Africa
Dinner with Tutu and a day with the Barmy Army
Published 11 September 2008
"You were wonderful," beamed the archbishop, thanking the audience for their support in the anti-apartheid struggle. Several looked uneasily into their napkins
Archbishop Desmond Tutu - Arch to his friends - must be the only person in the world who could say such touchy things in public. He chose a huge dinner for bankers and businessmen, organised at Tate Britain by Investec, to explain the psychological impact of apartheid on black people. Tutu recalled the first time he got on a plane piloted by Africans. At first he was delighted at their achievement but when the plane flew into a violent storm shortly after take-off he began to wonder "if these black fellows could handle it". He found himself wishing that there was a white man at the controls. That's what apartheid did to the self-esteem of black people, he said. He also thanked the largely white British and South African audience for their support during the struggle against apartheid. "You were wonderful," he said beaming at them. Several looked uneasily into their napkins.
To the cricket, nervously
Accepting tickets from a friend for the one-day England-South Africa game at the Oval, I found myself in the middle of the Barmy Army. Slightly nervous to start with, I stayed aloof as they went through their warm-up chants and ribald gibes, but by the end of the day I felt like a fully paid-up member. Hashim Amla, the South African number three batsman, got treated to "You've got your head on upside down", to the tune of "He's got the whole world in his hands". Freddie Flintoff was subjected to a stream of mocking banter and then a paean of admiration, which he tried to ignore. He failed. I felt that had he not been on the pitch he would have been at the heart of the Army.
I also noticed that it polices itself well. Late in the afternoon someone upset a steward and an abusive confrontation seemed inevitable. Immediately others intervened and told their deviant member to cut it out.
What's yours is theirs
I thought that a direct debit was a payment system that only the account holder could set up, so I was vexed to find that a national newspaper had removed a couple of hundred pounds from my account without my say-so. In fact, they had accidentally paid me twice but I didn't know they could take it back as a direct debit.
My bank explained: "A lot of companies are now on the new direct debit system, which means all they need is a sort code and account number. It's not like the old system whereby they needed a signature from you. The cover in this case is given via the Direct Debit Guarantee, so if a company should register a direct debit in error then you are covered."
So that's all right, then. But I hope the system is mutual. I am very happy to sign a direct debit guarantee for Richard Branson so that, next time his Virgin Media system crashes and I can't get online, I will deduct a proportionate amount from his bank account.
Rich man's conference
If you want to get into politics in Britain, or even try to influence politics, be rich. Be very rich. This year the Royal African Society teamed up with Save the Children to organise fringe meetings at the party conferences to talk about Africa. We wanted to invite Africa experts to come along. To sign up to the Tories' conference, the cost for charity observers was £113 in April. In August it was £213 and in September £263. For commercial observers it was £273 in April; now it's £423. The Labour conference fee is £298, including £195 for late registration. And we're not even talking about accommodation yet.
File and remember
I've always been a "File and Forget" journalist. Next day, as they used to say, "it's fish-and-chip wrapping". Why do I feel differently about my book? It took me 14 years, on and off, and I had almost given up on it when I had one of those death dreams from which you wake with electric panic. It struck me that if I died and hadn't finished it I would be so angry I would . . . well, do whatever dead people do when they realise they have pissed their time away. I didn't give it another thought, until it arrived - a real book. By me. Now I sneak up on my copy and peep into it as if it is a baby and I'm checking it's still alive.
Richard Dowden is director of the Royal African Society. "Africa: Altered States, Ordinary Miracles" is published by Portobello Books (£25)
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