Diary – May 24, 1994

No sooner did Gussie Fink- Nottle-types rejoice at the founding of Britain’s first P G Wodehouse Literary Society at the end of last year, than a dreadful spanner appeared in the works.
The trustees of the Wodehouse estate, administered by the London literary agents A P Watt, have written to the society’s secretary asking that it does not ‘publicly use the name ‘Wodehouse’ without formal and specific approval’.

Now this, as the society puts it in true Wodehouse fashion, ‘is a bit tricky’. Attempts have been made to include the author’s name in a manner that does not require ‘formal and specific approval’ but they aren’t really getting anywhere.

Perhaps I can help. Having rung one Linda Shaughnessy at AP Watt, I discover that the Wodehouse estate does not wish to hinder the society’s welfare or prevent it using the great writer’s name. ‘It is simply,’ she explains, ‘that the estate must be consulted before anyone uses the name.’

‘Ah ha. . .it’s a matter of true plus-fours etiquette,’ I cry. ‘Precisely,’ concurs the demure Miss Shaughnessy.

ENGLISHMEN beware – in Ghana the latest fad among the ladies is marriage – to a Briton. Over the weekend I heard of not one, but two proposals winging their way from deepest Africa. The first, sadly, was so forward as to be quite unprintable.

The second, however, was sent to Vivian Anthony, 56, author and Secretary of the Headmasters’ Conference, who celebrates his silver wedding anniversary this year. An 18-year-old schoolgirl wrote to him begging for his hand. She had been taken, no doubt, by his Who’s Who entry which states that he wrote ‘Monopoly’, thereby leading her to believe she would spend many an evening happily passing Go and collecting pounds 200.

In retrospect I feel she may see Anthony’s previous marital obligations as a blessing: ‘Monopoly’ is not a board game but a book on economics.

UNLIKE others, I do not feel Nicol Williamson should be let off too lightly for his undramatic walk off stage after only five minutes of A Night on the Town with John Barrymore. For Williamson is not the main sufferer of his actions. A new watchword: ‘Theatre of Death’ is buzzing round Thespian circles, with reference to the sorry fate of The Criterion theatre since its relaunch in October 1992.

Not only has each Criterion production lasted an embarrassingly short time, but this year’s big show, Maxwell the Musical was cancelled before it even got on stage.

‘All in all, the theatre has probably been closed longer than it has been open,’ comments Peter Hepple, consultant editor of The Stage newspaper. Mr Williamson’s performance (or lack of it) is the final straw.

PICTURED is Britain’s first mobile phone box (the payphone you can see is about to be ripped out). The Edwardian booth stands in the restaurant lobby of London’s new Capital Club – a smart new yuppy club due to open in September in the premises of the old Gresham club in the City. Though the club management actively encourages use of mobile phones in the business rooms (‘we want deals to be made on our premises’), the booth’s location near the dining area may suggest to more sensitive suits that it would be polite to make and receive their calls in private. ‘For some reason the roof opens when you are in the booth,’ explains manager Michael Longshaw, adding helpfully, ‘it must be something to do with hot air.’

GREATLY missing the late Labour leader John Smith is the new editorial team of Red Pepper, the independent left-wing magazine replacing The Socialist and backed by luminaries such as Harold Pinter, Ruth Rendell and Jeremy Seabrook. Vocalising Smith’s loss at the publication’s launch last week was editor Hilary Wainwright: ‘We might well have got him to listen and even to contribute,’ she explained, getting firmly into her stride, ‘but Tony Blair is another matter.

‘He is . . .(deep breath) compliant, retrospective and (a pause to prepare me for the ultimate masculine crime) worried about how he appears.’

(Photograph omitted)

Diary – May 19, 1994

A NOTED omission in the itinerary of Zimbabwe’s President Mugabe on his current state visit to London, is tea with the Queen Mother – a fixture that is usually mandatory for visiting Heads of State. Nor, surprisingly, did the Queen Mother attend the state dinner, given in his honour, at Buckingham Palace on Tuesday night.
Whilst there may be nothing remotely suspicious – the Queen Mother’s press secretary informs me that she is away in Scotland – her absence has fuelled speculation (unfair, I think) that ancient politics could have something to do with it.

Historians and diplomats (who are too cowardly to reveal themselves) mutter that the Queen Mother was never outwardly opposed to Ian Smith’s government in Rhodesia during the Sixties, and that there may be friction between herself and Mugabe, whose party effectively overthrew Smith’s.

Personally I think it’s all garbage – at 93, the Queen Mother is surely a more skilled and experienced diplomat than any of the mutterers in the Foreign Office.

AN EXTREMELY distinguished, elderly author, who has insisted I do not disclose his identity, made his way to Hatchards, Piccadilly, on Wednesday evening to attend an awards ceremony for the Pegasus Prize for Literature. ‘Can I have your name?’ asked the receptionist, clearly not recognising him. ‘I’m on the list, I’m an author,’ grumbled the man, annoyed at her ignorance. ‘Can’t find you,’ came from the receptionist. . .’What is your name?’ A pause. The man thought for a while. . .’Tolstoy,’. . . more fumbling from the girl. ‘Nah. .sorry, not listed. Tolstoy. . .how do you spell that?’

MEANWHILE at the same party Laurie Lee, the septuagenarian author of Cider with Rosie, informed me that he and his wife, Catherine, had just celebrated their 44th wedding anniversary. ‘I drew her a grandfather clock with 44 on the face,’ he explained. ‘Then I drew two pendulums. . . swinging in opposite directions. I don’t think I explained it quite well enough to my wife,’ he frowned. ‘She seemed rather non-plussed.’

I DO NOT normally approve of plugging advertisements, but there is one in this week’s edition of Country Life which deserves a leg-up.

‘I go to Radley College, my small brother starts at Cothill in September. My parents are desperately searching for a good period house within 25 minutes drive of our schools. We need at least 6 bedrooms, staff accommodation and 5 acres or more. My parents have retained Knight Frank & Rutley to act on their behalf. Mummy says she will pay anything, Daddy has set a budget of pounds 1,500,000.’

POLITICS looks set to disrupt this year’s Great River Race, normally one of London’s more peaceable annual events, where a motley crew of old and new boats race the 22-mile stretch of Thames from Richmond to the Isle of Dogs. Owing to some unfortunate circumstances, it appears that a Greenpeace boat is to race next to a fully-armed Swedish whaler – a prospect which is causing the organisers considerable alarm. ‘I just hope no-one gets harpooned,’ says a worried race director.

BRIEFLY, altruism has been swept aside at Shelter, the charity for the homeless, where staff are helpless with laughter at the prospect of a bizarre French innovation to help those sleeping rough. A second-hand steel transport crate – nine by eight by 40 foot – complete with windows and a windmill (to power it) go to make the ‘Lifebox’ – a remarkable invention by one Emmanuel Alouche.

At pounds 6,000 – a considerable mark up from the pounds 400 or so a transport container usually costs – the mini ‘house’ has been firmly rejected by the charity: ‘It’s just one step up from a card-board box,’ giggles a spokeswoman. The French, however, are determined not to give up. . .

‘ELTON JOHN has disappeared’ the cry went up during the interval of Benjamin Britten’s opera, A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Freemason’s Hall on Wednesday night.

The singer, whose friend Zandra Rhodes had designed the costumes, was clearly visible during the first half, but he never returned to his seat for the second.

‘I don’t want to be too emphatic’ said one sitting within John’s immediate vicinity. . . ‘but I got the impression that opera is not quite his thing.’

(Photographs omitted)

Diary – May 18, 1994

TAKE one 51-year-old national heroine who has ridden round what no woman of her age has ridden round before. Add one particularly blinkered ruling body which gets its facts wrong. And what you get is a cock-up almost worthy of the start of the 1993 Grand National. Rosemary Henderson got round Aintree twice and completed the race against all the odds only to find herself reprimanded by the Jockey Club for infringing their rules by placing a bet with William Hill – 8-1 against finishing. The Club gleaned the story from the media.
Just a couple of things though: the story was wrong. In truth, a reporter put a bet on for her husband. And anyway, how could they have been so humourless? The Jockey Club is showing signs of contrition now. But is this any way to run a horse race? What I wonder what it would have done with another equally potent horsewomen – Bodicea, say, or Lady Godiva?

NOT QUITE everyone at Glyndebourne is unreservedly looking forward to the grand reopening on 28 May. Although the new architectural design is much lauded for its acoustics and seating arrangements, I’m told there has been an oversight on the location of the staff loos. Currently, employees are using the dressing-room facilities, but once the singers arrive for the opening production of Le Nozze de Figaro, some staff will be forced to walk through 24 doors to get to the nearest conveniences.’ By the time you’ve walked back,’ says one sufferer, ‘it feels like you’ve been on an Army obstacle course.’

EXPERIENCING side-effects from his recent volte-face from press secretary at the AEEU to PA for Gordon Brown, is Charlie Whelan, 40, the ‘bright young thing’ spotted by Labour leaders at last year’s party conference, when he campaigned impressively for one member, one vote. Such are the fresh demands exacted by Mr Whelan’s new role, however, that he has been pressured into removing the gold stud he has worn in his left ear for 10 years.

Rumour has it that the command to ‘de-earring’ came from Mr Brown, who felt that it was perhaps not the most appropriate jewellery for meetings with newspaper editors. Whelan himself insists that his motives stem solely from vanity. ‘My mate told me that earrings were no longer cool,’ he explains helpfully.

PICTURED is Rara (pronouced rah]rah]) Plumptree, who, despite her eponymous-sounding name, is not a marketing executive for fruit jams, but even more exotically, London’s first executive shopper. Insisting that her name is the one bestowed by her parents at birth, Miss Plumptree bravely acknowledges her age as 37 and is newly employed by the Grosvenor House Hotel to take guests shopping – at a rate of pounds 24 an hour. Fortunately for the expensively-minded Miss Plumptree, whose reputation in retail circles is such that certain Bond Street stores close their doors behind her, most of her charges request visits only to the smartest boutiques. Anything less and Miss Plumptree’s nose wrinkles. ‘I once had to go downmarket – to Kensington High Street,’ she complains, adding: ‘The Japanese all go to Marks & Spencer – to buy 40 about pairs of shoes.’

ROBERT KEY, the rotund roads minister, was in an appropriately expansive mood yesterday. Asked at a press conference how many copies of the booklet Choosing Safety – a guide showing which cars provide most driver protection in accidents – had been printed, he replied swiftly: ‘A quarter of a million.’ Up popped a young red-faced civil servant: ‘Actually minister, the initial print run is 10,000,’ he blushed. ‘Ah well,’ said Key, ‘there was some booklet yesterday that had a print run of 250,000.’

SAD farewell to Terry Holmes, md of the Ritz Hotel for nine years. Yesterday he was given only a week’s notice to pack his bags. . .a whiff of the flavour of the management style to come.

(Photograph omitted)

Diary – May 17, 1994

Virginia Bottomley has just been dealt another severe punch in the face. She was billed as the star performer in this weekend’s annual symposium of the Conservative Medical Society; now the event has had to be postponed owing to insufficient interest.
Officially a spokeswoman for the Society – an independent Tory association, headed by John Major and Baroness Thatcher – blames ‘unforeseen circumstances’ for the low number of tickets sold. Initially, I’m told, the situation was so dire the organisers decided to cancel, but optimism must have prevailed at the last minute.

The news can only be very disappointing for Mrs Bottomley, whose ‘keynote address’ was widely advertised in medical circles, and in the organisation’s bi-monthly publication: The Bulletin. It is, I’m told, the first time in its 19-year-old history that the event has had to fold. Nothing personal I’m sure.

A story comes my way from the Temple, which, I hope, will dispel the myth that the general mentality of barristers is as far above that of other mortals as their costumes suggest. A Recorder (senior barrister and part-time judge) in a well-known common law set returned from court one day to find her room transformed. On the desks, on the shelves, on the window sills, on the mantlepiece, and covering her favourite print of Lord Cockburn were those disgusting Lloyds Bank promotional toys, Quentin the Troll and family accompanied by the Talking and Accounting Pigs. Wearily the Recorder carried on with her duties among the debris, well aware which of her colleagues were the culprits. Future Lord Chancellors presumably.

A postcript to my story last week about the unfortunate hiccup in the otherwise dazzling career of Elizabeth Hurley, the actress girlfriend of Hugh Grant, who so effectively displayed an unusual fetish for safety pins last week. The next time we see Miss Hurley, I can reveal, she is likely to be wearing even less: on the front cover of a talking book she recorded last week, and which will be promoted in the next edition of The Modern Review. While I sympathise with those who have argued that it is a pity that Miss Hurley feels the need to market herself in so unsubtle a fashion, on this occasion, I can’t but help admire her honesty. The talking book, amply decorated with her sultry features, is suitably titled: Ambition.

It is just as well that Eton has resisted temptation, and maintained its exclusion of the fairer sex. For winging his way to the staff room in September, once he has cleared the hurdle of Oxford finals is Guy Burt, 21, precocious author of two published novels, and firmly considered (at least by my colleague, Marie, and myself) to be an absolute dish.

A scholar at Charterhouse, the self-effacing Burt has already demonstrated considerable agility in the classroom. He wrote his first novel, After the Hole, while supervising prep at St John’s preparatory school, Devon, during his gap year; his second novel, Sophie, due out this summer, was penned during his second year at Oxford ‘when there wasn’t too much else to do’.’

Nor will his role as Eton English master prevent him from continuing his scribbles. ‘I’ve got an idea for a third book on Oxford, which I hope to write there,’ he explains. Not, I’m sure, that this will prevent him from taking his teaching duties with the utmost seriousness. ‘I hope to be innovative in the areas not bound by the curiculum,’ he says – sounding ever so faintly resonant of Robin Williams in The Dead Poet’s Society.

Lord Sutch has been reunited with his top hat which, you may recall, he lost at Barry Island Conservative club at the weekend. Contrary to reports it had not been stolen. ‘It was just mislaid, – by him,’ sighs the finder Philip Walker. ‘He simply lost it as he seems to lose most things. . .like elections.’

(Photograph omitted)

Diary – May 16, 1994

In an attempt to disguise what is possibly its most embarrassing find, the British Museum is executing a cover-up operation to save a few blushing faces and curb public laughter. A few weeks ago, 70 yards of some of the rarest, most spectacular (and most valuable) Egyptian raiment dating from circa 2000 BC were discovered by a curator, immaculately preserved inside an Egyptian mummy case – which had lain, unnoticed, inside the museum for 80 years or so.
The case, thought to belong to an Egyptian royal or noble, had been collecting dust anonymously on a shelf when the curator decided it needed a clean and peeped inside. Despite the well-recorded Egyptian practice of enclosing clothing and bedding with their dead, it seems no one had thought to open it earlier.

‘We’re not sure what the cloth is yet, but it is in a very good state – perhaps the best ever found,’ explained another curator ecstatically. ‘There are reams and reams of it.’

In view of such excitement, I find it hard to account for the museum’s official line: ‘It’s just a few fragments really at the bottom of a box,’ said a spokesman.

The concept of rivalry is seldom publicly admitted by London’s more genteel sporting establishments. It would not be seemly, after all, for Charles Swallow, managing director of the pounds 1,549-a-year Vanderbilt Racquets Club, to admonish the Princess of Wales never to play tennis at nearby pounds 730-a-year Queen’s Club. I am amused, therefore, to see a far more subtle form of attack from Monsieur Swallow in the form of an invitation to celebrate the Vanderbilt’s 10th anniversary next month – right in the middle of Queen’s Club’s most prestigious tournament, London’s international precursor to Wimbledon, the Stella Artois. ‘There is no reason why we should have chosen that week for the party,’ insisted a Vanderbilt’s spokeswoman. . .and equally, sceptics might quibble, no reason why not.

Consolation for the red-faced members of the ENO’s publicity department, responsible for a recent appeal leaflet which included a reference to that little-known work: ‘Verdi’s Tosca’. The team at Brighton Festival Opera is not doing too well either. Posters have gone up advertising: ‘Rossini’s Magic Flute’.

Despite the presence of luminaries such as Anthony Sampson and VS Naipaul at last week’s literary award ceremony hosted by the Society of Authors in the Middle Temple Hall, the proceedings took a dramatic tumble, as spontaneously and uninvited, a young man leapt on to the stage, seized the microphone and begged the crowd: ‘I need to be discovered.’ Astonished editors, authors and poets turned as the man, one James Glasse, continued blithely: ‘I’m writing a novel. . . I think its quite good. . .I’m looking for an agent called Bill Hamilton. . .Is he here? I’ve heard he is quite famous.’ Quite where Mr Glasse, 32, developed such marketing tactics, is beyond me. Presumably not in the Civil Service, where he hails from. Personally, I consider his methods refreshing, but on this occasion, it seems his audience lacked humour: ‘You won’t get discovered like that, young man,’ hissed one author. ‘You’ll never get published now.’

Aggravating, surely, the already-soured relations between the Ulster Unionists and the Tories, caused by the Downing Street Declaration, is the latest Euro-campaign strategy of Tory party chairman Sir Norman Fowler. He is planning to visit Northern Ireland next month to promote the province’s sole Tory Euro-candidate, Myrtle Boal.

Ms Boal, 55, is delighted by such high-profile backing. With less than ten per cent support in the polls, she hopes Sir Norman’s presence will draw out the closet Tories, including some Ulstermen, whom, she says, Northern Ireland Secretary Sir Patrick Mayhew, is urging to convert.

‘They’ll soon fall foul of the electorate of Northern Ireland,’ said Jim Wilson, secretary-general of the Ulster Unionists, adding: ‘Any time they send over bigwigs from Smith Square they leave the kiss of death behind.

(Photograph omitted)

Diary – May 11, 1994

Euro-sceptics may soon find new allies in the unlikely form of West-End impresarios, directors, playwrights and producers. In what is perhaps its most controversial proposal, the European Union is preparing to issue a directive which will ban the most spectacular theatrical effects.
Revolving stages such as those used in Les Miserables, Carousel and The Wind in the Willows are to be slowed to limits deemed quite absurd by the Association of British Theatre Technicians (ABTT), whilst, even the most sprightly actors are to be banned from leaping on and off them.

The regulations, effective from 1995, are part of new EU health and safety standards and there are already fears that the machinery restrictions will extend beyond turning platforms.

‘I can’t see how things like on-stage helicopters (Miss Saigon) and roller-skating ramps (Starlight Express) will still be allowed,’ said Roger Fox, vice-chairman of ABTT, adding: ‘The EU does not seem to understand that theatres are not like factories.’

Cricked necks, hunched shoulders, and stiff legs are being stretched as champagne is poured by staff at the Victoria and Albert Museum, preparing to move out of their cramped-would-be-an-understatement offices into more spacious surroundings behind the museum in what was originally the Royal College of Art. The museum is shelling out pounds 8m to revamp the Grade I listed building, which will be a centre for preservation of the ‘decorative’ arts, as well as new offices. These, I’m told, are so smart, staff may actually have trouble readjusting – as one fondly put it: ‘We’re used to working in a Portacabin.’

Unlike the repeated insistence of Messrs Heseltine and Portillo that they have no wish, at present, to rise to giddier heights, the Education Secretary, John Patten, clearly feels no such encumbrances on his career ambitions. He has tried to change his title to that of ‘President’, he admitted at a conference in London last week, in emulation of Rab Butler, President of the Board of Education in the Forties. Sadly Mr Patten’s efforts have been doomed to failure -despite, it should be added, every effort by his permanent secretary, Sir Tim Lancaster. The title of President has been abolished and there is no way of getting it back, he has been told. This, admitted Mr Patten, has not been the only obstacle in this path. Presidents require boards . . . and boards require to be heard.

Undisputed though it is that the outgoing American ambassador, Ray Seitz , will be deeply missed by the British establishment, there was special mourning yesterday among the Commons cricket XI as they set off to play a team from Acas on the Civil Service pitch in Chiswick. The match was a late fixture, replacing what was to have been a Commons vs US embassy match, staged on a home-made pitch in the ambassador’s garden in Regent’s Park.

‘Seitz was planning to cut a wicket in his lawn,’ explained the Commons captain, John Hutton MP. ‘We were all so excited about it, but we knew we’d have to cancel if he left. His replacement, Admiral Crowe, had other engagements but we hope to reschedule next year.’

A hope that may be quickly squashed, I fear, for on calling the US embassy, a spokesman was emphatic: ‘Admiral Crowe is not remotely keen on cricket. He has never played the game, he has never been to Lord’s and nothing happens at his residence without his knowledge or approval.’

If the London Philharmonic conductor, Franz Welser, looked a trifle pale, performing Mahler’s second symphony at the Royal Festival Hall on Tuesday night, he had good reason.

In front of him, singing in the choir, and carefully watching every flick of the baton was Christopher Lawrence, managing director of the LPO and payer, therefore, of Welser’s wages.

‘Hmm,’ Lawrence said thoughtfully afterwards: ‘It’s interesting to see the conductor from the other side for once.’ String section beware – he is also a keen cellist.

Diary – May 10, 1994

Despite all the outward signs of a polished performance of Harold Pinter’s 1978 play, Betrayal, which opened last night at the BAC theatre in Battersea, tongues wagged venomously backstage over the terms issued by Pinter’s agent, Judy Daish, that all critics, other than one from a London magazine, be banned from the three-week run.
Given Pinter’s prolific output as well as his unique reputation – he is the only post-war playwright whose surname has formed a new adjective in English – the decision is viewed by some theatre buffs as quite astounding. ‘Initially Ms Daish actually wanted to ban the whole London production,’ explains the BAC’s artistic director, Paul Blackman. ‘It was only when producer Graham Cowley (manager of the Royal Court) talked to Harold himself that it was allowed go on at all.’

However, I understand Ms Daish is concerned that if too much attention is paid to the Battersea production it might prevent proposals for a West End production of the play in the next two years – an argument the BAC team finds hard to swallow since the maximum seating capacity of their studio is only 52.

Ultimately it seems unlikely that Ms Daish’s plans will go unimpeded; some performances are free and rumour has it there will be one or two among those audiences quietly taking notes.

The Queen is to be the subject of a controversial petition from the National Maritime Museum at Greenwich, requesting the return of the bullet that killed Lord Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, which she keeps in a locket at Windsor Castle and is said to be particularly fond of.

Nelson buffs at the NMR, however, argue that the bullet should be reunited with the Admiral’s jacket for a commemorative Nelson exhibition next year. His uniform, which they possess, has a small, round hole in the shoulder where the bullet, fired by a French sniper, sank in. ‘It just seems appropriate for the bullet and uniform to be exhibited together,’ says a maritime spokesperson, ‘especially since the bullet has a small piece of jacket attached.’

Buckingham Palace is refusing to be ruffled on the matter, however. ‘I’ve no idea if she’ll lend it,’ says a spokeswoman, clearly impressed by her regal environs. ‘We’ll wait until she’s asked.’

A new Soho club is to open above Cafe Boheme in Old Compton Street, rivalling nearby haunts, the Groucho Club and the somewhat less salubrious Blacks – where one must be thankful for the dimly lit environs disguising the quite inedible food. ‘The House,’ as the new joint is to be called, is a more congenial place – a tastefully renovated Georgian building – but not stuffy for all that. Founding members are being invited to a ‘hard hat’ party where the cocktails will be mixed in a cement mixer. Indeed the prospect has caused a considerable stir at Westminster, although some MPs are said to be confused by the establishment’s name. .they think it is a new division-bell dining club.

Startling allegations of Tory collaboration with the BNP in the ward of Newham South have been sent to the Prime Minister, Sir Norman Fowler and Angela Rumbold by Newham Monitoring Project, a community group set up to aid victims of racial attack.

Last month NMP complained to Central Office that Tory candidates were using the slogan ‘Conservatives Against Labour’s Unfair Ethnic Policies’ which they saw as a direct bid to compete with BNP for votes. Now they say they have photographic evidence of negotiations for collaboration in future elections by Tory and BNP candidates, overheard at last week’s local election count. Tory Central Office is remaining stumm as it considers what to do. . . .over to you Sir Norman.

A touching moment at Monday’s opening of Fedora at the Royal Opera House, starring Jose Carreras. His rival tenor, Placido Domingo, was backstage rehearsing for last night’s Carmen when he realised the time. Not wishing to steal his friend’s thunder, he quietly departed out of the back door.

(Photographs omitted)

Diary – May 9, 1994

ONCE AGAIN there is quarrelling up at that bastion of Sylvan nudity – Highgate Men’s pond – where the Corporation of London are building a dividing wall to construct two distinctly separate areas – nude and non-nude – or ‘sun-bathing and changing’ as the Corporation gently phrases it. For several years there has been dissent between the homosexual and heterosexual users of the antique bathing area, culminating in the arrest of a young man sporting a t-shirt of a nude male in 1991.
Now the Corporation, the custodians of the area, have taken matters into their own hands, following a complaint and have decided to erect a wall – but only – it assures me after careful consultation with the locals and users. ‘Hardly anyone thought that nude bathing should be banned,’ said a spokeswoman, ‘so the separate areas give people an option.’

Not everyone is pleased however: ‘I will be unable to exchange greeting with my pals who stand in their favourite spot at the far end of the enclosure because a compromise wall divides, us,’ explained one dissenter.

CONTRARY to a report yesterday that the co-author of Prince Charles’s Return to Basics speech was his deputy private secretary, Stephen Lamport, there is another, rather stronger, whisper doing the rounds at Westminster that the original scribe of the whole piece was none other than the Prince’s official biographer, the broadcaster Jonathan Dimbleby. According to insiders Dimbleby, 50, ‘has been boasting about it publicly’.

Interestingly, his agent would only say yesterday, that, were, I to track him down, ‘Mr Dimbleby would not wish to comment on the matter.’

BAD NEWS for all those West Ham fans who have friends living close to Upton Park Football Ground, and, in the past, enjoyed many a game from a free vantage point.

Officious sorts on Newham Council have decided to bar admission to the council blocks to everyone who does not live there. You cannot even do a swap for a day, I’m told, since, so thorough is the new regime, it has issued residents with identity cards.

A MOMENT of mild embarrassment for the Tory party Chairman, Sir Norman Fowler, reaches my ears from Birmingham, where the Midland Independent Newspaper group (of which he is chairman) celebrated their recent flotation with a dinner. ‘Oh my God – you’ve all got those dreadful ties on,’ Sir Norman reportedly whispered to chief executive Christopher Oakley, pointing at the guest’s neckpieces, each displaying a hand-painted ‘fat lady’, crafted specifically for the occasion. Oakley must have smiled, since, moments later, before everyone, he duly presented Sir Norman with one such tie. To his credit, the recipient did not hesitate. To thunderous applause he put it on immediately.

WRY SMILES at the recent Annual General Meeting of Conde Nast, the publishing house which produces useful reference manuals such as World of Interiors, Vogue and Brides. Managing Director Nicholas Coleridge briefed each publication in turn in the Vogue House boardroom and listened to the staff’s ensuing queries. The Vogue lot were worried about sub-editors’ pay; the GQ team were concerned about the NUJ; Then it was the turn of Tatler – the society magazine which, last month, generously proffered free fashion advice to the Princess of Wales. ‘In the new canteen,’ a voice piped up, ‘will hot food be available?’. . .for a moment the corners of Mr Coleridge’s mouth trembled.

MORE trouble (if it were needed) at Westminster Council: It is likely to be sued by its former security company, Care Contract Services, which it fired after the building’s fire alarm went off twice in a row. Officially Westminster sources will only comment that they ‘were unhappy with evacuation procedures followed’ by Care Contract, whose job it was to shepherd everyone on to the street. Insiders whisper that the real problem was the cost incurred by the staff’s long wait outside – according to a source, pounds 20,000.

(Photograph omitted)

Noodles and a long wait: post modern dining

EVEN ITS founders had only modest hopes for Wagamama, a Japanese noodle bar in an obscure London side street, when it opened in 1992. With its austere decor, bright lights, no-coffee, no-puddings, no-smoking policy, it seemed doubtful that even the Japanese would want to frequent the place for long.
Yet now its popularity is such that noodles are being feted as the food of the Nineties. Wagamama plans four more London branches plus one in Paris, and maybe even one in Japan. Judging by the lengthy queues outside the Bloomsbury basement premises every night and at lunchtime, the demand for stir-fry noodles and noodle soup is insatiable. Despite speedy service, and a daily tally of 1,200 meals (400 lunch; 800 dinner) a day, Wagamama can hardly cope with demand. ‘We are losing customers because of the tailback,’ says marketing manager Pauline Price.

One night last week a constant 50-strong queue seemed remarkably placid as they lined Streatham Street. Only one out of 20 arrivals departed. Another looked doubtful but a young man who was just leaving chirped consolingly at him: ‘It’s OK. It moves amazingly quickly.’ And it does. After 10 minutes you have a drink in your hand as you wait on the stairs, 10 minutes after that you sit down to a vast bowl of steaming noodle soup, costing pounds 4.50. The chefs get through 100 kilos of noodles a day.

The restaurant’s success stems from more than just an increasing desire among Westerners for Japanese food. The first Japanese restaurants in London were set up in 1969 and still suffer from a traditional British suspicion of raw fish. Wagamama’s success is due to a skilful Westernising of the food on offer; and what Mog Morishima, 29, design director of Wagamama Ltd, calls, rather blushingly, ‘the creation of a post-modern culture in eating’.

‘It was quite obvious to us,’ he says, (‘us’ being the four bright twentysomethings – two English and two Japanese – who formed Wagamama Ltd in 1992) ‘that there was a gap in the British market. Anybody who had lived in Japan would have recognised it instantly. Apart from a need for good, cheap, healthy fast food, the British had not yet developed the concept of commercial design. Wagamama is supposed to be more subliminal than McDonald’s – the concept is far more complex than the red- and-gold arches.’

The design is minimalist. Customers sit at long wooden tables and benches like students in their college dining- room. In fact, so many are students it easily could be a college dining-room. The few 30- plus oldies, especially those in pin-stripes in the evening (at lunchtime it is acceptable), squirm uncomfortably.

The new Wagamamas will look different though. ‘We want to destroy the idea that fast-food restaurants need to be generic,’ says Mr Morishima. Details and locations are still secret, but the likely areas are studenty neighbourhoods such as Notting Hill or Camden.

One fixture is the hi-tech computerised ordering system, largely responsible for the quick turnover – the average time per meal is 45 minutes. The waiters punch your order into a machine that resembles a calculator and it is logged straight into a terminal in the kitchen.

Only 5 per cent of the clientele is Japanese. ‘We are different from the other ramen bars in London,’ explains Mr Morishima ‘because we have westernised our food to a certain extent – although the core is Japanese. Real Japanese ramen, though, is made with pork stock and is quite fatty, whereas we use chicken stock; our noodles, too, are different.’

Wagamama may well be the only restaurant in London to include on its menu details of a Japanese management technique widely used in industry. Their ‘kaizen’ philosphy aims for continuous improvement and comes from listening and adapting to staff and customers. Examples are the questionnaires available for the queueing masses and a medley of international chefs are employed ‘for inspiration’. Kaizen also operates in subtle ways. All the 60 staff wear Aids- awareness ribbons and there is a basket of them at the entrance. ‘When we opened we had a lot of gay customers,’ explains Mr Morishima. ‘It is part of our young post-modernist outlook; actually it’s also a way of saying thank you.’

Evidence of wider noodle- mania is growing. Wagamama’s expansion follows the opening last year of Europe’s first Japanese superstore, the Yaohan Plaza in Colindale in north London. In a few hours last Sunday pounds 6,000-worth of noodles were sold – and many customers were not Japanese.

As Rory Ross of Tatler puts it: ‘Noodles are the food of the Nineties. They are far more politically correct than chips (no class connotations); they are healthier; less labour-demanding (no chopping); and – best of all – you don’t have to wash up knives and forks afterwards.’

(Photograph omitted)

Here is the news – of 1994: Gossip

IT WILL be a year of Royal births, which will deflect attention from the family’s more troubled relationships. The Princess Royalwill have a baby, as will Viscountess Linley and Lady Helen Taylor – though not necessarily in that order.
There will be another Royal wedding: Lady Sarah Armstrong-Jones will marry boyfriend Daniel Chatto, and wear a designer trouser suit for the occasion. This will provide a field day for the Royal fashion pundits who will waste page after page of newspaper space discussing whether or not her garb has constitutional implications.

Royal scandal, however, will emerge at the start of the summer – and its subject will be the least likely: namely, the Queen Mother, whose past, it will be discovered, contains a hidden secret – more political than sexual.

The Princess of Wales will also cause a stir when, during one of her husband’s visits abroad, she re-emphasises her wish to be kept well out of the public glare by making an announcement on satellite TV live from Wembley stadium.

The Prince of Wales will fall into the same trap as the fictional king in To Play the King and clash with the Prime Minister over some party-political issue while on a trip abroad. This will weaken his position constitutionally and his wife will seriously consider divorce.

Meanwhile, the public at large will care less and less what the Royals do, as focus on the entertainment business reaches an all-time peak.

Newman and Baddiel will get together again and French and Saunders will split up – only to become reunited in 1995 – the motive in both cases being publicity-seeking.

Madonna will steal the limelight from the Michael Jackson case when she writes SEX2 – the book and the video – which will star children as well as adults.

Declaring it to be a work of art, she will stir up such a national controversy that a British control system will be set up to prevent any further exhibitions of deviancy from entering the country.

The mood in the country will be cheerful, though. Economically things will be better; we will have come a fair way in the arts and film industries; and though we will have lost dismally in the Winter Olympics, nobody will care too much.