Posted on 03/01/2003 11:26:47 PM PST by Dont Mention the War
My first acquaintance with war - and a very distant one at that - was as a young and very green assistant editor at the start of the Falklands conflict. The night the news came that British troops had landed and recaptured South Georgia, I was in charge of the Daily Mirror.
A month later, when the Sheffield went down, I was again editing the paper. In the weeks between, more than 400 young men had died. That poor mothers' sons, on whoever's side, were losing their lives over a godforsaken bit of land privately appalled me. But it seemed impolite to say so.
The then prime minister, no doubt after a couple of stiff whiskies, had ordered the country to "rejoice" at our superior strength and it dutifully did. National pride was at stake.
As the campaign raged on, an older generation of male executives at our morning conferences would lean on imaginary mantelpieces, excitedly bombing Dresden all over again, and talk enthusiastically about the wonder of Exocet missiles. I, the only female, feebly kept quiet.
When victory finally arrived, Mrs Thatcher, in crude political terms, had hit the jackpot. The country could not have been more united. It took a while for attitudes to change. The post-war thanksgiving service in Westminster Abbey where many of the injured victims of war were stuck in their wheelchairs, hidden behind pillars away from the cameras, was one milestone.
Archbishop Runcie, with a distinguished war record himself, wished to pray for the dead of both sides. The prime minister was furious.
Fast forward to today and who would know what to think? Those of us who feel inadequate about making a sound judgment alone and who would hope to look to normally reliable guides are left without a peg on which to hang our hats.
William Hague is in bed with Tony Blair, alongside Ann Clwyd, the member for Cynon Valley, who is standing up for the Kurds. While Ken Clarke, for the antis, is holding hands with Chris Smith.
A friend who secretly hangs on to his youthful university communist ideals suggests the neat solution is for Blair and Clarke to swap parties. Thus giving the Tories an acceptable leader and the Labour Party someone they can identify with.
Meanwhile, your new columnist, who these days is mostly of the Harvey Nichols tendency, thinks she might attend next month's Television Baftas in a T-shirt boldly emblazoned "I just don't know".
A last nostalgic visit to the Savoy Grill before it goes the way of all decent restaurants. It's now closed for a makeover and please may God save it from lemon grass and coriander and a supercilious maître d' demanding you choose your pudding before you've sat down.
The Savoy is where my mother took me to celebrate my 21st birthday. (Northern middle-class parents felt safest in decent hotels.) I once lunched there with the headmaster of Downside, Dom Antony Sutch - he who, delightfully, always seems to have last night's dinner down the front of his habit - only to have Richard Desmond, that friendly newspaper proprietor and publisher of Asian Babes, stop by to say hello.
This time I went with the beautiful deputy editor of this newspaper. Sitting in a prime banquette, the whole experience was, as usual, like travelling in an old-fashioned, exquisitely furnished ocean-going liner. Lots of recognisable captains of industry surrounded us but, refreshingly, not a single thin actress. In fact the only other women in the place were a couple of jolly, walnut-faced, old trouts.
Across the horizon I spotted the Tory member for Hexham and sent over a note. His card back said he was "plotting with six Tory whips". On our way out, the BDE and I regally paused at their table (mid-room, not good).
Up close, the depressing sight of half a dozen overweight fiftysomethings, all looking pleased with themselves, spelt out the fundamental problem of the Tory party. There is absolutely nobody in it you'd want to sleep with.
Later the BDE and I revised this. We decided two MPs in the party would pass muster. A third Tory politician - no longer an MP but still active - would rate a dinner. A pity, really - he's gone to fat.
Any woman who wishes to keep ahead in the fashion stakes has spent the past fortnight haring round Sloane Street and Bond Street grabbing her size from the new summer collections before it's too late. (As Will, in the American sitcom Will and Grace, says of day one of the Barneys' spring sale in New York: "Imagine the first 25 minutes of Saving Private Ryan.") At Giorgio Armani, Greetje, the elegant middle-aged saleswoman, is positively glowing.
A visit to the store by Mr and Mrs Dustin Hoffman is the cause of her joy. Not for the first time the diminutive Mr Hoffman has passed by while tenderly whispering "Why are you so sexy?". Nice one, Dusty. Pity you're not a Tory MP.
I'd hoped to avoid the subject of Carole Caplin. But that leather coat with the shaggy sheepskin fur inside makes it impossible. I bought an identical one days before Ms Caplin was first featured on the front page of The Daily Telegraph wearing hers. Naturally, at roughly the speed of Concorde, I passed mine on to the daughter in New York, shamefully allowing her to thank me for my generosity.
Emma reports that the first time she wore it a woman who was getting off the subway at 34th Street hit her. Another hissed and spat at the exit on 57th.
The daughter is unsure if this is an anti-fur issue - or because "I look like some rich bitch."
Either way how do I tell her that not only has creepy Carole got one but also, judging by a picture in Thursday's Telegraph, so has Cherie. Or is the toe-curling truth even worse and the pair are now sharing clothes?
I can see Edina scratching this out at the computer keyboard with her outrageous nails while screeching something insulting at Saffy, and Patsy dictatng the bits about the coat as she chain-smokes.
Well, I thought the first section was interesting. I lost interest around the time she started talking about the Savoy Grill. Then she started going on about Asian Babes magazine and I got a little *more* interested...then I got to the part about sleeping with fiftysomething Tories and I lost interest...
I read it twice and found no mention of the up-coming conflict.
She's all-over the road like a run-away manure wagon.
It fits Dowd, Goodman or Ivins to a tee.
I guess this is how women all over the world must think when they have an excess amount of estrogen in their systems.
....need to sit back and keep your mouths shut. Let those of us with the ability to think and make sound judgements run the show.
In other words, she's probably fairly sure that Iraq is guilty of all charges, but she doesn't wish to support the individuals leading the war effort. She's copping out, and should be held in the same esteem as any appeaser out there.
At least I can confront the appeaser post-liberation and ask them to square their peace-loving souls with the ghastly tortures of Hussein. Anne here wishes to ensure a positive aftermath for herself: "I didn't have an opinion".
The author apparently doesn't know where she stands, but is infinitely superior to everyone older that her. Also infinitely superior to us mere, uppity colonials.
Typical parasite on civilization.
"U.K. Dowd Clone Alert"
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.