New York
‘Why would he run for Parliament?’ screams the headline in the New York Times. A subheading lists ‘An inherited passion for women, gambling, the environment and politics’. As I start to read, I fear the worst, but as it turns out it could have been a lot worse. Zac Goldsmith’s name is big in Britain, less so in America, although in green circles he’s an international prince. Although meant rhetorically, it’s quite dumb to ask why a person would run for Parliament, as if being rich and normal — liking women — disqualifies one from holding office. In fact, that’s what’s wrong with politics. The wrong people are in it. If more people like Zac Goldsmith threw their hats into the ring, fewer smiling professional wallet-lifters would be running our lives.
In May 1997, election night, I dined at Lord Black’s and immediately after dinner headed for Jimmy Goldsmith’s house as the first results began coming in. I had had lunch with Jimmy that day, along with Kate Reardon and the historian Andrew Roberts — not as famous and ubiquitous back then as he is today. Jimmy was in a funny mood, reflective, nostalgic almost. None of us knew that he was dying. He was to ring me a week later with the ghastly news, although he sounded quite chipper: ‘I’ve got quite a scoop for you, old boy…’
Sir James, an aide, Zac and Jemima, Robin Birley and myself left for Putney and the election centre where the results would be announced. I was drunk. The Times reported that I tried to get the telephone number of a female journalist, as if I had committed the greatest faux pas ever. Jimmy was on stage when David Mellor began to whine about Mexican haciendas and the like. I was standing between Zac and Jemima and lost my temper. Here was Mellor, a man who had kissed more rich people’s behinds than I’d had hangovers, playing the money card. I screamed a terrible obscenity — c***-s***** — and some of the crowd picked it up. It was great, if not politics as usual.
Sir James was gracious in defeat and very brave in facing the man in the white suit who came to him a couple of months later. I went to see him in his grand house in France the week before the end. Now his son is running for office and I am sure there are Mellors around to play the hacienda card. The New York Times article concentrated on the Zac lifestyle, his love of beautiful women, of gambling and his low esteem of the press. It would, wouldn’t it? The only thing the writer left out is the fact that Zac is probably the best-looking man in politics, certainly among the greens. I suppose the reason for that is lookism, as in PC. The Ancient Greeks, however, in their infinite wisdom trusted good looks rather than homely ones, which of course is the way it should be.
That radical, drastic action is required in order to save the planet I am not at all convinced, but what I am certain of is that we are wasting our resources and being held hostage by Middle East kleptocrats, which allies me with the greens. Zac is no eco-dreamer, something the article in question does point out. His support of small-town shops versus shopping centres is wonderful, as is his initiative that discourages the production of energy-wasting plasma TVs. (What in hell is a plasma TV anyway?) David Cameron, another man I’m not at all convinced about, and I’m sure he’s losing sleep over it, is lucky to have Zac on board. Forget that the rich are far less likely to steal while in power, just look at the facts. Zac Goldsmith on the one hand, John Prescott on the other. Zac drives a banged-up Prius despite being a multimillionaire. Prescott was driven in two Jags between the grand houses his office afforded him and ended up rich after ten years in power. And as far as their women are concerned, I’ll think I’ll take Zac’s anytime over those of Prescott. Watching a beautiful woman dressing in front of one in the morning makes one want to go out and do good things. Doing it over a desk with an assistant drives one to the pub at best.
Much has been said about Jimmy Goldsmith’s triple life, mostly by people who would have relished it if they could have had it. According to Shelley, love withers under constraint. Its very essence is liberty. It is compatible neither with obedience, jealousy, nor fear. ‘It is there most pure, perfect and unlimited, where its votaries live in confidence, equality and unreserved.’ Bravo, Shelley, you got that right, not that you got other things wrong. The poet also asked how long ought the sexual connection to last. And how dare the law assume it knows better than those involved. How odious an usurpation of the right of private judgment, and so on. Sir James Goldsmith marched to a different drummer, made lotsa moolah on his own, bedded lotsa women and scum-like journalists went after him because they had to face their grubby wives each evening. Now I’d love to see his son in Parliament and minister of the environment. It would make for a less greedy, materialistic and selfish House, and after 13 years of Cool Britannia, what could be better?
Comments