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There were also the readers, who examined copy before it reached the printers. That might sound like a good idea. What is wrong with a final scrutinising read? The answer is that the readers were selected for malevolence and illiteracy. They would introduce errors. Once — I forget why, and it might have been a bit pretentious — I had quoted ‘nymph, in thy orisons’. The readers changed it to ‘nymph, in thy origins’. That is how it appeared in the first edition, after which the readers knocked off and sensible people regained control of the paper.
Rupert swept the inkie terror into the dustbin of history. But there was a downside. The old regime had one advantage. It enabled sensible journalists to drink a great deal of good wine at their employers’ expense. I was working for Weekend World, a television programme presented by Brian Walden which always gave a fair hearing to Thatcherite economics, but could not survive their impact. In those days, those wishing to acquire ITV franchises had to promise high-minded programmes on culture and politics. Hence Weekend World and its large budget, most of which went on serious journalists. But there was enough left over for cakes and ale.
We covered the 1981 French election from Dijon. That is the joy of France: a politically marginal region where there was also a delightful intersection of red and green Michelins. We also called the result right. While everyone else assumed that Giscard would win, Weekend World explained why he was about to lose. In those days, France had another joy: an arrogant provincialism which could be exploited by British oenophiles. My hotel had a splendid list of Burgundies, but my eye fell on its small selection of Bordeaux. A ’61 Mouton-Rothschild, at a mere 450 francs, was the most complex wine I had ever drunk. Draining the final glass, I could not decide whether it was more or less ready, or whether it needed another ten years. The second bottle, the next night, did not resolve my agnosticism. Electoral outcomes are an easier challenge.
A little earlier, Washington had supplied some ’59 Richebourg to toast the arrival of Ronald Reagan. I have rarely drunk a greater wine. I suspect that it would still have a lot to say. Then there was the Tate Gallery restaurant. There would be tables of solemn Frenchmen, concentrating solely on the decanters in front of them. Halves of ’62 Lafite and Margaux at £2.50 each, ’66 Romanée St-Vivant at £10: who could blame them? But I had rather jollier lunches with a fair few Tory politicians.
Since those days, the Burgundians have learned how to price their claret and market forces have seized control of ITV, imposing a regimen of cost-cutting and house wine. But I still raise an occasional glance to the gentle indulgences of the old order.
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