Diary

Spectator, The, Oct 21, 2000 by Heald, Tim

This is the first time I've been commissinned to do something by a member of the Johnson family since Boris's father, Stanley, asked me to write an attack on the fagging system for our school magazine more than 40 years ago. I wouldn't claim that the Shirburnian was at the cutting edge of the new journalism, but fagging was abolished soon afterwards and I have had a healthy respect for the power of the pen ever since. Stanley was head boy of Sherborne at the time, as well as editor of the magazine and general all-round `blood'. However, I never felt his heart was altogether in it, and he was more suited to being a member of the awkward squad and a closet subversive. I seem to remember that according to some arcane rule of the day I was about to be beaten if I didn't get an immediate signature on my `fag-chit'. The easiest way to do this was to go to the great man and say, `Please, Johnson, may I clean your rugger boots?' He was so amazed and appalled at my explanation that he commissioned me to write a cheeky article on the spot. He also signed my chit without even letting me clean his boots.

I seem to have been doing a lot of memory-lane stuff recently and found myself going through more 40-years-on nostalgia at Balliol the other day when 200 friends dined out Maurice Keen into retirement. They don't make dons like Maurice any more. One of his several unique qualities was his forbearance. We must have given him a hard time in his early years. At the end of one Michaelmas term, several of us failed to complete our weekly essays, so we turned up for our tutorials bearing champagne instead. This happened at nine, ten and 11 a.m., and the champagne was duly consumed. Then at noon a tutorial trio arrived with no champagne but three long essays on obscure aspects of Bishop Stubbs instead - an imposition which Maurice took, smiling, on the chin. Another time a friend was unable to climb into college late (mess-kit trousers too tight) and had to be assisted by PC94, patrolling the Broad. We invited the policeman in, and an hour or so later, as dawn's rosy fingers pierced the night, three of us asked if he would care to join us in a round of golf. He declined, saying that he had to check whether there had been a break-in at Woolworth's. Maurice had no known interest in golf but we persuaded PC94 to put on his helmet and go to his room, shine his official torch on the sleeping don, and say, `Dr Keen, I have one or two of your young men down at the station in a spot of trouble; would you please come and bail them out?' When he emerged, blinking in his striped pyjamas, Maurice didn't seem frightfully amused, but he still appeared to forgive us. I felt much the same about his farewell dinner. He didn't seem entirely happy about the fuss, but gave the impression he wouldn't hold it against us.

Living as I do in Cornwall I regularly take long train journeys. This is a risky business, though over the last few months the trains have been gratifyingly punctual. However, the sandwich situation is giving me cause for concern. On the 10.03 First Great Western from Paddington last Monday the buffet was sandwichless by Exeter. A rumour swept the train that more bread would be taken on at Plymouth but this turned out to be false. The first-class coaches now boast seductive menus advertising all sorts of state-of-the-art sarnies but by the time we had reached Dawlish an embarrassed-looking girl in First Great Western uniform began confiscating them. If the menus had remained on the tables, we could presumably have sued the company under a false pretences clause in the Passengers' Charter. On a recent Newport-- bound Wales and West train the friendly man in charge of the trolley brought me a coffee near Bodmin Parkway (Bodmin Road to traditionalists) and asked if I'd like a round of cheese and tomato. I declined. `I think it's your last chance,' he said. `It's the only sandwich on board until Newton Abbot.'

The novelist Leo Walmsley (1892-1966) wrote several books set around Robin Hood's Bay in Yorkshire, but he also lived down here for two periods in his life, and the thriving Leo Walmsley Society is coming to Fowey for a pilgrimage at the weekend. He may no longer be a household name but having his own society is surely more than compensation for not being part of the national curriculum. Apart from the books, Walmsley was also famous in his day as the inventor of a collapsible lobster pot. A society member called Trevor Rogers has been researching this and, according to the newsletter: `What he has found out is very intriguing and he has offered to tell us the final chapter in this story when we meet in Fowey.' I'm really envious. Writing books is one thing, having a society named after you is another, but patenting a collapsible lobster pot. . . .

Since moving West of the Tamar five years ago I never cease to be amazed by the Cornishness of the Cornish. What other county in Britain could fill the Royal Albert Hall and supply a 700-strong male-voice choir for a concert, as the Cornish did last weekend? Essex? The Youth Band from the Lizard village of St Keverne, holders of the BBC national title, were performing as well. I thought the final rendering of `Trelawny' rivalled `Rule Britannia' or even `Jerusalem' at the Proms: