7.2: Activities and authority: manoeuvering for power

During my final year at Oxford, I found myself in a position of authority within various of the clubs to which I belonged. I was President of the Bullingdon Club, and of another Society - assuming my office as the undergraduate first elected to it from my year. There had been some uncertainty as to whether myself or Ian R should be the new President of Loder's dining-club, in that Ian had been elected the first, but had only just resumed his studies (after rustication) in what amounted to the beginning of his second year, whereas I was at the start of my final year. And when James Spooner had relinquished the Presidency, he had in fact appointed myself as his successor. But the rules of the Club allowed for only one term in the office. So I took mine now, with others to follow me in due course. I was also Treasurer of the Canning Club, having been appointed to that position by the retiring President, who had been Reggie Bosanquet. It had in fact come as a disappointment to me that he had nominated John L-T as President, instead of myself, seeing that I contributed far more than John had done to the subjects for debate. It may have been an indication that some people (such as Reggie) regarded me as too frivolous a personality for such office. But I had taken all this evident demotion in my stride.

My personal problems on finding myself in charge of the Bullingdon Club were numerous. They had the record of being the rowdiest, and perhaps the most troublesome of all Oxford clubs. Of recent years the focal points of interest (in the pack of beagles and in the Drag Hunt) were lapsing, to an almost divisive extent, it was still not clear where the new consensus might be found. Over subsequent years it gave rise to the emergence of rival clubs - like the Piers Gaviston, or the Assassins - which pitched their social unity on variant values. But at this particular point in time, there was still only the Bullingdon, no longer quite so confident about its sense of identity, and uncertain where its future might lie. My efforts to suggest such a direction are described in my journal of 14th October 1955.

All went well at the meeting we held for the Bullingdon elections. I enjoyed conducting the proceedings, and we managed to cover a lot of new ground. I was hoping to introduce some plan for holding an annual car race. In the past the Bullingdon consisted of people who own horses - racing, hunting or playing polo with them. But the situation nowadays is far more a case of us all owning cars. So it would seem appropriate if we could make that interest the focal centre to our existence - although I came up against some resistance to the idea of omitting the Drag Hunt from our concerns. Nor did that group much like it when the Master of the Drag obtained too many black balls to warrant his election to the Club.

I had been uncertain in my own mind whether to conduct the elections in a strictly democratic fashion, or to follow the pattern which I had observed over the previous year. I did on the whole stick rigidly to what the votes dictated. But I slanted it to some extent by insisting that it was the black balls which should be counted first, with the white balls only being counted in the event of a tie. And there were indeed a couple of cases where I added an additional black ball against someone that I wished to exclude. So I can't really claim that I was being any fairer than my predecessors.

My big disappointment was in not managing to get [H] elected. But the fact is that he has made for himself a large number of enemies, due to his delight in teasing people. I couldn't very well declare him to have been elected, when there were so many people who would know that there were several others, like themselves, who had cast a black ball. When I tried verbally to persuade Sebastian Y (who is now the club's Secretary) to cast a white ball, he replied: "It's all very well for you Alexander, but you know how to control [H]. We don't!"

The issue of where the soul of the Bullingdon Club might lie was in all our minds. There were the participants in the activities of the Drag Hunt, with John Mowbry and Robin Herbert as the leading lights. But there was another group where Ian was the most prominent personality, which represented the more hooligan element within the club. I had appointed Ian as my Treasurer, which was perhaps unwise since his loyalty is questionable. There was always some idea in his head that he was closer to the traditions of the club, with the potential for a broader following - especially on the issues where rowdy behaviour was involved. He had been a big chum of Adam Kwiatkowski during our first year at Oxford, and I describe within the same journal entry how I was irritated to find that Adam still seemed to think he could influence our chosen style more than a year after he had gone down.

Adam K was up at Oxford over the weekend, but there is something about his attitude which irritates me. I daresay that he did exercise a big influence while he was here - in league with William Stormont that is to say. And I daresay that their chosen style was a lot more rowdy than ours. Some would say more vivacious too. I would like to think that our own group is more concerned about taking good degrees - at the expense of some of the debauchery. And if that means that we have to appear rather too serious by their standards, then so be it.

Adam was moaning about there being no longer any life in the place. And it would seem that Ian has been feeding him notions of how our standards have been slipping. He had told Adam that I was for ever trying to be too logical about everything. Ian is a bloody traitor, and I have tackled him on the subject personally - my point being that Oxford is whatever we want to make of it, and we have chosen to be more serious than rowdy this year. So if he wants to make something different of it, then the onus is on him to set that kind of a pace. But for my own part, I enjoy trying to be serious about life.

The Grid elections took place over the same weekend. John L-T intimated to both Ian and myself that he was intending to put up one of us to join him on the Committee. He declared that his own first choice would be Ian, but that he knew how he would never receive the required number of votes - so he was intending to put forward my own name instead. I regarded this as a back-handed compliment, but I was sensible enough to hold my tongue.

Anyway, John has since lost face on the subject, for he came back from that meeting having to admit that he'd failed. The Grid's President (Colin Peterson) ruled that there was no room for any third year undergraduates on the Committee, so that all places must now be filled by second year undergraduates. And it was Donald Marr who got elected. So it seems that is one more of my ambitions that I must now set to one side! The embarrassing part is that it leaves my relationship with John just slightly impaired. I mean, he was just a little too ready to declare how I was his second choice, after Ian. But I don't intend to let this thought rankle.

Journal: 22nd October 1955.

On Tuesday I received a message from Raymond Carr to say that he wanted to see me - in his capacity as the Senior Member of the Bullingdon Club. And on going round to his rooms, he told me that he had received two letters from Old Members of the Bullingdon, complaining that the traditions of the club weren't being maintained. He declined to identify from whom they came, but they had wanted to know why the Master of the Drag and the Master of Polo hadn't been elected to the club.

My instant reaction to this is that it's monstrous that Old Members of the club should attempt to interfere in this fashion. And I suspect that the members were rather more recent than might be supposed, with it really being a question of internal intrigue for control over the club's identity. But it annoys me that no one saw fit to give voice to these objections whilst we were all gathered for the elections. It rather looks like being a ploy by some members to increase the proportional size of their own group, while bypassing the accepted democratic procedures.

In the case of the Master of the Drag, they do have tradition on their side. But the Master of Polo involves a stretch of the tradition in the direction they might want. In fact I'm not at all sure that it's true to say that we have a regular polo team at all. They seem to have conjured it up from nowhere - although it's conceivable that they did borrow horses for such an event. And a single game constitutes a team I suppose.

Raymond was clearly embarrassed at having to raise the subject at all, but he took the line that it would help clear the air if the Master of the Drag could be elected forthwith. The issue of the Master of Polo's election could then be set to one side for ourselves to debate in our own time. So I told him I'd do as was asked.

On Friday evening there were the elections for Loder's. Anthony Shiel got his way by keeping out Tim Rathbone. I'll need to take a stronger stand on that issue next term, or he'll never get in. Those elected were Colin C, Robin H and Nick Ashton.

As a cocktail party it was a good one. Nicky Greenwell drank about three-quarters of a bottle of gin. He became stinking drunk. Anyway I poured a pint of milk over him in order to cool him off, and for the rest of the evening he was endeavouring to get his own back on me - even after we'd gone on to the Grid for dinner. In fact Nicky was being obstreperous to everyone he met, knocking peoples' food into their laps and throwing tomatoes all round the room. The Eggletons were absolutely furious, but it's a case of them having cried wolf just once too often. When they told Nicky that they were going to hand in their notice, he just said "Good!" - which didn't go down at all well with them.

Quite apart from the work that I was putting in for my Finals, (and I find a comment in my journal about enjoying the essays upon Political Philosophy while still detesting those upon Economics,) much of my time went on the composition of those papers that I read out to the Canning Club, in which I was seeking a clear definition of my attitude to life in all its aspects. The one that I'd been working on during the Long Vacation had been on The Nature of Man.

John Lucas was a Philosophy don at Merton College, whom I had originally met when he answered the first such paper that I read to the Canning Club. He had been less than flattering about it at the time, but had subsequently dropped me a note to suggest that I come round to discuss it with him. And since then I had been in the habit of asking for his comments upon any thesis that I wrote, adopting him in an unofficial capacity as one of my tutors. I valued his criticism because it kept me geared to a more theistic line of thinking than I might acquire from [W], for example.

I record in my journal how I went round to collect my recent thesis from his rooms, after discussing its contents with him, when he was taking a general line that he might agree with the majority of my arguments, while himself reaching different conclusions from them. And he was at pains to indicate what these might be. It was all of value for me to get my beliefs sorted out within a more universal perspective.

Ian R wasn't the only person with whom I was experiencing some trouble on the question of maintaining my authority over the Bullingdon. For I had problems with Tim Rathbone as well. Now it appears to me in retrospect that I was too sensitive on these issues - as if the importance of appearing dominant was becoming something too rigid in my mind, and to that extent brittle. The situation might be paralleled to the rigidity which afflicted me during my military training as an officer, when I was doing my National Service. I was losing my sense of proportion perhaps. But I'd best pick up the story from my journal entry of 13th November 1955.

There was one aspect of the Grid dance at Blenheim which leaves me feeling worried. Or it all started at the dinner beforehand. I turned up wearing my Bullingdon coat, but not the blue tie that is officially a part of the dress. Most of the other club members were wearing it, except for myself and Tim R that is to say. So Tim was arguing with Ian that the correct line must be what the President of the club displayed as the correct form. And wasn't I going to lay down a special ruling on the subject?

Well during the interval between the end of dinner and driving off to Blenheim, I did in fact put on the blue bow tie - having originally forgotten about its existence. But when I got to the dance, Tim came up and proclaimed that I was a traitor in switching sides. So what kind of a President did I think I was, if I couldn't even set the example which counted? And he was goading me still further by saying that there was revolution stirring within my ranks, and `Rathbone for President' was the cry.

Journal: 22nd November 1955.

The Bullingdon dinner was held on Friday evening - fun on the whole, but with one or two aspects to marr it. I arrived feeling determined to keep Tim R in his place, fully anticipating that he would continue to behave as if he was trying to take over the club. In fact this put me in the mood to thwart his endeavours before he even got started. So I was making a point of overruling any of his perpetually pompous suggestions with regard to matters of protocol in a manner that was quite off-hand. I could see that he felt stung, and I noted he was keeping far more quiet as the evening progressed.

There is some danger however, that I may have sewn the seeds of resentment in his heart. And I did observe how he was talking earnestly with some of the others at one point - including Ian R. On the other hand their particular group don't always get on well with some of the other factions. It's very much on a system of holding rival cliques together that I am discovering to be the real role of President. But I can't afford to antagonize any group too greatly, or they might soon be ganging up against me.

It's difficult to assess just how far I should go in asserting my authority in any particular direction, so as to keep them all intact. I know that I would resent it like hell if my position were usurped. But that's because of the power which goes with the position. As far as the Bullingdon Club itself is concerned, I do sometimes feel that I am at the head of an organization to which I am ill-suited. I have been toying with the idea of resigning from it, for the simple reason that I don't get the feeling we're going to the same places in life. And they're aware of this as much as I am. On the other hand the club does include all my best friends at Oxford. So if I'm to be the front figure to any organization at all, then it has to be this one I suppose - which might be reduced to the conclusion that I recognize the need in myself to be the front figure of something or other, no matter what.

The dinner itself should be counted as a success. I had plied everyone with a liberal quantity of drink before we even set off for the dinner, which was being held in the private room of a restaurant. Most of the excitement came during the ride back to Oxford in the private bus which I had booked for the evening. We were all becoming increasingly rowdy by this stage, wrestling with one another, and there were a few members who were resorting to vandalism which I was doing my best to restrain. But I needed to, since they were literally tearing holes in the lining of the roof, which was clearly upsetting the driver.

He wasn't the only person to appear upset however. Robin had made the grave error of inviting John Fox-Strangways as his guest - a man who is really too old to participate within such an excess of youthful exuberance. And he's such a bore at the best of times. I'd been subjected for too long to his personal reminiscences when he'd transferred his seat next to mine after dinner, at a time when I'd been hoping to loosen up, rather than to sink with him into a slough of despond. But in the cerebral absence of Robin, his host, the task of absorbing J.F-S's company fell to others. And he may well have been aware how we were all edging away from such an imposition.

During the bus ride back home, J.F-S was quite visibly sinking into a grim depression, seated alone way up near the front, while most of the rowdy behaviour was in the rear. But in wrestling with someone, we ventured rather too close to him. He had been shouting at us to stop it, which we'd just ignored. Then he suddenly stood up and came swaying down the aisle with a fearsome expression on his face to seize hold of my hair. I swung round with the intention of hitting him. But he was already swaying back to his seat. So I left it at that - although he was threatening to lash out with his walking stick at anyone who subsequently ventured too close to him.

Colin C was sitting with Tim R, and he irritated me greatly by proclaiming that I ought to have flattened Fox-Strangways as a retort to him pulling my hair. Personally I feel that I was displaying the correct degree of restraint, in the presence of an irate drunk. But I must admit that Colin's criticism stung my pride.

There was another episode, which may well have occurred on this particular evening, although it doesn't seem to feature in my journal. But it strikes me as being typical of what was giving rise to my uncertainty about belonging (in spirit) to the Bullingdon. I think this occasion is the right slot for it - at a time when some of us were making our way home through Peckwater Quad, after the bus had deposited us all in Oriel Square.

There were about half a dozen of us standing in the vicinity of the Library when a perfectly harmless and pleasant undergraduate called [B] came ambling by. But Anthony Shiel was playing the huntsman - blowing his hunting horn and cracking the riding whip which he must have collected from his lodgings - and (drunkenly, I must suppose) took it into his head to treat [B] as one of his hounds. I do not recall if the lash actually touched him, but in any case he took offence, catching hold of it and wrenching it from Shiel's grasp. There was a moment of confrontation, with [B] (bravely) having to consider whether the rest of us might move to support our club member. And there were indeed apocryphal stories concerning what befell outsiders who might be so bold as to interfere with the Bullingdon Club when they were in the act of carousal.

I know that personally, I was shocked at what had happened, and would have moved (if necessary) to defend [B]. But Shiel had indeed sensed that he had exceeded the acceptable limits of boisterous behaviour and was now timidly apologizing - whereupon his adversary flung the whip on the ground and walked away. It was an episode which made a strong impression on my mind, giving rise to a feeling of unease with regard to the level of arrogance of this group, within which both myself and the majority of my friends were to be identified.

I cannot feel that they're kindred souls, when the roles
in life they secretly seek (in perpetuation
of the nation's class division) are cash down
bounty-paying jobs in the bastions of privilege.
While riven with pangs of private social guilt,
I've built my stance at the Mecca-point for bridges,
expecting anointment as their natural leader - while the rest
might question my compatibility with group ethos.
The teeth I'd like to grow for problem-attack
are practically stunted (blackened and fractured) by my care
for squaring the desired goals with the soulless messy
residue of this compromised position.
But if I turned to seek those other ends,
it might involve rejection of my friends.

Journal: 27th November 1955.

On Saturday I happened to bump into Constable Roper, with whom my previous encounter had been somewhat strained. This was due to my complaint about the way the police had recently reported me to the Proctors for being out and about after midnight. And according to them, I hadn't been displaying the green light in accordance with the university's regulations. This I denied, since it comes on with the sidelights, and was certainly working when I next examined it. But if the light wasn't showing, then it looks as if the police had seen fit to report me from their private knowledge that this was my car - which strikes me as being an abuse of their authority. Anyway the Proctors went and fined me £1. And I'd felt outraged that such liaison between police and proctors should be taking place at all.

On that previous encounter with P-c Roper, he had conformed with the current attitude prevailing in the police, which amounted in effect to the judgement of "Serves you bloody well right!" I had found his attitude so off hand, and unapologetic, that it occurred to me that it might be the consequence of the Bullingdon cancelling our cricket match against the police this Summer. It was rained off in point of fact. But we didn't make any effort to fix another date for it. So it had occurred to me that their reporting me to the Proctors came as a consequence of this. And I'd supposed that Roper's attitude was all a part of their switch in attitude towards us.

Well on this more recent encounter the attitude had quite evidently changed. The message had evidently got through to them that undergraduates regard such cooperation between the police and proctors as a matter of excessive zeal, to say the least. There has even been some comment on the subject in the Oxford Mail, I believe. Anyway I found Roper in a far less perky mood when I ran into him on this occasion, and he was anxious to make amends for whatever he may have said before, even intimating that he himself had never been one of those who reported undergraduates to the Proctors. Roper has always made it seem as if he delights in his authority as a policeman, so it was delightful to find him squirming now. I had been distinctly cold towards him when he first came up, but we became quite friendly towards one another once I found that his attitude had changed.