In view of recent happenings I had
expected much from my next book “Lusty Ladies”. Alas it will never see the
light of day. My publisher has become yet another victim of the fine mess that
Cameron and his chancellor, the Laurel and Hardy of our day, have got us into.
I wrote it to show the Upper Classes
did more to popularise adultery as an indoor sport than any other class, except
perhaps the America military. Generals Allen and Petraeus certainly deserved
the sack for losing wars but for sexual indulgence?
They, or more likely their ladies, can
turn it to advantage. Ms Currie's unlikely affair with John Major earned more
money for her kiss and sell memoirs (£500,000) than ever did Harriet Wilson, who earned a
comparative pittance from threatening the peerage with her memoirs when the
Duke of Wellington told her to publish and be damned.
You don't get many faithful husbands
to the pound in Number 10 Downing Street. Churchill, according to son Randolph,
slept with Ivor Novello at Leeds castle, an event he later described as
musical; Lloyd George slept with practically anyone; Asquith was, according to
a recent biography, a notorious groper and besotted with Venetia Stanley. Gladstone crept eerily round gas-lit London seeking street girls to save; Palmerston
drove naked women in silken harness round the Cabinet Room; the Duke of
Wellington cruelly abandoned his wife and numbered Napoleon’s widow amongst his
harem. It is comforting that Douglas Home was far too fond of fishing to
indulge. Even Lady Thatcher had her Willie.
American Presidents were even more
vigorous. One, Jefferson, begat children on his black slaves; another was
addicted to sex in a White House cupboard. We recall Kennedy’s energy with awe,
Clinton’s with distaste and even Eisenhower was an unlikely Romeo.
An American friend Jerry Jasper, who
has some expertise, enters a caveat:
“Genetic evidence indicates that SOME
of Sally Hemmings’s children were fathered by some male in the Jefferson
family, not necessarily by Jefferson. DNA research has shown that at least one
of the children was not related to the Jeffersons. Jefferson had male cousins
who visited Montecello frequently, and they were not noted for having any
respect for the rights of female slaves…There were a lot of rumors about this
relationship during his lifetime. A number of European visitors to Montecello
were startled by the appearance of several young red-headed male ‘house
servants’ who seemed white to them, and who strongly resembled Jefferson."
Power
is plainly an aphrodisiac and monarchs, as research for the book has shown me,
were even more promiscuous than prime ministers and presidents. Not for nothing was Edward VII known as Edward
the Caresser and his dreadful namesake the Abdicated Eighth was not only a traitor
to his country; he collected women with an enthusiasm which meant that no
expenses were spared save that of taste.
Significantly none of these facts were
known outside the participants’ circle and no-one felt they were doing anything
wrong. Nowadays The Media is our Monarch and, however promiscuous its component
parts, it is a Puritan. Its power, like Cromwell’s who abolished Christmas, is
awesome. It can censure Crowns and make
Princes apologise. The Royal Family, like politicians, is terrified of it. The
Media can alter legislation, cast powerful men from office at the drop of a
whim. Like the Fat Boy in Pickwick Papers, The Media “wants to make yer flesh
creep, missis.”
Which is why Mrs Currie, unlike the
Paramours of Power who preceded her, has altered history. Not by her actions,
however vigorous, but by her timing.
Mr Major, according to the polls the
least popular PM in history whose greatest gift to civilisation was thinking
up the Lottery and a traffic cones Hotline, rose without trace from the Treasury, to
the Foreign Office and finally to Number 10. If only she had told us then about
the blue underpants how different everything would have been.
In the Gulf War Major was silent when US soldiers used earth moving
equipment to bury alive 1,500 Iraqi conscripts in their trenches. Nor did he
protest at the turkey shoot of thousands of Iraqi soldiers of the most timid
army in recent military history as they fled home.
He was complicit when Bush the Elder shirked
the ultimate test and left Saddam on his throne. Major also colluded in the
shameful episode when, having encouraged the Kurds to rise against their tyrant, they were abandoned to their grisly fate. It is beyond question that because of
the elder Bush and Major we are now gradually returning the East to desert.
OH DEAR, IT’S THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY
I yield to none in my admiration of
Bing Crosby but the Pope and I are dreading a white Christmas. He is against the
whole shebang and one with Cromwell who banned it.
The Pope has written a biography of
Jesus which might seem presumptuous. In it he has a go at nativity scenes –
there were no animals in the stables and no Angels sing. They talked their
announcement that Christ was born and it’s the fault of people who insisted
they sang to the shepherds that we are now plagued with carol singers.
Curiously he is silent about Santa Claus in whom I firmly believe but the Virgin
birth gets the thumbs up. Well he’d have to say that, wouldn’t
he? Cost a fortune to whitewash the Sistine Chapel.
According to that font of learning
“The Fenland Citizen”, it is all down to the Mesopotamians:
“Many of these traditions began with
the Mesopotamian celebration of New Year.
Each year as winter arrived, it was believed that chief god Marduk would
do battle with the monsters of chaos.
“To assist Marduk in his struggle, the
Mesopotamians held Zagmuk, the New Year’s festival that lasted for 12 days.”
I am very fond of God and dislike the
way It has been bad mouthed by successive religions down the ages. I merely
say that if a white Christmas is anything like the ones I used to know and only
dimly remember, I will be queuing up to avoid it. I will go further. I am
dreading a white Christmas with every Christmas card the Ferret writes. I even have a
woolly hat, the gift of the lady in our chip shop, which I wear for Christmas shopping. It is black with a
white slogan which reads “Bah Humbug”. It commemorates the fact that I formed
the SAS – The Scrooge Appreciation Society.
If it's what grabs you, may your days
be merry and bright. Me? I’ll settle for 'flu. Christmas is when you cannot get
near a bar for teetotallers swigging Tia Maria and Baileys shandies, singing and
getting drunks a bad name.
It is when you encourage children to
believe an old man is going to climb down the chimney and invade their bedrooms
when you have spent the year warning them to have nothing to do with strangers.
It is when the TV screens are laden
with menacing prophecies about the massacres you will cause if you so much as stand
next to a sherry bottle. Yet you leave out sherry by the gallon for a drunken
old driver of six reindeer whose red
noses show they prefer their corn in liquid form.
My hero the Daily Mirror columnist
Cassandra was particularly exercised by what he called the Christmas Card
Artillery. I had a friend who sent all his cards out on December 1 to make sure
everyone sent him one back. My bêtes noires are the ones who time their cards to
arrive on Christmas Eve when it is too late to send one back.
My favourite Christmas story is about the
late news editor of The Guardian Harry Whewell, whose son Tim is the only real
reporter on Newsnight.
Harry kept a canary in his office and
naturally took it home for the festive season when the office was unattended. As he was leaving the newsroom an
impish copy boy asked: “Where you going with that, sir?” “I am taking it home for Christmas,” Harry
explained. “Oh are you? We’re having turkey.”
If you are looking for a superb Christmas gift I do commend "Figures of Speech" by John Jensen, a brilliant cartoonist. It is a collection of 101 picturesque images. If you have ever wondered what a "passing whim" or "a flimsy excuse" or a "screaming abdab" looks like you will love this book. It brings to life through witty and imaginative illustrations the curious idioms and phrases we use every day. A lighthearted look at language which you should buy early so you have a chance to look at it before you pass it on. It will make Christmas bearable. I must send the Pope a copy.
