Diary

The night before our last issue went to press, I received a message from the Prime Minister saying that he was sorry, that he had hoped to write the diary but couldn’t find time. No problem, I replied, he’d just seen off Jeremy Corbyn and had a Queen’s Speech to agree and deliver and our print deadline was 10.30 a.m. At 7 a.m. the next morning, I woke up to find a new message ‘Have done diary. Am finishing now.’ At 10.20 a.m.: ‘It’s done. 860 words.’ Then another message: ‘Still in car.’ At 10.28 a.m., with two minutes to go, I gave up hope. Then, at 10.29 a.m., it landed, word-perfect. Boris Johnson likes to take things close to the wire, often to the despair of those around him.

You may wonder why I am up at 4.45 a.m. writing this diary when I have a country to run, Queen’s speech to prepare, vast mandate to deliver, and so on. The answer is simple. It is a question of obligation. When I bumped into the editor (at Sajid Javid’s 50th birthday party) a couple of nights ago, he explained — with a slightly glassy expression — that he had taken a gamble. He had already printed the cover of the Christmas treble issue, he said. I know all about the Xmas cover. It is lavish, laminated, and on much thicker stock than the normal cover. It costs a bomb. Once you have printed it, you can’t change it. ‘Your name is on it,’ said Fraser. What could I say? I became editor 20 years ago. I owe this magazine.

When people ask me what the mood is in DC these days, the only word I can come up with is ‘surreal’. Everyone in this town — including almost all the Republican senators — knows Trump is guilty as charged over Ukraine, and then some. The evidence is overwhelming. And seeking to get a foreign power’s help in a domestic election is such a textbook case for impeachment — the Founding Fathers were obsessed with foreign meddling — it really should be over by Christmas. It won’t be because of Roy Cohn. That legendary lawyer had a simple technique whenever his clients, Fred and Donald Trump, were sued. He would sue back. And Trump has a simple technique when accused of anything: immediately accuse the accuser of the exact same thing.

‘Clive James Stirs.’ That was the standard subject line for the emails I used to get from the great Australian polymath. I liked it. It cast him, I thought, as a sort of barnacled kraken — still hanging in there, occasionally roused to action. He was usually submitting a new poem. For a while, after he first announced his illness and his poem ‘Japanese Maple’ had gone viral thanks to a tweet from Mia Farrow (Clive found this funny, and was pleased), there was a faintly ghoulish cachet in the thought that we might be the publishers of Clive’s last poem. But of course, he didn’t die — and the poems kept coming. ‘In the meantime I hope to have a couple more poems for you,’ he wrote in spring 2015, ‘if I am granted life.

I’m writing this in Crete where a late summer has seen brilliant sunshine and temperatures reaching 25°C — but can I enjoy it? The unrelenting diet of gloom coming at me from every direction leads me to question even the dazzling blue Aegean and the cloudless sky. It’s surely a sign of global warming and the possibility that we are, quite possibly, doomed. I worry about Jeremy Corbyn. Will he be in Downing Street by Christmas Day? Will Trump have started world war three? Will Orfordness lighthouse, which has stood valiantly on its little shingle spit since 1792, have finally fallen into the sea? Everywhere I look, the tide is drawing in. The collapse of Thomas Cook has left Crete — and the rest of Greece — in a fairly terrible state.

The start of term at Oxford University is bittersweet for the close-knit Morrisseys; we have just ‘lost’ three offspring to their undergraduate studies. Dropping them off at their colleges (Wadham, Christ Church and Keble, with another Morrissey at All Souls), my husband Richard and I felt a little wistful as well as proud. Every year we observe the striking diversity of the students in every sense bar one: they all seem very clever. Oxford is getting something right — broadening accessibility by contextualising offers, while unashamedly sticking to high standards. This is helping it maintain its crown as Britain’s highest-ranked university, one of four in the global top ten (the other six are all American).

We’ve just launched the US edition of The Spectator and the reaction so far has been great. Americans can be quite gloomy these days, but business optimism runs in their blood. They seem enthused about The Spectator’s transatlantic appeal. I met no end of Rod Liddle fans who thrilled at the sight of his name on the first US cover. Various people told me that America was crying out for a magazine with our sense of humour. But not everyone gushed. At our launch party in Washington DC, Anne Applebaum, the historian and journalist, asked how on earth we expected to make ‘the most quintessentially English magazine’ work in the US. The answer is that the US edition isn’t all that English. Most of the writers are US-based; most of the articles are about America.

The nation is deeply divided. We can, it seems, talk of almost nothing else. Passions could scarcely be higher. No court or parliament can block or postpone it. Hexit is happening. That’s right. Hexit. Humphrys is leaving the Today programme after 30 years. On learning the news, one of more than seven million loyal listeners revealed his outrage and sense of loss, tweeting: ‘Who will I shout at on the radio in future?!’ My friend and companion in the Today studio Justin Webb replied with his characteristic charm. ‘Oh, that’s simple. Nick Robinson.’ I have been warned. John is famously irascible.