Supper with Anne Maxwell14 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.’
WEDNESDAY 9 MAY 1990
At Royal Britain our overdraft has topped the million mark and is being extended little by little (guaranteed by Richard)15 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,16 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.17
THURSDAY 10 MAY 1990
TV-am. On air at 6.10 a.m. At 7.30 a.m. breakfast at the RAC with decent, generous Christopher Laing,18 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.’
SUNDAY 13 MAY 1990
Took Benet19 to see Charles Dance as a wonderful Coriolanus at the RSC yesterday: power politics and a fickle public. Glorious.
Today at TV-am: Brian Sewell20 (very queeny), Anthony Burgess21 (getting frail) and Tony Holden22 (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.’
TUESDAY 15 MAY 1990
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.’
THURSDAY 17 MAY 1990
I’m writing this on the train to Truro with Michèle.23 We’re off for three days’ civilised filming: Trewithian, Glendurgan, Mount Edgcumbe.24 There’s an hilarious picture of John Selwyn Gummer25 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.26
TUESDAY 22 MAY 1990
Breakfast with Richard Harris,27 lunch with Wayne Sleep,28 late supper with Jo and Stevie.29 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.
WEDNESDAY 23 MAY 1990
The word from Bucharest: ‘Mrs Edwina Currie,30 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”!’
BANK HOLIDAY MONDAY, 28 MAY 1990
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.
TUESDAY 29 MAY 1990
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.
WEDNESDAY 30 MAY 1990
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.
SATURDAY 2 JUNE 1990
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 wit
h Simon [Cadell] and Stevie and Jo. Jo was wonderful: ‘Tchah! bah! baff! piff-paff! Away with despair, to hell with woe!’
SUNDAY 3 JUNE 1990
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-Stevas31 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 Fox32 and David Owen33 were the main guests. We invited them to taste-test the new range of British Rail sandwiches designed by Clement Freud34 and then turned to the overnight news: the sad death of Rex Harrison.35 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.36 He quoted a couple of opinion polls showing that the public would rather have him as Prime Minister than either Margaret Thatcher37 or Neil Kinnock.38 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.39 Kinnock would do better to bring Healey40 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.
MONDAY 4 JUNE 1990
David Owen hogs the headlines: ‘Decade of hope ends in humiliation … Owen’s odyssey from giddy heights to political failure … Owen – the great might-have-been.’ SDP RIP. What does David Sainsbury41 do with his money now?
Up on the Wirral we have a good day. It’s the opening of the Inner City Village Hall. HRH is very mellow. The only problem is the weather. As we await the royal arrival, the wind blows and the hapless ladies in the line-up battle to keep their hats on and their skirts down. Inevitably, as it lands, Prince Philip’s helicopter makes matters worse and most of the bobbing up and down, the curtseying and the handshaking, is done with left hands on head and skirts bunched and held steady between knocked-knees.
SUNDAY 10 JUNE 1990
The failure of Royal Britain is the lead story in the Mail on Sunday financial section:
Unicorn Heritage, the brainchild of TV presenter Gyles Brandreth, has folded. The company, which raised over £7 million to stage a permanent exhibition of the monarchy at London’s Barbican Centre, is to go into voluntary liquidation … Unicorn was sponsored by BES specialists Johnson Fry. ‘I told investors from Day One that the company would either make you a fortune or lose all your money,’ said chairman Charles Fry.
The truth is the idea was okay, but the product wasn’t quite right, the initial management wasn’t quite right, the marketing was off-target and the location was a disaster. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.
MONDAY 25 JUNE 1990
On Friday I was at the Connaught Rooms for the Unicorn Heritage Creditors Meeting – a humiliation and a nightmare. On Saturday I was back at the Connaught Rooms presiding over the National Scrabble Championship Finals! I am described on the front page of today’s Times as ‘the high priest of trivia’. Michèle says, ‘If your claim to fame is that you founded the Scrabble Championships and you go on wearing those silly jumpers, what do you expect? People will take you not for what you are, but for what they see. That’s life.’ Bah.
Long letter from Windsor Castle. HRH has been brooding about the Inner City Village Hall:
I think it should be possible to refine the design with a view to reducing costs still further. For instance, there is a lot of wasted space above the changing room and office area. It might be worth looking at the idea of putting the changing rooms etc. area outside the main hall as a ‘lean-to’. The ‘lean-to’ could then be fitted on to the hall in the most convenient place. This would also add some flexibility to the design by adding it either at one end or along one side or the other…
We go to Wimbledon, the royal box. It’s a treat and lovely to be asked etc., but we mustn’t accept again. The lunch is jolly (ish), but the tennis is wasted on me. I have not the least idea what is going on.
FRIDAY 13 JULY 1990
The hottest day of the year finds us filming in the glorious garden of Hadspen House. Tomorrow, Stourton. Sunday, Stourhead. Also feeling the heat is Nicholas Ridley42 who looks set to be booted out of the Cabinet having given an interview to The Spectator in which he declares that Germany is trying to take over Europe…
MONDAY 20 AUGUST 1990
As the world prepares for war, the Brandreths prepare for Italy. President Bush is planning a lightning strike against Iraq as Saddam Hussein rounds up Americans, Britons, French and Germans in Kuwait. In Barnes we pack our bags because tomorrow we’re off on a lightning trip of our own – to Verona in Colin and Rosie Sanders’ private jet. It’s all right for some … It’s all right for us. This is typical of Colin: after the Royal Britain collapse he called and said, ‘You need cheering up. Let’s go to the opera.’ And so we are.
WEDNESDAY 22 AUGUST 1990
The Arena di Verona is amazing: a vast, outdoor amphitheatre, the third largest in the Roman world, seating 20,000 and more. Since AD 30 it’s seen Christians thrown to the lions, gladiatorial combat, bullfights, public executions, but tonight, for us, it was Tosca. We sat in the best seats in the house (of course), slim flutes of champagne in hand (naturally), surrounded by exhausted victims of corporate hospitality. Next to us, bewildered Japanese; immediately in front, a group who had started the day in Ohio and were fast asleep (all eight of them) way before the end of Act One. Even better than the show (a Philistine speaks!) was the post-Puccini supper – a late-night cold collation back at the hotel: antipasto di frutti di mare, wafer-thin carpaccio with rocket salad and parmesan, washed down with buckets of chilled Prosecco. As a rule I subscribe to the Noel Coward line that ‘work is more fun than fun’, but once in a while the soft life can be very sweet.
FRIDAY 24 AUGUST 1990
Wednesday night was sensational: the show rivalled the midnight feast! It was Zorba the Greek. At first, Colin was disconcerted to find it was a ballet, not an opera, but it was so fantastic, and such a surprise, such an unexpected treat, we were all bowled over. Essentially it was the ballet of the movie, with the Mikis Theodorakis score and Mikis in person on t
he podium! It was a life-enhancing triumph, my best ever night at the opera.
Yesterday was pretty good too. We flew to Venice for lunch. Colin hadn’t realised it was only down the road, so we’d hardly taken off before we landed. And in the evening we were back at the Arena for the Verona standard, Aida, through most of which Colin kept muttering ‘Where are the elephants? Where are the elephants? It isn’t a proper Aida without elephants.’
At the airport this morning it’s back to reality. We buy newspapers (‘Angry Bush takes a step closer to war’, ‘40,000 reserve forces called up by US’) and, now we’ve been part of it for seventy-two hours, notice that the private-jet-set get a tangibly mixed reception. We’re whisked past the bucket-shop hoi polloi, to be sure, but our passage through customs and passport control isn’t so smooth: there’s a fair bit of that just-because-you’re-filthy-rich-don’t-think-you’re-getting-any-special-treatment-from-me atmosphere in the air.
THURSDAY 30 AUGUST 1990
This may be the day that changes my life. I hope so.
Breaking the Code Page 2