Diary – 30 March 2017

Last week’s events in London raised a recurrent dilemma for journalists, including me. It is a huge story when a terrorist kills four people then is shot down in Palace Yard, Westminster. Yet dare we say how fortunate we are that since 9/11 Muslim terrorists have proved incapable of mounting an attack remotely as lethal as that on the Twin Towers? An intelligence officer told me recently that he worries far more about Russia than about Muslim suicidalists, and this must be the rational assessment. The public needs awakening to the menace posed by Vladimir Putin’s adventurism. Meanwhile, Khalid Masood’s dreadful deed reflects the flailings of a death cult. These will cause us regular surges of distress, but — to contradict David Cameron’s silly words — Muslim fanaticism does not constitute an ‘existential threat’. Last week nonetheless seemed the wrong time to suggest counting our blessings.

To the Donmar Warehouse for Roger Allam’s fabulous portrayal of Roy Jenkins in Steve Waters’s play Limehouse. It is an odd sensation, seeing an impersonation of someone I knew intimately. One of the most endearing aspects of Roy was his self-knowledge. He was well aware that he teetered on the brink of parody. Sheer brilliance and wit saved him from tipping over, however. He gave a masterclass in growing old, retaining curiosity about new people, places, books, films, plays. Another sure test of quality: he was unembarrassed by changing his mind. The rest of the SDP’s founders have receded. Shirley Williams will be remembered chiefly for her role in the 1960s devastation of state education. Nobody can remember why Bill Rodgers ever attracted a moment’s attention. David Owen never translated intelligence into effectiveness. Roy alone was a giant, despite failing to become prime minister. Kipling observed of a whist partner dead in Simla that he was ‘a fortnight fully to be missed’, which is as long as most absences are noticed.