Breaking the Code (2 page)

I have tried to keep footnotes to a minimum, but felt it right to include brief details of the constituencies of Members of Parliament when they make their first appearance in the diary. When their party allegiance is not given they are Conservatives. If they have died since the diary was written I have added their dates as well. I have also provided footnotes introducing members of my family and friends on their first appearance, but not people to whom only passing reference is made or whose names will be familiar already to the general reader.

I spoke, not very well, at the London Playing Fields Society centenary dinner at the Savoy.
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The meal was something of a struggle. I was seated next to Field Marshal The Lord Bramall KG, GCB, OBE, MC, JP,
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whose terrible dandruff was wafted straight from his left shoulder onto my
petit tournedos de boeuf aux echalotes
every time a waiter breezed past. The Duke of Gloucester gave his I’m-rather-shy-but-really-very-willing-decent-and-determined speech (which went down well) and our diminutive Minister for Sport
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scored with a nice mixture of laughs and exhortation. As he left he said to me, ‘When are you joining us at Westminster?’ I said ‘I don’t think I am’, but, of course, I want to.

Breakfast at TV-am
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with Brian Johnston
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(who is lovely and up there with the Queen Mother as one of the four or five people in the land who can do no wrong) and Carol Thatcher
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(who is lovely too in her funny lumpen way and who’s played a fairly tricky
hand pretty faultlessly). We talked about Michael Whitehall
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and Carol said Michael’s story about the taxi is quite true. When they were going out, Michael picked her up at No. 10 one evening and asked to use the phone to ring for a cab.

‘Where are we picking up from, guv?’

‘Downing Street,’ said Michael.

‘Oh, yeah?’ said the voice, ‘No. 10 is it?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael.

‘Oh, yeah?’ repeated the voice, ‘And what name is it?’

‘Whitehall.’

‘Oh yeah. A likely story.’ At which point Carol grabbed the phone from Michael and said, ‘We’d like a taxi for Whitehall at 10 Downing Street please.’

‘Oh yeah. And I suppose you’re called Thatcher are you?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

The taxi never came.

Simon
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came for lunch. He’s been out of
Noel & Gertie
for two weeks having an ingrown hair removed from under his left arm. We laughed a lot, but he seemed a bit bleak. He went off to see Frankie Howerd’s one-man show and we stayed in and watched Ken Dodd’s
This Is Your Life
.

TV-am and breakfast with John Denver.
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On to Royal Britain
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and more crisis talks. Walk to the Savoy for the NPFA fund-raising lunch. Prince Philip
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(in his electric taxi) arrived ten minutes early, but
this
time (unlike last time when I was in the loo) I was on the doorstep ready and waiting. He’s very good: easy, relaxed, apparently interested, informed, concerned etc. even though, poor bugger, he’s been at it relentlessly for forty years plus. At the lunch – a smallish group, selected high-rollers (at least, that was the idea…) – HRH
spoke well: no notes (certainly not the ones I’d provided!) and his usual trick of being sufficiently indiscreet to make his audience feel they were being ‘let in’ on something. Colin Sanders,
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bless him, offered £50,000 there and then. So did Roger Levitt.
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Supper with Anne Maxwell
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in her basement flat in Ladbroke Grove. There’s a touch of the Carol Thatcher good-hearted jolly-hockey-sticks about her, and, like Carol vis-à-vis Mrs T., Anne manages to be loyal to her awesome parent without apparently becoming his creature. I’m not sure the same can be said about brother Kevin who left the table at ten to return to the office: ‘There’s a lot still to do tonight. I’ve got to sign an Australian affidavit. It certainly can’t wait till morning.’

At Royal Britain our overdraft has topped the million mark and is being extended little by little (guaranteed by Richard)
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while we search for extra funds and/or a buyer. John Broome, founder of Alton Towers, came today and declared that he would take it on – for a controlling interest. He’d pick up the overdraft and spend £2.5 million to give the show the ‘wow’ factor and jack up the marketing. Was it all bluff and bombast? We left it that he’ll come again and take a closer look – when he gets back from his day-trip to New York tomorrow…

Lunch at the House of Lords with Lord Raglan,
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Prince Philip’s suggestion as NPFA’s man in Wales. Amiable, clear-thinking, amusing –
and
the name has a ring to it. Lord Longford pottered up and asked if I was still standing on my head. Then he tried to persuade me to show him there and then. I told Raglan that Longford was the only man I knew who could embrace a totally naked woman and apparently not notice it.
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TV-am. On air at 6.10 a.m. At 7.30 a.m. breakfast at the RAC with decent, generous
Christopher Laing,
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who confides that he’s going to give £100,000 to the appeal. Brilliant.

At Royal Britain nothing so obviously brilliant, but a glimmer of hope. J. Paul Getty Jr’s ‘man of business’ calls. ‘My client is capricious. He might like it very much. He might not like it at all.’ What a perfect partner he would make! He is seeing JPG on Monday and will report back. If JPG comes to see the exhibition he will want to be totally alone. ‘There must be no one else in the building.’

Took Benet
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to see Charles Dance as a wonderful Coriolanus at the RSC yesterday: power politics and a fickle public. Glorious.

Today at TV-am: Brian Sewell
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(very queeny), Anthony Burgess
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(getting frail) and Tony Holden
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(in happy form). Tony told me a story told to him by Basil Boothroyd who was given an office at Buckingham Palace at the time he was writing his authorised biography of Prince Philip. Arriving for work one morning, crossing the courtyard, gravel scrunching under foot, the eyes of a hundred tourists boring into him, Boothroyd encountered the Queen’s Private Secretary coming the other way. Boothroyd paused to greet him. Pleasantries were exchanged. Courtesies were extended. The weather was discussed, the Queen’s blooming health was touched on, the vigour and charm of the Queen Mother marvelled at, progress on Basil’s book reported – then the Private Secretary threw in gently, ‘If you’ll forgive me, I must be on my way. I’ve had an urgent call to say my house is on fire.’

At TV-am ‘Dr Ruth’, a tiny American agony aunt, soft, round and ridiculous, a little bundle of fizzing energy, squeezed me tight, held my hand, and pressed her card on me with the words, ‘Call me, young man, call me anytime. I mean it. That’s the number. Be sure to call now. If you’ve got a problem, I’m here to help.’

I’m writing this on the train to Truro with Michèle.
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We’re off for three days’ civilised filming: Trewithian, Glendurgan, Mount Edgcumbe.
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There’s an hilarious picture of John Selwyn Gummer
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on the front page of
The Times:
‘Where’s the beef? Mr John Gummer pressing a burger on his reluctant daughter Cordelia, aged four, at Ipswich yesterday to underline his message that beef is safe.’ Jim Henson and Sammy Davis Jr have died. The joy of a train journey like this is it gives you the time and space to read the obituaries with a clear conscience. Jim Henson is one of my heroes: a true innovator. He gave us the original Fozzie Bear to put on show at the Teddy Bear Museum.
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Breakfast with Richard Harris,
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lunch with Wayne Sleep,
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late supper with Jo and Stevie.
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And in between all the laughter and campery, real anguish. Royal Britain is going to fail. Four years’ endeavour going up in smoke. It’ll cost us £100,000 plus. It’ll cost poor Richard [Earl of Bradford] millions.

The word from Bucharest: ‘Mrs Edwina Currie,
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attired in bright red shoes and red polka-dot dress, walked into a Balkan-style controversy yesterday as she praised the conduct of an election won by a crypto-communist landslide that opposition politicians have likened to the vote-rigging practised under Nicolae Ceausescu.’

The word from the Barbican is similarly tragic-comic: J. Paul Getty Jr is not intrigued; John Broome calls to have another look round, but bows out by phone from Heathrow
at 4.30 p.m. Richard battles valiantly with Frank (the bank manager) for an extra £50,000 to get us through the next fortnight. Richard: ‘We’ve a man flying in from Canada on Sunday and tomorrow we’re seeing Prince Rupert Lowenstein who manages the finances of the Rolling Stones.’ (This last provokes a coughing spasm from Michèle and hysterical giggles from me.) Richard keeps going: ‘A man is flying in from Canada, Frank. He’s coming from Toronto. It’s a long way to come to say “no”!’

Twenty years to the week since I started my Finals at Oxford (Scholar, President of the Union, editor of
Isis, jeunesse d’oré
, so much promise!)

I find myself in a television studio at break of day (5.00 a.m.!), the early morning toast of the ITV Telethon: standing on my head, unravelling the world’s biggest jumper, leading the dawn sing-along with Rustie the Caribbean Cook. Something’s gone wrong somewhere.

Went to lunch with Roger Levitt at Devonshire House, 1 Devonshire Street, round the back of the BBC. It was all very smooth and indulgent. I was there to follow through his promise of £50,000 for the appeal. By the time we got to the coffee it was clear it wasn’t going to be forthcoming. Instead: ‘Now, Gyles, what you should be doing is letting us look after all your insurance and pension and investment business – and introduce us to your show business friends. Give us the names and addresses, bring ’em in, bring ’em to lunch, that sort of thing. You’ll be doing them a favour – and you’ll get commission – good commission – you can give it to the charity, keep it for yourself, that’s up to you.’

He combines the look of a Mexican bandit with the manners of a North Finchley wide-boy. After lunch he took my arm and escorted me down the stairs and into the street. His Roller was waiting, purring, at the door, chauffeur at the wheel.

‘Hop in, Gyles, hop in, it’s yours – wherever you want to go.’

‘I’m only going to the Underground.’

‘It’s yours, Gyles – get in, get in.’

He positively pushed me into the back seat and slammed the door and stood waving cheerily on the pavement as the car drove off. We turned the corner and I asked the driver to drop me at Great Portland Street tube.

The Canadian saviour flew in and flew out. No go. It’s all over. I’m now on the train to Cambridge for a meeting at Bidwells in Trumpington where we are gathering to discuss the timetable and detail of the liquidation. If the bank had allowed us up to £1.5 million, with Richard’s guarantee, we would have had the rest of the year to find a purchaser. The banks are bastards. Always have been. Always will be.

A bleak week. Late on Wednesday afternoon I saw the staff at Royal Britain one by one and told them the news. I did it as well as I could and stayed pretty steady until I got to the last of them who was so decent about it that I couldn’t quite stop the tears welling and the lump in the throat. It was a good idea: we just got it wrong. The liquidators arrived on Friday morning, full of the jolly banter of the professional mortician. And last night we had a late consolation supper with Simon [Cadell] and Stevie and Jo. Jo was wonderful: ‘Tchah! bah! baff! piff-paff! Away with despair, to hell with woe!’

I am on the sleeper to Liverpool at the end of a funny, thought-provoking day. It began at TV-am where I’m doing Sundays as Ann Diamond’s side-kick. Norman St John-Stevas
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arrived as a complete self-parody: hooded eyes, luminous nose, teasing mouth.

‘Gyles is very charming, isn’t he?’ he murmured to Anne.

‘Yes,’ said Anne.

‘Exactly.’ Norman closed his eyes. ‘That’s why you mustn’t trust him. Charming people are never to be trusted.’

Edward Fox
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and David Owen
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were the main guests. We invited them to taste-test the new range of British Rail sandwiches designed by Clement Freud
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and then turned
to the overnight news: the sad death of Rex Harrison.
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Because Edward had recently been appearing with Sir Rex in
The Admirable Crichton
, Anne looked to him for some appropriate actor-laddie reminiscences. The poor girl didn’t get far.

Anne: Did you know Rex Harrison?

Edward: Yes.

Anne: Did you like him?

Edward: Yes. Ver’ much.

Anne: What was he like?

Edward: Erm … er … a genius.

Anne: What kind of genius?

Edward: (pause) A genius.

Anne: But how did the genius manifest itself?

Edward: (pause) Either the sun shines. Or it doesn’t.

Anne: He was very much a stage actor?

Edward: Yes.

Anne: And films?

Edward: Yes.

Afterwards, I joined David Owen for breakfast in the canteen. He was going on to meet up with his SDP colleagues to decide whether or not to disband their party in the wake of their dismal showing in the Bootle by-election. He said that while his party might now be dismissed as a joke, he believes that he personally still has credibility.
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He quoted a couple of opinion polls showing that the public would rather have him as Prime Minister than either Margaret Thatcher
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or Neil Kinnock.
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He prophesied that the general election will be very close, with Thatcher the victor by a narrow margin (‘They vote for her hating her because they know where she stands’) and his hope is that in the run-up to the election the polls will show it to be so close that Kinnock will turn to him to deliver key votes in key marginals. He says he will stand out for a few concessions – the Scottish Assembly, proportional representation in the Euroelections – and in the event of a narrow Labour victory he can see himself as a possible Foreign Secretary. ‘It can’t be Kaufman.
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Kinnock would do better to bring Healey
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out of retirement for a couple of years.’ He isn’t bothered that Kinnock’s no intellectual titan. ‘He’ll manage the party and the civil servants can run the country.’ I hoovered up the bacon and baked beans. He ate a single orange and then went out into the forecourt where half of Fleet Street seemed to be waiting to photograph him. It was an exciting conversation and it’s left me thinking: if I don’t stand in this election, I’m going to have to wait another five years. Go for it, boy.