Rob Blackhurst

1993, Weidenfield & Nicolson

Review written in 1997. Eleven years on, I have a far less dewy-eyed take on Alan Clark…

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On page three of Alan Clark's diaries we learn that those resisting his intoxicating blend of hauteur, roguish charm and bone-dry wit are a select few: "lumpen" proletarians, civil servants and , famously, the "unfanciable" Sue Lawley. I was sceptical about this claim until I read his diaries solidly for 24 hours. I now feel as if I have just had a whirlwind romance.

Before turning a page of Alan Clark's delicious indiscretions, you will know of Alan the steel-eyed Lothario and public aristo-mascot. You will also know the dinner party fodder of recycled anecdotes- the Alan who adores Thatcher's ankles, the Alan who sleeps with the "coven" ( a barrister's wife and her two daughters), the Alan who lives in a moated Castle with his "sweet" Jane. Like me, you were probably shocked to learn that he is an animal rights campaigner and vegetarian.

Yet however widely circulated, nothing prepares one for the unexpected pleasures of these diaries. Even more enjoyable than his uproarious candour is the mellifluous beauty of his prose, his waspish asides and his sheer sense of idealism. Clark is not the languid rake, surfeit with pleasures, to whom the world offers nothing; he soars with douceur de vivre. Unique amongst the suffocating middle-class philistinism of Thatcherism, he is alive to the pleasures of the senses. There are enchanting descriptions of life at Saltwood, his ancestral home.

"It's so lovely here. Slow and peaceful, buds everywhere and bright greeny-yellow leaves bursting. Jane is so pretty, her hair always gets tawny streaks in spring-time.

Those like myself eagerly awaiting boudoir tales will be disappointed. But there are compensatory pleasures- Clark's insouciant protestations of helplessness as he succumbs to temptation.

"Driving away, we went past the Ritz and Joei said. "Gosh, is that the Ritz? I wish we could go in there"

"Why?"

"To go to bed of course"

I was thoughtful.

I have always been culpably weak in such matters.

And when I got home I thought to myself- a new life, a new leaf.

Even his descriptions of women rebuff the idea of a Clintonesque lecher. His descriptions are more the predatory aesthete, painstakingly careful; "Jenny Easterbrook has a very pale skin and large violet eyes. Her blonde hair is gamine short, her sexuality very tightly controlled". Elsewhere he reminisces like an old romantic fool; " I cut across the A20, passing the sign for Hothfield where in the nurse's quarters in a summer's evening in 1955 I experienced the most perfect sensation, never before or since, with Mayre"

The apparent contradiction between Clark the country squire and Clark the vegetarian dissipates when one realises that he is that species endangered by Thatcherism- a High Tory. The rhythms of country-life, the pull of tradition, the sanctity of ritual, the grace of god are all carved into his heart. Wild creatures are everything that he loves; beautiful, self-sufficient, instinctive, brave. When he is forced to kill a heron eating the fish in his moat, he breaks down in tears; "Sodding fish, why should I kill that beautiful creature just for this sodding fish"

Clarke soon finds that the urban arrivistes do not share his empathy with the wild when he initiates an anti-fur measure. His description of a dressing down by Thatcher captures her ability to win by force of personality rather than intellectual coherence. In spite of his spaniel-devotion to the PM, he is clear-eyed about her limitations. "Her argument, if such a confused, inconsequential gabbling can be dignified by the Aristotelian term". Ouch!

Clark's habit of passing caustic judgements on the ones he loves even extends to his sons. His sons are both in the army. He writes that the elder, James has "true grit" whilst his younger son does not. One can hardly imagine a more damning judgement from a flak-jacket obsessed father.

He also manages to convey the sheer drudgery of life as a junior minister. Red boxes exercise a tyrannical grip over his life, with the latest job creation scheme keeping him from his castle and a bottle of vintage claret. His experience with Civil Servants is pure Yes Minister. Their frantic worries about under-spending the budget, their vulgar agitprop and their incessant plotting against ministers is enough to have any true democrat railing. Even more fun is his relationship with regimented Tom King, his Secretary of State. King manages to spur his junior into ever more outlandish behaviour. Clearly brighter, more glamorous and knowledgeable than King, he sends private plans for the shake up of the MOD to the PM to score points. King relies on Clark ( a military historian) to brief him when he is out of his depth, but is constantly on guard against having his position undermined. They resort to hilarious bickering over whether Clark can act as the PM's envoy on a trip to the Gulf, and whether he can use the ministerial VC10.

But most compelling of all, is Clark's insiders account of the jostling for position amongst Thatcher's ministers. Clark savours the moral bankruptcy of the political game. When Thatcher appears mortally wounded he delivers a dark Machiavellian aside with relish; "We are sharks circling, and waiting for blood to appear in the Water"

Initially, the PM seems to have manipulated the circling sharks to her advantage. She used her power in anointing a successor to play ministerial loyalties off against each other. The position of heir-apparent was bestowed on David Young, Cecil Parkinson and finally, John Major. But the PM's capricious treatment of court favourites; flattering them with a direct line, only to find that suddenly the No 10 switchboard would no longer take their calls, accumulated bad-blood which would eventually exact a revenge. Clark's closest ally, the murdered Ian Gow was destroyed by the "Lady's rejection"

As Clark recognises, the fact that it was rejection at the hands of a woman made the blow all the more bitter; "Like many men who find their love unrequited, Gow became more and more subservient and attentive"

The ruthlessness with which the slighted "sharks" smelled Thatcher's blood after the Poll-Tax debacle comes alive in the diaries, often written in snatched moments during the leadership campaign. In a lesson for Blair, Clark argues that Thatcher inspired little affection within the Parliamentary party and was kept on for only as long as she was able to win elections. The truism that the secret weapon of the Tory party is loyalty is comprehensively debunked as erstwhile allies jump ship; "Lamont had been scheming, Patten plotted the whole thing; Kenneth Clarke led the rout from the Cabinet room. Rifkind was a weasel. Even John Major was not "guilt-free". The complacency of the Thatcher campaign team beggars belief. On the last day of the campaign, Clark visited the officer of the campaign leader, Peter Morrison, and found him fast asleep.

The parallels with the Blair experience are stark. The evangelical tone of Thatcher's acolytes, the "chosen few" fighting for a radical agenda against the will of the party echoes Blair's banishment of internal debate. Blair and Thatcher are from the same political mould, mistrustful of MPs and reliant on a "kitchen cabinet" of advisers. The furore over Alan Walters, Thatcher's anti-European adviser, mirrors concern about the "men in the dark" surrounding the current PM. With huge parliamentary majorities, both Blair and Thatcher have the rare chance to act like a US president with a yea-saying senate. They both replaced a collective identity with the cult of the personality.

The Clark diaries could become the twentieth century equivalent of Pepys' diaries: both men moved within circles of power and witnessed great affairs of state, both had an unfailingly elegant pen, both had a weakness for sexual peccadilloes.

Clark is that seductive, ahistorical blend; a man able to anatomise the bankruptcy of power, the fleetingness of time, and the sound and fury of human folly whilst retaining a boyish enthusiasm for life's rich tapestry.