Readers’ Letters

The Oldie, 23–31 Great Titchfield Street, London, W1W 7PA letters@theoldie.co.uk To sign up for our e-newsletter, go to www.theoldie.co.uk

Waugh’s explosion in court

SIR: I thoroughly enjoyed AN Wilson’s memories of Auberon Waugh (March issue) and his piece reminded me of the only time I came across Waugh, which was at the committal proceedings in November 1978 against Jeremy Thorpe and three other men for conspiracy to murder the male model Noman Scott.

I was a young reporter on the Western Morning News and had gone to the committal at Minehead, with the rest of the press pack, expecting to be able to report just the bare details. We were all aghast when George Deakin, one of the accused, applied for reporting restrictions to be lifted, meaning every word could be reported.

Auberon Waugh was there to get material for his book The Last Word – about Thorpe’s full trial, which came later at the Old Bailey – and although only in his late thirties appeared to this then young hack to be already ancient.

Part way through the first day of the committal, I will never forget, Waugh lifted a cheek from the cramped press benches and let rip with a loud, rich and fruity fart. It seemed to take on a life of its own and changed in pitch and tone halfway through. All eyes were turned on him but, as one would expect, he did not bat an eyelid and simply waited for proceedings to resume. Vintage stuff! Regards, Michael Fleet, St Blazey, Cornwall

Bron’s real father

SIR: In my tribute to Auberon Waugh (March issue), I said that Goethe’s ‘There was a king in Thule’ was sung at his funeral. It was in fact ‘King of the Boeotians’ from Gluck’s Orpheus, which was Bron’s party piece.

And of course I knew his father to be not Arthur, but Evelyn Waugh!

Forgive my ‘senior moments’. Yours etc, AN Wilson, London N6

Stop background music!

SIR: Carolyn Whitehead (Rant, March issue) raises the issue of background music accompanying many television programmes.

I find it increasingly impossible to follow the spoken word on television because it is drowned out by music. Even news reports are rendered impossible for me to follow.

The rules are simple: if programmemakers want their words to be heard and understood, they must not accompany them with other sounds.

I did not complain about this when my television licence was free, but now I am paying for it, I resent the number of times I am driven to switch off mid-programme. Yours faithfully, Wally Harbert, Frome, Somerset

You dummies

SIR: It was Joseph Cooper who was the master of the dummy keyboard on Face the Music (‘Our founding father’, March issue). Joseph Connolly is a writer. Regards, Ian Payn, Fulham, London

A diehard fan since issue 1

SIR: Congrats to all at The Oldie – a cornucopia of articles on every conceivable subject for 30 years … to make you laugh, cry, rage, rant, snigger, deride, agree, disagree, grind your teeth, mentally applaud … and, finally, to mean you have passed your time (on beach or in Bath chair) enjoying yourself and looking forward to the next one.

I have taken The Oldie from issue 1 (first from curiosity at yet another magazine on the bookstalls) and was instantly recruited for ever. Characters famous/ infamous, damnable, beguiling have graced (or otherwise) its pages. Long life and more power to all Oldie elbows. Beryl Fleming, Worthing

The wrong seeds

SIR: Forgive my intruding on Rachel Johnson’s private recollections of the ‘unsung genre’ of ‘cover version’ music history (March issue), but Nick Cave’s original band was never really called his Lightning Seeds. Bad Seeds yes. But memories and music, notably certain genres, do at times take original turns together. William Keenan, Nottingham

Max Hastings’s wallet litter

SIR: In The Old Un’s Notes in the February issue you refer to the film Operation Mincemeat and the contents of the descriptively named ‘wallet litter’, which prompted your correspondent David Shacklock to provide a list of the amazing items that he found in an old tweed jacket.

The hoarding of surprising contents in pockets surely starts at a much earlier age than Mr Shacklock must have been.

In 1960, as editor of The Greyfriar magazine while at Charterhouse, I decided to invite a representative sample of boys (one from each year) to empty all their pockets in order to establish what the average Carthusian might carry around with him.

The prize for originality undoubtedly went to Max Hastings (now Sir Max, the military historian and former Editor of the Daily Telegraph.) Max’s pocket contents (which I remember vividly to this day), comprised:

Handkerchief (very used) – 1

Biros – 2

Drawing pin – 1 (stored in right-hand trouser pocket, perilously kept at crotch level!)

Russian Army colonel’s shoulder badge – 1

Collection of miniature books on tropical fish – 12

Toilet chain (high flush) – 1

I was as much impressed by the nature of Max’s pocket contents, as I was by his ability to store all those items about his

‘According to this, prehistoric man, three million years ago, stood only about four foot high’

person – especially the toilet chain, which must have been around four foot long, and sporting a rather chunky wooden handle! Yours sincerely, John Eaton, Bingley, West Yorkshire

Barbadian slips

SIR: The divine Lucinda’s piece on Barbados (March issue) was marred by a couple of errors. The captions for the illustrations of St Nicholas Abbey and Farley Hill were transposed. The former is a vibrant, well-maintained estate and business venture while the latter (the central illustration) is a neglected, majestic ruin amongst the palms.

As for Nelson’s statue in Bridgetown, this was officially removed in November 2020 – as I was proudly told by a Bridgetown Bajan, during our monthlong sojourn in Bim last November. For the record, the island’s only representation of the Admiral, that I know of, is at the entrance to the magnificent Hunte’s Gardens. Graham Leckie, Colchester, Essex

Boris’s pulling power?

SIR: I was amazed to hear Mary Killen call Boris Johnson an alpha male in her recent article (March issue). Surely a more appropriate description would be a ‘slithy tove’ or possibly ‘reptile’, seeing as how he demonstrates none of the characteristics of the Duke of Edinburgh she describes earlier in the piece. None of the women I know seems in the least bit attracted to Boris, or should I be getting out more? Yours sincerely, Rory O’Connor (retired farmer), South Devon

Archbishop’s alter ego

SIR: Maggie Cobbett’s letter (March issue) apropos the innocent amusement often afforded by AI-generated subtitles reminded me of the time, some years ago, when the BBC’s news report on Justin Welby was accompanied by the words ‘the Arch Bitch of Canterbury’. Still makes me laugh! Yours, Tony Purcell, Sheffield

Let’s not talk about sex

SIR: The letter to Virginia Ironside on organ recitals (March issue) in old age illustrates one of the firmest pillars of social intercourse. In youth, we talk of sex; in middle age, we talk of our children; as oldies, we talk of our ailments. However, I fear these pillars may be showing signs of wear. Last Christmas, comparing ailments was a major source of discussion among our middle-aged children. This has made me feel very old indeed. John Webster, Mudford Sock, Somerset

I was the Devil

SIR: Like Benedict King (‘Right royal madness’, March issue), I was over 50 when I was diagnosed as bipolar.

The problem was that I thought I was the Devil. I was convinced of this when I was suddenly acutely aware that I had spent over £10,000 in one weekend on original paintings. This big spending is symptomatic of a bipolar high. (Relevantly, perhaps, three of the paintings were abstracts of Dante’s Divine Comedy.)

I was with my partner when awareness of my profligacy struck.

I nearly shrieked, ‘I’ve damned us all. I’ve damned God. Because of me, we’re all going to burn for ever.’ ‘Don’t be so silly!’ he replied.

But I believed it. I couldn’t escape what I had done even though I crouched under the stairwell. I was utterly terrified.

The next morning, my partner rang the local psychiatric hospital. They knew me of old and admitted me. Soon a kind-looking woman ushered me into a consulting room. ‘What is the problem, Susan?’ ‘I am the Devil.’ Everything else would be implied by this admission. I hadn’t the strength for eternal damnation and spirituality through beautiful paintings. ‘No you’re not. But you are a little unwell. Soon medication will make you see things very differently.’

It was then that I totally despaired. She saw this as an illness, not a catastrophe of cosmic proportions. But she was right, of course. With loving care and antipsychotic drugs, the conviction slowly died in me. These days, I live the life of the free in spirit again. Sue Tyson, Bramhall, Stockport

The Army’s pedal power

SIR: The Waziristan campaign (1919) saw by no means the last of the British Army’s cycling soldiers (Olden Life, March issue).

Airborne forces were issued with folding bikes for D-Day (1944). Not popular with the Paras, who thought they made their riders sitting – or pedalling – ducks. Cycles were also deployed during the EOKA emergency in Cyprus (1955-60).

As a staff writer for the Army’s Soldier Magazine, I reported on the revival of pedal power in 1974 at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, which had a reserve of 650 bikes. Reacting to an international fuel crisis and possibly with a touch of sadistic glee, staff instructors soon had Normandy Company ready to ride to and from nearby exercise areas to save fuel. But not before they had mastered the proper military drills.

Before mounting ‘bicycles, officers, for the use of’, cadets had to practise these, including the formidable ‘right dress’.

This involved turning the handlebars smartly to the right and bouncing the front wheel on the ground. The resultant drumming was, perhaps, designed to have the same intimidating effect as Zulu Impi beating their shields with their assegais at Rorke’s Drift (1879).

Or maybe it was just another example of the time-honoured tradition of RMAS staff instructors taking the opportunity to poke fun at the nation’s future generals while they could. Mike Starke, Chale Green, Isle of Wight