Being a good politician

It won't be long now before the American tennis buffs – of whom, I regret to say, there are about two or three times as many in this country as there are people dedicated to the greatest of games, originally known as the gowf – well, on the day before the Wimbledon Men's Final, in fact, throughout that Saturday, the American network that collared the tennis championships will keep showing little 20-second teasers (what, in the business, are known as promos) urging you to be up bright and early on the Sunday morning for a programme called Breakfast at Wimbledon.

This promo, or ad, opens on a pot of steaming coffee and a croissant, which has become the breakfast bread of choice among millions of Americans who, through previous generations, took toast or a Danish, a sweet roll so-called because it doesn't exist in Denmark, on the analogy of the favourite American-Chinese dish chop suey, which doesn't exist in China and was, in fact, invented in Brooklyn.

Listeners in Australia or, for that matter, in Britain, may wonder for a moment why the Wimbledon Men's Single Finals is a breakfast occasion. A second's reflection will tell you that if the match between Wilander and Superbrat, or Lendl and Superbrat, or whichever other couple you care to choose, if it starts at 2pm, then it starts at 9am Eastern American time and the buffs in California have to be ready with their coffee and croissant at six in the morning.

By the way, I wonder when the big shots of the National Broadcasting Company will strictly instruct their commentators – men who've been going to Wimbledon for years – to say Wimbledon and not Wimbleton. Americans, even tennis maniacs, seem to have a special linguistic problem with that venerable place name. Even the very hip Johnny Carson, a quick learner, has trouble and I've heard him vow that he must tape as many of his nightly shows as possible so that he can get to Wimbleton.

I hasten to say that there's no cause to patronise Americans on this score. It simply occurred to me as one of those amusing language hurdles over which, for no obvious reason, every nation stumbles. Throughout the whole political career of the late Adlai Stevenson, he was regularly called in England 'Ad-leye' – a name that made him wince, but since he was a gentleman, he winced invisibly.

I even dare to mention a great friend of mine, a golf nut for at least 40 years and a disciple, if not an idolater, of the great Jack Nicklaus, who always refers to him as Nickel-ows – a pronunciation that Nicklaus, himself, abhors.

Well, Wimbledon came up ahead of time because the other day I had occasion to send a cable to the sacred home of tennis. I dictated the full address. I have never trusted telegraphic addresses since a cable sent to a friend of mine who ran a company in London, the telegraphic address was something like Dong Ploy, received a baffled reply from a Chinese tailor in Hong Kong. So, I said, c/o The All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club, Wimbledon.

When I was through, the operator, a smart woman, said crisply, 'Let me read it back to you!' Which she did, rattling at once into the old England Lawn T...' 'Hold it!' I cried, 'Not good old England, all!' 'All?' she said. 'All, as in the whole of, all of.' 'Ah, very good. Then, the All England Lawn Tennis and... how do you spell croak A?' I suggested we forget it.

I'd no sooner hung up and gone back to the book I was reading and then I came on one of those freak coincidences that some people put down to extrasensory perception and some to the hand of God. I don't believe I'd read or used the word 'croquet' for years but on the first page, my eyes fell on 'There was the late Field Marshal Montgomery playing croquet at the Churchill country house with Mrs Churchill, who was very good at it. Montgomery was not and in an irritable moment, he announced that all politicians were dishonest.'

The account goes on, 'Mrs Churchill, with flashing eyes, said that if that was his view, he should leave Chartwell at once. She would arrange to have his bags packed. He apologised profusely and stayed.' Mrs Churchill must have been one of the few people who ever put down Field Marshal Montgomery.

Now moving on to today's newspaper, there is a photograph of President and Mrs Reagan, with Mrs Reagan giving him what his closest advisers call 'the old MG' which, being translated, means the Madonna Gaze. I'm quite sure that if any general or statesman, domestic or foreign, dared to express Montgomery's opinion about politicians, he would get Mrs Churchill's treatment from Mrs Reagan.

This is, of course, no more but no less than admirable, wifely devotion, but very many otherwise intelligent people – intellectuals and non-intellectuals – who recognise that the practice of politics is arduous and rarely heroic and offers few, easy answers, they seize on a quick reputation for being thought down-to-earth, no-nonsense idealists by saying, 'All politicians are crooks' or, after deep thought, 'Politics is a dirty business'.

For myself, looking back on the hundreds of politicians I've covered, as we say in the journalism game, or known, I more and more marvel that men and women take on the profession of politics when they might have a far more relaxed and rewarding life in business, in the law, in teaching, in being a real-estate agent – anything but the business that has no fixed working hours, no rest from having to take a stand, no let-up from the harassment of pleadings and questions of constituents.

And these thoughts were strengthened, the other evening, as I watched a long television interview with the Speaker of the House, Mr Tip O'Neill, the old Boston Irishman who has the body of a whale and the face of an ageing and genial hound dog. I ought to remind listeners in countries with a parliamentary system that in the American system, the Speaker of the House is not a judicial onlooker or referee. He's the leader of the party that has the majority in the House and for, I think, over 40 years, the Democrats have had that majority.

So, when a Democrat – Kennedy, Johnson, Carter – was in the White House, the speaker was his great ally in getting legislations through the House, but when a Republican has been president – Eisenhower, Nixon, Ford and now Reagan – the speaker has been a thorn in the presidential flesh, the leader of the opposition in the chamber which has 435 members and which has the last word on passing or rejecting presidential policies.

To simplify, but not to oversimplify, the present party conflict in American government today, it's fair to say that the two decisive figures, more often locked in battle than arm in arm, are President Reagan and Mr Tip O'Neill. Mr O'Neill has been in the House for over 30 years and, next year, he's going to retire, but in the meantime, he will give no quarter to what he takes to be foolish or rash or wrong policies of the Republicans and, from time to time, he does something very rarely done by speakers of the House – he descends from the rostrum from which he presides over the House debates and he goes on the floor and skins, deplores, abominates Mr Reagan and his policies.

Then, when the House rises, he is as likely as not to find himself at the White House being begged by the president to change his mind or moderate his indignation. Until 6pm. Long ago they agreed that that was the deadline for the filing of all argument, dissension, anger, politics, then they relax. A drink is poured and they recall people they knew, tell stories, chuckle over the headaches of the absurdities of their profession and part.

I'm not saying that they're inseparable buddies. Far from it, but they sat together the other night at a concert and a stranger would certainly have assumed that the president was with one of his party chieftains, if not a valued adviser.

Now, the reason, the news peg, for Speaker O'Neill's appearance in this long television interview was the humiliating fact – humiliating for the speaker – that the House had just voted by a remarkable 64 majority to send $27 million worth of help in what was promised as non-military aid to the Contras, the rebels who are fighting to overthrow the government of Nicaragua.

Now, I've said before and we ought to say again that the government of Nicaragua is a, frankly, Marxist government, though not as totalitarian as President Reagan would like to believe – it was elected – and that the Contras are, by no means those simon-pure freedom fighters that the president likes to call them. Many of them are fighting for a democratic or centrist government, many are hired professionals, some are desperate peasants who've been terrorised or murdered by government troops, some are the well-organised remnants of former President Somoza's detested secret police.

The House is well aware of this very mixed and bewildering civil war. Six times it has refused to give any more money to the rebels. Last Wednesday, it voted those $27 millions (not very much) but to do it, the president needed a good many Democrats to desert Speaker O'Neill and switch their old votes. The speaker still believes that the president means to get American soldiers into a war down there, but the speaker said Mr Reagan is the most popular president he has ever known, that he did a marvellous job of persuading and arm-twisting and good luck to him.

That was spoken like a good politician. And if you ask me what that is, I'd say it's a man or a woman with the capacity to believe passionately in something and yet salute the passionate opponent when he wins and be, after hours, his friend.

It's a gift of magnanimity that many otherwise coarse and insensitive men possess. It's a civilised strain that many of us superior people on the outside do not possess.

This transcript was typed from a recording of the original BBC broadcast (© BBC) and not copied from an original script. Because of the risk of mishearing, the BBC cannot vouch for its complete accuracy.

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