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The Spectator's Notes

Charles Moore

Thursday, 15th February 2007

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Efforts to damage David Cameron over his 15-year-old experiment with cannabis do not seem to be working. But opponents believe that the class aspect of the story could discredit him: the weed may not matter, but the pictures of jeunesse dorée and Bullingdon coats do. So let me add my smoking tale of decadent privilege to the pile. Italics mark each class-sensitive word at first mention. A few years ago, we were staying at a castle in Ireland owned by a lord for a shooting party. David and Samantha Cameron were present. Because the castle is historic, it has state-of-the-art smoke detectors. Driven by his love of food to take over from the staff, Cameron cooked breakfast, and burnt the toast. The fire alarms went off and the local fire-brigade swept up, knocking down the security barrier on the drive in their haste. I possess incriminating photographs of Dave standing outside the great hall with half a dozen firemen, our excited children, and an embarrassed expression. Later we went for a walk on the estate. Although it was November, Cameron was prepared to do penance: he stripped to his boxer shorts and plunged into the burn. As with most stories about Cameron, this one is slightly annoying for his critics, because it illustrates the genial toughness which enables him to come out on top.

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Despite more than a quarter of a century of moving in Conservative circles, I have never been to the party’s Winter Ball, an omission of which I feel quite proud. Now I never shall, because last year it became the Black and White Ball, and moved from hearing aids and dinner jackets with frilly shirts to tieless Cameronian modernity. The first Black and White Ball was reported to be quite a success, but this year’s, I gather even from hardened modernisers, was an ordeal. It took place in a perma-tent in Battersea Park. The music was deafening. A gay Tory candidate in a white suit and a Madonna-style headmike compered as if on daytime TV. Someone dressed like a Russian prostitute sprawled on a bar playing an aluminium guitar (does this make sense?). The tickets cost £275 each. I predict a wave of nostalgia for Laura Ashley, Alice bands and claret-coloured cummerbunds.

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