A rum encounter

For many years, the Central American republic of Guatemala had a grievance against the United Kingdom. It claimed sovereignty over British Honduras, then a colony of ours. Eventually, all that died down. Calling itself Belize, British Honduras became independent and showed no desire to join Guatemala. Opposing colonialism could earn a plaudit from the sillier sort of states at the UN. It was harder to gainsay democracy.

Back in the old days, there was an amusing exchange. In pursuit of his country’s ambitions, the then Guatemalan ambassador pressed for a meeting with the then Foreign Secretary, Ernest Bevin. Bevin is said to have left school at eight. His spoken English was on a par with John Prescott’s. But there was a difference. Ernie’s locution was free of self-pity. It had a gnarled grandeur, a warm humanity and, when necessary, a powerful patriotism. Despite the five years Lord Prescott spent in higher education, his tweets are a declaration of war against English syntax. Bevin knew how to express himself with plosive directness.

After the Foreign Office had procrastinated for as long as it could, the ambassador was ushered into the Foreign Secretary’s presence. Clad in dark blue serge, with an aldermanic watch-chain, Ernie was genial, burly and wheezing. The diplomat was formal, immaculate and tiny. He looked like a two-thirds scale model of an ambassador bought from Asprey’s. Beckoned to an enveloping armchair in which his feet could not touch the ground, he began his well-rehearsed protest.

Ernie listened genially for a couple of minutes, then lent forward and tapped the fellow on the knee. ‘Where did you say you was from, son?’ ‘Hear that lads?’ — to the officials in the room — ‘’E’s from Guatemalia. We was ’aving an argument about Guatemalia just before you come in.