’

PROSPECTIVE debutantes may rejoice: they are to be rescued sartorially by Yves Saint Laurent. The French designer has hinted that, next year, he will provide a selection of the girls with designs for the Queen Charlotte’s Ball, an annual event dreaded by most girls on account of the frumpy long white ball gowns they are forced to wear. Rejoicing was evident at the Grosvenor House Hotel last week, where a number had gathered for a fund-raising do. There was just the odd glum face belonging to this year’s lot, for whom there is no escape. ‘It’s too bad,’ sighed one into her glass. ‘I so don’t want to look like a cream puff.’

MARCO PIERRE WHITE beware] Snooping round the gourmet spots in town this week is American chef Dean Fearing, the only cook to date, he confesses proudly, to produce puddings delicious enough to delay the Queen. Fearing, who famously refused an invitation to cook for the Clintons in the White House, agreed to do a banquet in Dallas for the Queen’s American tour in 1991. The royal party was running late, however, and once the main course was finished, the Queen’s bodyguards tapped knowingly on their watches. Her Majesty studiously ignored them; she had glimpsed the banana tacos with strawberry and mango sauce. ‘The security men went wild,’ Fearing explains. ‘It completely ruined their plans.’ Now the chef intends to visit some of London’s smarter bistros to pick up a few tips. Anxious restaurateurs should look out for a tall fellow, replete with slicked-back hair, earring, cowboy boots. . .and, more ominously, a notebook.

OF HORRORS] I have just encountered the impossible – a Pakenham who is too bashful to get a book published.

The literary clan of Lord Longford, which includes Antonia Fraser, Rachel Billington and Harriet Harman MP, are not known for keeping their lights under bushels; between them they have written 168 books – each carefully publicised.

So it makes a change to discover that Longford’s charming stockbroking son, Kevin Pakenham, has written a financial blockbuster but does not want it to see the light of day. ‘He’s just not keen on people knowing about it,’ explains wife Clare Harkness, busy, meanwhile fulfilling family expectations on her husband’s behalf: she has just published her third novel: Old Night.

SOPHISTICATED weather forecasting machine, recently installed near the cash dispensers in the Commons, is causing great confusion, apparently.

The Meteorological Information Self-Briefing Terminal (MIST) which provides members with fingertip access to the weather in their constituencies – or indeed holiday destinations – has been mistaken for a drinks-dispensing machine and is more popular among kitchen staff.

‘I don’t know what it does,’ says Ken Livingstone, who has yet to be tempted by its access to animated rainfall radar sequences, satellite images, North Atlantic charts and pressure maps, adding bizarrely: ‘Hopefully, the Government will take a look at it.’

(Photographs omitted)

Diary – June 30, 1994

Whilst one Oxford University circle – namely those renaming Manchester College – lacks an imaginative streak (Manchester Academy and Harris College sound like a flying school), creativity is stirring in another; the Oxford poetry society, a 400-year-old institution sadly defunct in recent years, is to be revived.
The young man responsible for its renaissance is, unsurprisingly, a talented wordsmith himself. South African Adam Schwartzman, 21, is to have his first collection published next year by Carcanet, and a small sample is already available in Michael Schmidt’s New Poetries. Schwartzman has signed up poets James Fenton (Oxford Poetry professor) and Les Murray to give readings next term; Stephen Spender has also provisionally accepted and there are rumours that Seamus Heaney will slip in unobtrusively.

That Schwartzman, merely first year, should exert such influence is the fortuitous result of a summer job in a Paris bookshop. There, he got talking to Murray, visiting the town to have a portrait bust modelled. Murray read his work – then unpublished – and whilst being sculpted, spent hours discussing it. The rest, as they say, is history.

Understandably Sir George Young, Environment Minister, was not amused when told that almost 500 delegates at the Chartered Institute of Housing’s conference, where he was speaking last month, had obtained a Boring Speech Escape Kit. Paper bags (for headwear) with ‘Do not disturb until this speech is over’ emblazoned on the front were donned by several in the back rows – though inevitably individuals will now not own up; the more cowardly types made use of the less obvious accessory – cotton wool ear plugs.

To Mulligan’s wine bar, Piccadilly, for the launch of Mary Breasted’s new novel Why Should You Doubt Me Now? – an appropriate venue for the wife of the Irish Ambassador,the aptly-named Mary Small. She was in a jubilant mood, following Ireland’s nil-nil draw with Norway, she confided, but the match itself had been too much of an endurance test.

‘It was just too tense; I felt the vibes weren’t good. . .I had to leave half way through. . .to pot my plants.’

A tale comes my way from a Crown Court in outer London – I am forbidden from saying which – where a barrister recently asked to see the judge prior to the entrance of the jury. ‘Your Honour. . .I cannot wear a wig, owing to a scalp infection. May I inform the jury of this fact?’ The judge looked at him quizzically, ‘Why?’ ‘Well,’ came the reply, ‘I would not want them to think I was one of those new-fangled solicitor-advocates.’ A pause. ‘You may,’ said the judge, ‘and while you are about it, you can tell them that their judge is one of those new-fangled solicitor-judges.’

Latest in the celebrity-turned-writer club is Judith Ward, who spent 18 years in jail, wrongly convicted of the M62 coach bombing in 1974. Miss Ward, who has an autobiography under her belt, is now writing a play. Though a work of fiction, it is, unsurprisingly, based on her experiences inside Durham’s H block. ‘It’s about how much harder a prison sentence can be for the relatives outside, than for the person inside,’ she explains. Publishers and directors are keen, apparently. Enthusing actors, however, should perhaps be aware that one scene involves an in-house food fight – on a scale rather larger than minor upsets in the school canteen. . .

An unfortunate hiccup has occurred in the budding political career of Eluned Morgan (below), who at 27 is the youngest member of the European Paliament. Ms Morgan, who did well to win Mid and West Wales for Labour by 30,000 votes in the Euro-elections, has just undergone the unpleasant experience of having her widsom teeth removed.

‘I can barely mumble,’ she moaned yesterday – not exactly a good state to be in a week before the new parliamentary session begins. . .

(Photographs omitted)

Diary – June 29, 1994

Unprecedented turmoil in what, for a century, has been one of London’s most tranquil havens. Cecil Court, tucked behind Trafalgar Square, the most concentrated antiquarian bookshop area in Europe, was turned into a battle ground on Tuesday when Westminster Council attempted to ban the pavement bookstands.
Ever since the 24 bookstore proprietors can remember, cut-price books have been displayed on the pavement. ‘It has been a tradition here since 1890; no one has ever questioned it,’ explains Kenneth Fuller, proprietor of March Pane which specialises in children’s books.

On Tuesday, however, a council official asked a tailor at the end of the road to remove his wares from the pavement on grounds of obstruction. The tailor inevitably protested, pointing at the bookstores. The official scratched his head and subsequently asked the owners to dismantle their stands too . . . carnage ensued.

Yesterday both council and bookstore owners were plotting their next moves. The council is threatening legal action. Meanwhile, the cut-price books are firmly back on the stands outside.

As Europe’s leaders deliberate over who will succeed Jacques Delors as EC Commission president, things are looking even rosier for one already well connected employee. Isabelle Davignon, a glamorous Commission ‘Principal Administrator’ is married to Bruno Dethomas, who happens to be Delors’ spokesman. When Delors retires, however, Ms Davignon need not fear: she is the niece of Viscount Etienne Davignon, former Belgian Commissioner and the man widely tipped, following last week’s Corfu fracas, as a possible compromise candidate for the European throne.

As literary types reel from the revelations contained in Graham Greene’s letters to his mistress Catherine Walston, and theorise as to whether these will affect the author’s literary standing, the descendants of Dmitri Shostakovich, 20th century Russian composer, are taking no such risks. The family, it is rumoured, paid pounds 10,925 last month for 21 of Shostakovich’s love letters to his mistress, Elena ‘Lala’ Konstantinovskaya, which went under the hammer at Sotheby’s.

Though the dealers who placed the bid will not reveal the identity of their client, it is widely thought that the composer’s family wished to adhere to his wish for secrecy over the affair, and would want to keep its details out of the public domain.

‘Don’t tell anyone I love you,’ Shostakovich wrote to Lala in the 1930s, in terror of denunciation. ‘God forbid that it should reach Maxim Gorky (Stalin’s mouthpiece) . . . he might write about it in his next ‘little article’. . .’

Panic has erupted in fashion-conscious households: the sartorial rules of Henley’s Steward’s Enclosure have tightened. This year, for the first time, members are accountable if their female guests are incorrectly dressed. For reference: skirts need to be longer than those floating round the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. There, on the knee or fractionally above will do. At Henley, however, no part of the knee should be visible at all . . . and all those who think they may get through the entrance gate by pulling their costume down an inch, beware] All day, every day, officials work surreptitiously inside the enclosure; one flash of a knobbly knee and they pounce.

Squatting inside a dustbin for an hour-and-a-half each evening can be an uncomfortable – not to say time-wasting – business. Such, however, is the lot of Pamela Wickington and her husband Brian Matthew, currently playing Nell and Nagg in Samuel Beckett’s Endgame at London’s Arts Theatre (bereft, incidentally, of trap doors).

Ms Wickington, 66, is a resourceful type, however. I’m sure her audiences will be gratified to know that, while they fix their stare on a motionless dustbin, a hive of activity is going on inside. By torchlight, she does a facial exercise routine from a beauty manual (‘It takes half an hour to get rid of sags,’ she says.) Then follows an hour’s reading – and Ms Wickington’s literary knowledge is expanding rapidly: ‘I’ve read Tom Jones, a book on autistic children and a Thomas Mann already,’ she explains, adding: ‘I certainly wasn’t going to sit and listen to the play each night.’

(Photograph omitted)

Diary – June 28, 1994

Stepping out of obscurity today is Viscount Bridgeman, 63, the amiable director of London’s Bridgeman Art Library, Notting Hill, who this afternoon takes on the Government single-handed over its plans to allow shops to open 24 hours a day.
Bridgeman, a long-term resident of Westminster, has been lobbied by the council to table an amendment to the Deregulation Bill, which, if passed would give London councils discretion to shut shops between 9pm and 5am.

Though no stranger to politics – he is the grandson of William Clive Bridgeman, Home Secretary in Stanley Baldwin’s Tory Government – Bridgeman, a Tory, has never previously opposed the Government. That he should speak out on this issue is most peculiar, since he is known to be a close friend of local MP and minister Sir John Wheeler, who tells me he is in favour of the Bill.

Nonetheless, Bridgeman is passionate in his campaign. ‘Eight to 12pm is a very bad time for shoplifting,’ he said forcefully yesterday, before shuddering, ‘just look at the Earls Court Road.’

Hello] magazine has a rival: the latest publication to put a curse on everything it touches is the anodyne-sounding Museum Yearbook. So disastrous is the series of events that has befallen each cover model since 1989 that the editorial team is, this year, taking the ultimate preventative step of having a blank cover with a simple script.

Jokingly, the team put it down to a particular strain of Egyptian curse, from a mummy which adorned the cover in 1988. The following year, the cover portrayed a celebration of the Museum Association’s centenary – subsequently the organisation almost went bankrupt.

Next it was the turn of Bodelwyddan Castle, Wales, advertised as a model example of a museum. No sooner had the proof returned from the printers than it became known that the castle was in financial difficulties.

The following year featured a volunteer at Brooklands Museum with the caption ‘in some cases involvement may only be temporary – tragically, the man subsequently died.

Nothing has happened yet to last year’s professional model but, I am assured, the magazine staff are holding their breath.

The All England Tennis club at Wimbledon is becoming eco-friendly. For the first time, I am informed, the 250,000 strawberry punnets discarded annually on the grass are being picked up and recycled. . .destined for a somewhat lesser role as eggboxes.

Luvvy monologues on the self-indulgent topic of ‘how I rose to stardom’ are not always the most gripping of conversation pieces. A striking variant of the breed, however, is the story of international tenor David Rendall, shortly to grace the role of Cavaradossi in the ENO’s autumn production of Puccini’s Tosca.

Nowadays, Rendall is one of the most popular faces at the Met, but only a few decades ago he was a mere clerk working on BBC Radio’s Desert Island Discs, under the auspices of the programme’s founder, Roy Plomley.

One fortunate day, young Rendall was sent to fetch a Verdi aria – sadly no one can now recall which – and bring it back to the studio. He returned to find the studio empty, and burst forth into song. What he did not realise was that the microphone was switched on.’ You should get trained,’ came from all directions when he had finished. . .since when he has never looked back.

Residents of St Andrew’s parish in Watford are amused, I gather, by a new sign on the vicarage door, home of the well-loved Rev Norman Moore. It reads: ‘No free newspapers, canvassers. . .or religious nutters’.

(Photographs omitted)

Diary – June 23, 1994

Every time Virginia Bottomley tries to take a hard line on the health service it seems something personal intervenes to trivialise her. First, the revelations of the illegitimacy of her eldest child, Joshua, caused some embarrassment. Second, she was found nipping in to M&S before opening hours; now the store has come to plague her again or, to be precise, a tin of luxury M&S biscuits has.
Branch members of the hospital union, Unison, at St George’s Hospital, Tooting, are seething publicly that someone was sent to buy a pounds 20 tin of luxury assorted biscuits when Mrs Bottomley came to open the new cardiac catheter laboratory suite earlier this week.

Gail Adams, Unison’s branch secretary, is reported on the front page of the local paper, as saying: ‘I’m appalled that pounds 20 was used to buy M&S biscuits when the daily cost per in-patient is pounds 2 for three meals.’

Inevitably the story, headlined ‘Bottomley’s Visit Takes the Biscuit’ was contrasted, with chuckles, to Mrs Bottomley’s announcement yesterday of new plans involving further health service cuts.

Too late, for PR purposes, the hospital defended its actions, saying the biscuits were not bought with NHS funds.

‘They were bought with money from one of our suppliers,’ explains a spokeswoman, adding: ‘Had Mrs Bottomley had time to stay for lunch they would have given her that too.’

I am surprised to see that an editorial in the Wandsworth Borough News supports the rail strikers. ‘Over the past decade of Conservative rule, the heady monetarist philosophy has blinded its leaders to the real value of public transport’, etc, it goes. A fair enough viewpoint, I suppose (if you are not one of the sufferers of the strikers’ actions), but the owner of the Wandsworth Borough News is wealthy Establishment figure David Dimbleby – thought, generally, to be a staunch Tory.

A footnote on rail strike sufferers: Great Train Robber Buster Edwards was to be found at his flower stall outside Waterloo on Wednesday evening woefully empty-handed. Sighing, he proclaimed miserably: ‘I haven’t taken a penny.’

Call me a cynic, but I cannot help but be alarmed by the ENO’s programme for the new season. Jonathan Miller’s Eighties production of Verdi’s Rigoletto is scheduled for January. . .and yet I distinctly recall the advertisement for the production last year: ‘See it – for the last time ever.’ The theory, I thought, was that the ENO was determined never to repeat Miller’s popular version – in which the characters are updated to mafiosi – because it had been done too often. ‘Ah,’ said an ENO spokeswoman yesterday, ‘but there has been a public outcry for it.’ Oh? Lots of letters then? ‘No, people have been screaming for it.’ Literally? ‘Well. . .it’s been mentioned.’ Ah, I see.

No mention, naturally, of the ENO’s worryingly dire financial state: it has the largest deficit of any public arts company in the country.

Overheard at the Groucho Club on Wednesday night, where directors, writers and actors gathered to discuss falling standards in the industry, were two better-known luvvies. ‘How are you? Haven’t seen you for ages,’ said one. ‘I see you’ve acquired a handsome moustache.’

‘Shows how long we haven’t seen each other for,’ replied the other, ‘I’ve had it for 25 years.’

With proposals for a book and film on Gloucester’s Fred West being booted about, Anthony Page, director of BBC’s Middlemarch, has chosen his moment to plan a feature film based on Brian Masters’ best-selling study of serial killer Dennis Nilsen.

Inevitably it has taken time to raise funding for the project which has resparked the old controversy about glorifying serial killers. Page, however, is insistent that Nilsen is a special case. ‘The interesting thing about him is how a man who was, to begin with, apparently quite caring, became a mass murderer.’ Now, with Japanese backing he just needs a star for the title role. . .the name Daniel Day-Lewis, he says, is on everyone’s tongue.

(Photographs omitted)

Diary – June 22, 1994

In a move unlikely to enhance Anglo-Australian relations, a full-scale replica of HMS Endeavour, the sturdy vessel in which Captain Cook discovered the fifth
continent, is shortly to leave its homeland (where it was intended to remain) for Britain. There it will rest in the National Maritime Museum at Greenwich – one of whose trustees has bought it for the princely sum of Ausdollars 1.

The replica, also named Endeavour, was originally meant to be a present for the Australian people from former sailing tycoon Alan Bond. It was already two-thirds built in 1991 when Bond ran aground, so to speak, and he found himself a bankrupt.

Led by trustee Arthur Weller, the British Maritime Museum took charge of the situation, purchasing – if you can call it that – the 110ft square-rigger, lying in Fremantle, Western Australia, and completing the construction. The journey here is likely to take nine months as the boat, retaining many mid-18th century features, is not exactly a modern speed machine.

Nonetheless, it does retain stainless steel fastenings on the hull instead of wrought iron – for insurance purposes. Cook, after all, got stuck on the Barrier Reef.

To the launch of Pitiless Pursuit by Brian Sedgemore, Labour MP for Hackney South and Shoreditch, where I once again encountered John Major’s charming brother, Terry, accompanied by his wife Shirley. While Sedgemore was reluctant to acknowledge that the book was in any way based on past realities at Granada – ‘I’m a barrister, you know. . .and I won’t be sued for libel’ – Shirley vouched for the MP’s normally more accommodating nature. ‘He’s such a nice man,’ she sighed. ‘Nice enough to make me vote Labour.’

Organisers of sporting events, it seems, should be wary of admitting my colleague David Robson to their future gatherings. Robson, who is busy most days editing this section, though a sports enthusiast, has ventured forth only twice so far this summer to see the great ones: first to Lord’s to see Warwickshire take on Middlesex where Brian Lara was lbw for a golden duck. Second to Wimbledon on Tuesday to see Steffi Graf beaten in the first round. ‘What next?’ he asked jovially in the corridor yesterday. My guess is that Mark McCormack and fellow athletic agents would rather not know.

Further to my recent note concerning the advice of septuagenarian Lord Salisbury to young Lord Mancroft, when voting in the Lords for the first time, another tale from the Upper House comes my way. . .but I have been requested to keep out the names of the protagonists. Another young peer made his debut recently and, like the Marquess of Salisbury, a more experienced member was keen to show him the ropes. The pair sat down together to listen to the start of a debate when, suddenly, the elder bent forward, craned his neck at the bench opposite. ‘See that man?’ he asked the youth, who nodded. ‘He stole my land.’ ‘Oh?’ replied the younger, taken aback at such hostility. ‘When?’ The old man rubbed his hands together and glowered angrily before replying: ‘1555.’

As Jim Murphy, president-elect of the National Union of Students, prepares to take the reins of office next week, I note with amusement that his predecessor Lorna Fitzsimons, 26, has just landed a job at Rowland Sallingbury-Casey – owned by Saatchi & Saatchi – the Tories’ favourite advertising company.

Inevitably words such as ‘sell-out’ are being bandied around Congress House. Fitzsimons, however, shows remarkable equanimity. Reminding me, in case I’d forgotten, that she successfully fought John Patten over the power of student unions, she insists that she still retains her left-wing principles.

(Photographs omitted)

Diary – June 21, 1994

Of all the extraordinary reshuffle rumours doing the Westminster rounds, the most entertaining of all came my way this morning. It is, apparently, the talk (and laughter) of the Treasury. Prepare to be stunned: Baroness Thatcher for Foreign Secretary?
Risible, ridiculous, impossible. . .I know. . .but not unprecedented. Former Prime Minister Sir Alec Douglas-Home came back to serve as Foreign Secretary in Edward Heath’s Government. Likewise, former Foreign Secretary Lord Carrington showed it was possible to have a foot in both the Lords and the Commons.

The idea, say the gossips (carried away, I can only suppose, by wishful far-right imaginations and by Theresa Gorman’s call yesterday for Maggie’s return as party chairman) is that Douglas Hurd will become Leader of the House, replacing Tony Newton. Thatcher’s re-instatement would be designed to win back the support of Essex Man and Woman (who swung to Labour in the Billericay Euro-elections) and to rein in the Euro-sceptics.

Inevitably, the odd bellow of laughter could be heard from Downing Street and the Thatcher Foundation when they heard about it. ‘There are indeed lots of rumours going round at the moment,’ acknowledged a Number 10 official, not wanting to spoil the fun. A pause. ‘But at the end of the day, it is up to the Prime Minister.’

Further to my note yesterday about Glyndebourne’s forth-coming post-Aids version of Don Giovanni complete with Durex condoms, word comes my way from British composer Robin Holloway of the ENO’s contrasting prudery. Holloway, whose opera Clarissa was staged some years ago by the ENO, says the company commissioned him to write a further score. He began one, inspired by former brothel-keeper Cynthia Payne. As soon as it was submitted, however, it was axed, because, says Holloway, they objected to the language. The ENO, sensibly, says it never fully commissioned it – although one can see why the title might worry them: Girls and Boys Come Out to Play.

Revealing he has inherited the family flair for wit is Tom Dobson, 23, son of Frank, Labour MP for Holborn and St Pancras. Discussing the Labour leadership with his father recently he came out with: ‘It’s not a horse race. It’s dressage.’

A word from Dinora Davies-Rees, stepdaughter of the late David Bomberg, painter of Plazuela de La Paz, Ronda, Spain, 1934 which goes on sale today at Sotheby’s. Yesterday I chronicled how four years ago experts had admitted publicly there was debate over which way the painting should hang. At last I can now seal the controversy with proof from Ms Davies-Rees, volunteered yesterday, that Sotheby’s is selling it the right way. ‘I was ten years old when David painted it,’ she explains. ‘I was in the room next door all the time. There is no way that it is anything other than a Spanish street scene – and, yes, it is hanging the right way up.’ The vendor can now relax.

Sticking his lapel out prominently at Wimbledon this year is Cliff Richard. He – lucky thing – has just been awarded membership of the All England Club, jumping a queue of hundreds because of his ‘contribution to sport’. While other tennis buffs, including players at county and senior club level, have waited 20 years for a place in the 375-strong club, Richard, founder of the Tennis Trail scheme, whereby primary school children are introduced to the game, is thought to have been proposed by Sue Mappin, former British women’s manager.

‘Its great to walk through those gates with my badge,’ Richard explained. ‘I’ll be going every day except one.’ Meanwhile, speculation continues apropos his seconder. Stakes are high on former England No1 turned commentator, Sue Barker.

(Photograph omitted)

Diary – June 20, 1994

Sotheby’s will defiantly ignore controversy over this painting by David Bomberg (1890-1957), Plazuela de la Paz, Ronda, Spain 1935, when they auction it tomorrow. There is a view,
acknowledged publicly by Christie’s in 1990, that it is upside-down and not a Spanish street scene at all.

According to artists Clare and Clive Randall, long-time Bomberg fans, the painting – turned the other way – bears a remarkable resemblance to a Bomberg drawing: Underground Bomb Store, Burton-on-Trent,1942, hanging in the RAF museum at Hendon.

‘It looks totally dissimilar to the various versions of the Plazuela theme that he painted,’ explains Mrs Randall, adding: ‘it may not be easy to understand some of Bomberg’s pictures, but every one is precise in its own way.’

Four years ago she convinced Graham Southern of Christie’s sufficiently to ensure that there was a public announcement explaining the dilemma just as the picture was auctioned. Perhaps it was because of this, however, that the picture failed to sell. Now Sotheby’s hope it will go for pounds 20,000-pounds 30,000. . .which could explain the reluctance of expert Susanna Pollen to discuss her reasons for ignoring the debate.

More matters for the young groupies in Tory Central Office – known, as I explained last week, as the Brat Pack because of their inexperience outside politics – to chew over. Rachel Whetstone, 25, currently head of the political section of the Conservative Research Department, close friend of David Faber MP (separated from weather-girl Sally) and one of the more glamorous aspects of Smith Square, is quitting her job. She hopes, she says, to become a special adviser after the reshuffle. One obvious potential vacancy for her is that of the heritage post, assuming that Peter Brooke is moved and that his right-hand man, Dominic Loehnis, quits the political sphere. ‘Nothing is definite,’ yesterday. ‘If I do end up out of a job, there are about ten different options. . .’

Much excitement backstage at Glyndebourne where rehearsals for Mozart’s Don Giovanni, due to open on 10 July, are under way. No ordinary production this. . .but a post-Aids version including new essential props: condoms, for which the administration is having to fork out normal prices. ‘Durex initially offered us the whole lot free providing we advertised them in our programmes,’ explains Helen O’Neil, head of PR. ‘We had to say no, purely because,’ she adds hastily, ‘they have already been printed.’

A social note: The fashions on display at the wedding of Lord Dalmeny, heir to the Earl of Rosebery, held on Saturday in Barnbougle castle, Scotland, the Roseberys’ original family home, made Ascot pale into insignificance. Surprisingly, however, there was just the odd lapse of manners. One gentleman approached a very smart young woman, attired in a red soldier suit, with gold buttons, top hat and veil. ‘Do you know you are wearing a mourner’s veil?’ he asked rather rudely. The woman, a clever sort, thought for a moment before turning to him with a smile: ‘Naturally – I used to go out with the groom.’

The sight of tennis ace Pete Sampras in The Gloucester

Casino, Gloucester Road, in the small hours of the morning last week, raised a few eyebrows among fellow flutterers, who assumed, naively, that he would be tucked up in bed with a mug of Horlicks and a digestive biscuit. Not the Sampras style, apparently. In fact, the casino is the preferred nightspot of a number of the players, who succumbed to its charms a few years ago when staying at the neighbouring Gloucester Hotel, one of the official abodes of the tournament.

(Photograph omitted)

Diary – June 15, 1994

A BUST of former Prime Minister Sir Anthony Eden has suddenly appeared in the members’ lobby in the Commons, reviving speculation as to whose statue will occupy the tantalisingly large plinth in the same area.
The lobby currently contains three statues: one of Lloyd George, one of Atlee and one – the most famous of all – of Churchill, whose toe has been worn away over the years by MPs who touch it for luck as they go into the chamber.

Other prime ministers such as Asquith and Ramsay MacDonald are commemorated by busts in between the full-size replicas – but the space for a fourth has never been filled. The real bone of contention is whether or not Lady Thatcher will get it – now that Eden’s bust has arrived, the matter is once again a talking point.

The decision will be taken long after the model-to-be has deceased. A special all-party works of art committee exists to advise on commissions. . .

although aspirants should perhaps remember that, according to a Commons spokeswoman, ‘they spend as much time deciding who should come out, as go in.’

FURTHER to my note earlier this week about the extraordinary 1 hour 50 minute wait experienced by historian Andrew Roberts before his starter arrived in Marco Pierre White’s The Restaurant, a colleague rang to tell me of a similar experience in White’s Wandsworth domain, Harvey’s. A table of four were struck by the length of time it took for their pudding course to materialise, so summoned the matre d’. He went off to the kitchen to deal with the matter, only to reappear empty-handed. ‘You must realise,’ he told the group haughtily, ‘all our puddings are freshly made. Nothing, but nothing, is prepared in advance.’ A pause. The matre d’ smiled. . .until, that is, a voice piped up: ‘But we ordered cheese.’

WHAT a to-do at Brent Council where leader Bob Blackman is taking legal advice over Channel 4’s current drama series, Little Napoleons. Blackman, it seems, fears the programme implicitly draws parallels between himself and the show’s Tory leader – who, according to most viewers, is a particularly nasty piece of work.

Since part of the action was filmed in Brent’s town hall council chamber, with the explicit agreement that no connections were to be made, Blackman is incensed there should be even the odd verbal reference. However, scriptwriter Michael Abbensetts seems to feel no such impediments. ‘This drama is about local goverment in general but in some instances, about Brent in particular,’ he says easily.

TO THE 10th anniversary of trendy publishers Fourth Estate, who celebrated the event in the architectural prizewinning

environs of the Imagination Gallery in Store Street. To enter the festivities was like running an obstacle race – the grand finale of which was a dauntingly high steel bridge just below the roof. For some, it was just too much. I encountered one woman, looking distinctly green about the gills and running for the exit. Turning, she whispered unhappily: ‘I’m afraid of heights.’

IF ANYONE knows the secret menu the three tenors – Jose Carreras, Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti – are likely to serve us on the eve of the World Cup at the Dodger Stadium on 17 July, it is Gillian Widdicombe, wife of Jeremy Isaacs, general director of the Royal Opera. Indeed, Ms Widdicome, it emerges from this month’s BBC music magazine,

appears to know the singers worryingly intimately. Not only does she hint that their repertoire will be based on ‘an American theme, including Bernstein – perhaps from Candide’ – but she goes on to give the following personal description of Carreras: ‘Jose is one of those rare players who may be nearing his sell-by date, but deserves a place in the squad because he’s good in and around the dressing-room.’

(Photographs omitted)