David Conway's Blog, page 4

Marc Bolan’s shrine

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I have often driven past Marc Bolan’s shrine in Roehampton. It marks the spot where he died in a car crash in 1977, aged 29.

This time I stopped to take a look. Extraordinary how the love for him has not died.

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Lady Gas Man!

Worried about the gender of your gas fitter?

Then your problems have been solved.

 

Why cows don’t write operas

Food and wine have always struck me, at their best, as art forms – things that make life more civilised, more valuable. They turn the process of storing energy from a chore into a delight.

I discovered quite recently, that the invention of cookery may be the principal reason why man was able to develop a brain large enough to invent things.

In most animals, the gut needs a lot of energy to grind out nourishment from food sources. Bovines have to spend all the daylight hours grazing, so you don’t often hear about cows writing operas or building cathedrals. But cooking, by breaking down fibres and making nutrients more readily available, is a way of processing food outside the body. Eating cooked meals would have lessened the energy needs of our digestion systems, thereby freeing up calories for our brains.

I always suspected the raw food movement had it wrong!

There is a downside however; scientists wonder if our cognitive spurt happened too fast. Some of our most common mental health problems, ranging from depression and bipolar disorder to autism and schizophrenia, may be by-products of the metabolic changes that happened in an evolutionary “blink of an eye.”

C’est la vie.

I think this is what they call a no-brainer.

I recently wrote a novel about an eight-two year old businessman beginning to lose his grip on a global business empire.

Rupert Murdoch’s forthcoming divorce from a woman thirty-eight years his junior seems to chime with my choice of eighty two.

Two days ago I saw this headline in the Daily Telegraph: “Who will win Tony Blair’s faith as Rupert Murdoch divorces Wendi?” I think this is what they call a no-brainer.

Sex Class and Power in the Age of Profumo

The 1963 Profumo affair is often described as Britain’s ‘worst’ political scandal, a turning point in the nation’s sexual mores, and a precursor of the swinging sixties. None of those assertions really hold up: the Jeremy Thorpe trial of 1979 was profoundly more serious, and attitudes to sex had been changing since 1960, when an Old Bailey jury decided that D H Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover was not obscene.

Nonetheless, Profumo holds a special place in the British psyche: a unique cocktail of stately homes, swimming pools, politicians, spies, tarts and orgies. The fiftieth anniversary has prompted a new analysis by Richard Davenport-Hines: An English Affair, Sex Class and Power in the Age of Profumo.

In the opening pages the author recalls his father driving up Park Lane in a black Alvis with the hood down, stopping at the then new Hilton Hotel, and announcing with pride that another hotel was planned next door. In this thumbnail sketch we see how the boy’s reactions to the age were formed. His father was one of a breed who loved modern architecture, fast cars, leggy mistresses and the brash new showiness of the times. Today, the dated and unlovely Hilton still dominates Park Lane and reminds us of a different era.

Davenport-Hines meticulously sets the scene for his story, pointing out that it was a relaxation in planning laws by Macmillan’s government which not only scarred the London skyline but created a new breed of millionaire speculators. At the same time, dilapidated Victorian terraces were being rented to the poor by slum landlords like Rachman, who kept Mandy Rice-Davies as his mistress.

The author plots, in detail, the many strands of English history which led to that fateful meeting by the Cliveden swimming pool. They include a patrician, grouse shooting prime minister who ran his cabinet as if it were a gentlemen’s club in St James; a vindictive press baron who detested the Astor family and an ambitious Labour leader keen to undermine a government already weakened by spy scandals.

Into this high octane mix blundered society osteopath Stephen Ward; a swinger who liked introducing pretty young girls to his wealthy and powerful friends. He was charming, garrulous and wildly indiscreet. It is Ward, more than anyone else, who will be the victim; and his indiscretion will cost him his life. We now know, beyond any doubt, that his show trial was a sham; the police intimidated witnesses and fabricated evidence. Ward was not a pimp, and Keeler and Rice-Davies were not prostitutes. They were all promiscuous, and the girls accepted money and gifts from their lovers, but they did not sell sex. For Ward, the final and unbearable blow was the desertion of his friends and he committed suicide the night before his trial ended.

Today, the high jinks at Cliveden would barely raise an eyebrow. The Cold War is over; we have lived through worse scandals and now hold our politicians in low regard. Keeler and Rice-Davies would be reality television stars with their own brands of perfume, and Ward would have written a best-selling autobiography. Britain however, was a very different place in 1963.

The author combines impeccable research with delightful style; his prose is beautifully crafted and richly articulated. I cannot remember the last time I saw the word frottage in any book, but I enjoyed being reminded of it and did not begrudge my occasional trips to the dictionary. This is English political and social history at its best, unmissable!

Swivel-eyed loons…

 

 

While Conservative grandees may complain of ‘swivel-eyed loons’ at local party level, they should be relieved they no longer hold high office.

Lord Hailsham (seen above) almost became Prime Minister in 1963, and served for more than a decade in the office formerly held by his father, that of Lord Chancellor.

In June 1963 when his fellow Minister John Profumo had to resign after admitting telling lies to Parliament about his private life, Lord Hailsham attacked him savagely on television. Sir Reginald Paget called this “a virtuoso performance of the art of kicking a friend in the guts”. He added, “When self-indulgence has reduced a man to the shape of Lord Hailsham, sexual continence involves no more than a sense of the ridiculous”

The final letter of Virginia Woolf…

I recently came across this heart rending letter which Virginia Woolf wrote to her husband Leonard before committing suicide. It’s almost unbearably poignant. Bipolar Disorder, which she suffered from, still ruins lives and sometimes takes them.

“I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier ’til this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.”

Virginia Woolf by Roger Fry c. 1917

40 Miles on The Tideway: London Rowing Club’s Sponsored Row…

As I walk down Putney Embankment at 6.15 am, I am pleased to see that we have perfect weather: bright sun from a cloudless sky, and almost no wind. There is a fast stream from recent rain, but calm water. The first of several worries quickly evaporates.

In the Long Room I join my fellow rowers for coffee and a safety briefing. Ben Helm emphasises the need to get away quickly. It’s essential we avoid catamarans and other heavy craft; so we need to get in and out of the basin before it gets busy. Because of bridge repairs we need radio clearance too. Casamajor, with Mike Baldwin and Jeremy Hudson on board, will be our safety launch.

There is a short delay while one crew collects a borrowed boat from Barn Elms, and then we are away. The river is glorious in the bright sunlight and we make fast progress on the ebb tide. In no time at all we are passing the Houses of Parliament. The early morning light has turned the stone to gold and eyes are drawn until we pass under Westminster Bridge.

HMS Belfast quickly appears, marking our turning point. Now the fast stream is against us and we make slower progress to Vauxhall, where we stop for coffee. In Starbucks we join clubbers and Bayern Munich supporters who have only just ended their revels. We form an odd contrast in our rowing kit. Some bizarre photographs are taken!

Returning to our boats we find that the tide, thanks to recent rain, has stubbornly refused to turn and we have to punch it all the way back to Putney. This is a long tiring row and Putney Bridge is a welcome sight when we finally pass back under it.

Now we have lunch at the Club and a welcome rest before the afternoon session. David and Daniel have organised generous portions of Lasagne, after which we rest and a few of us catnap.

The weather remains fine in the afternoon but a fresh breeze has come up. The water is choppy as far as Hammersmith Bridge and we have to stop frequently because of wash from cruisers. Nevertheless the pace is good and we are soon beyond Barnes and into the less familiar water above Kew Bridge. We are back into calm water now and make good progress on the flood tide. The banks of the Thames are solid with Bank Holiday celebrants, the pubs are full and we get occasional cheers from bystanders. By Richmond we are beginning to tire and, once again, an unfriendly tide decides to make our lives difficult and turn early. Teddington Lock is a welcome sight when we finally reach it, and we unanimously decide to stop at Twickenham Rowing Club on our return.

This club has been extensively renovated since I was last there, and the new Club Room bar is delightful. We sink into comfortable chairs and try not to think about the last ten miles. We are a weary crew when we finally boat again, but fortunately both wind and tide are now on our side. Our cox tries to lift our spirits, reminding us to sit tall, but shoulders are starting to sag a little now. Halfway home our bowman suffers a broken rigger, and has to be taken onto the safety launch. We are down to seven for the final stretch and we are all beginning to feel the pain. Barn Elms Boat House, when we finally put our boat onto its rack, has never looked so welcoming.

Back to LRC for a barbecue and celebrations. Despite blisters and sore backsides, it has been a great day!

How important is the first page of a book?

Self-evidently, the opening  is crucial, few of us buy a book without reading at least the first page.

I have just begun The Hundred Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared.

Far too early to say if I’m going to enjoy it, but the opening page is brilliant:

“You might think he could have made up his mind earlier, and been man enough to tell the others of his decision. But Allan Karlsson had never been given to pondering things too long. So the idea had barely taken hold in the old man’s head before he opened the window of his room on the ground floor of the Old People’s Home in the town of Malmköping, and stepped out – into the flowerbed. This manoeuvre required a bit of effort, since Allan was one hundred years old. On this very day in fact. There was less than an hour to go before his birthday party would begin in the lounge of the Old People’s Home. The mayor would be there. And the local paper. And all the other old people. And the entire staff, led by bad-tempered Director Alice. It was only the Birthday Boy himself who didn’t intend to turn up.”

Everything you could want: intriguing, original and bizarre!

Sally Bercow’s Lord McAlpine tweet was libel

 

Sally Bercow won’t apologise

A tweet by Sally Bercow about Lord McAlpine has been ruled libellous by the High Court.

Mrs Bercow said she was “surprised and disappointed” by the ruling. She must be the only one who is.

A few weeks ago I blogged this:

“Sally Bercow refuses to apologise and make a token payment to charity for having Tweeted about Lord McAlpine.

The High Court has been told that “Only a moron in a hurry” would not have understood that an allegedly libellous tweet posted by her implied that Lord McAlpine was a paedophile.

What is wrong with apologising when you’ve clearly given such deep offence?

Why does it always seem to be pride that brings down those who wish to rule us? (Ms Bercow wants to become a Labour MP, her husband is the Conservative Speaker of the House of Commons).

Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad.”