Speech at dinner for William Deedes

There is only one possible way to start this speech on this particular occasion in No. 10 Downing Street.

“Dear Bill”

If I don't, someone is bound to point out “shome mishstake here shurely” .

It must be rare to have quite so many characters [end p1] from that famous correspondence gathered in one place, including its presumed author Denis Thatcher—at least I hope its only presumed.

But of course its not to live out Private Eye's fantasies that we are here.

It is to say thank you.

Thank you to Bill Deedes for all that he has given over the years to journalism, to [end p2] politics, to government and to the country.

It is typical of Bill's modesty that he didn't want this party and had to be bullied into it.

And I know he won't thank me for making a speech.

But we couldn't let pass this milestone in a long and distinguished career, or fail to celebrate those qualities of which [end p3] Edmund Spenser wrote so perceptively some 400 years ago—just before you started in journalism:

“The gentle mind by gentle Deeds is known

For a man by nothing is so well betrayed

As by his manners.”

What a remarkable career it is! [end p4]

Note, please, that I use this present tense.

Because I think we are reading more of your writing now than we did when you were Editor of the Telegraph.

It is a career still in full flood. No Colombey-les-Deux-Églises for you—though I do hear alarming stories of someone known as the Chain-Saw Fiend who, having demolished all the trees in his own [end p5] garden, pleads with former colleagues to be allowed a go at theirs, distance no object.

It is some fifty-five years since you first presented yourself as a young reporter at the Morning Post, and began by writing exclusives about the Indian Rope Trick. That was soon followed by coverage of more historic events: the Abdication [end p6] Crisis and the War in Abyssinia—where you were sent on your way by a sympathetic editor with three pieces of excellent advice:

One: “Get an outfit from a decent tailor”

Two: “Remember, a finger of whiskey in the water bottle kills germs” [end p7] and

Three: “Stay alive” .

Through it all, I know that you have never been happier than when writing and reporting. We remember those memorable years when you produced the Peterborough column.

I recall your advice was that the ideal [end p8] paragraph contained a fact, a generalisation and a slight inaccuracy to provoke correspondence.

Where you have got your information must, of course, remain a closely guarded professional secret.

But from a source even closer to Downing Street than the usual one, I have had it hinted that the occasional game of golf [end p9] was a help.

It also brought out the competitive side of your character.

Indeed the same source tells me of a recent conversation with your caddie when you couldn't see where your opponent's ball had landed.

It ran like this: “Is my dear friend, the distinguished Lord Whitelaw 's ball in the bunker? [end p10]

Or is the old bandit on the green?” But in this, of course, you were only following a distinguished journalistic tradition.

It was a former proprietor of the News of the World who bought Walton Heath Golf Course in order to play golf with Lloyd George and find out what was going on. [end p11]

Your journalist's nose for a good story has never deserted you.

I recall hearing how, a few years ago, you were leading a distinguished and high-powered team of Daily Telegraph journalists to cover a Republican National Convention and write serious articles about it, when a fire engine came flashing by.

With no hesitation, you grabbed a taxi, [end p12] loaded your colleagues into it and set off to cover the journalists dream: a really good fire.

Many of us—and none more than I—have cause to be eternally grateful for your generous help with some of our speeches—not, I hasten to add, this one—but in particular my speech to the Joint Session of the United States Congress last year. Through your [end p13] genius and marvellous command of language you raised it to heights which I could never have achieved.

That same gentle and helpful spirit characterised your time as Editor of the Telegraph. I am told that a leader writer once threw [end p14] a book at you.

It is a mark of your tolerant nature that he is still there—but not here!

I do not want this speech to embarrass you with all the praise you deserve.

But to quote one of your own immortal phrases: you can't make an omelette without frying eggs.

I shall mention only briefly your [end p15] contribution to politics and to government:

— as a backbencher with that rare, instinctive feeling for what the Tory Party would and would not take.

— as a member of successive Conservative Governments, to which you brought [end p16] distinction, flair and humour.

I think that experience of government was to be crucial when you later returned to journalism.

For in a way rare, indeed unique, among journalists, you have understood the difficulties which governments face and sympathised with them.

You know that nations, particularly great [end p17] nations, need governments and authority.

You have supported that irrespective of party and you have done it with wisdom and persuasiveness, with understanding for the difficulties of those trying to govern—but without ever or in any way being vulnerable to the charge of being in the pocket of government.

In this way you ensured that the Daily Telegraph—so beloved and respected by [end p18] many indeed all of us here—continued to play its uniquely responsible role in our national life.

Your own charming way of thanking friends is one we all know: “Your reward will be in heaven, dear boy” .

So it is with the words of another English poet, who knew you before your time, that I shall end:- [end p19]

“Fame's loudest Trump upon the ear of Time

Leaves but a dying echo: they alone

Are held in everlasting memory

Whose deeds partake of heaven.”