A Bumpkin in Britain

Sure I'm a bumpkin - and it helps in this crazy city that drives itself every day to do something more daring, more sordid, more noble. A bumpkin can take a detached look at the heart of the Commonwealth. And be sick with distress or laughter.

I had a quite laugh the other day in the fabulous 28 guineas a night Harlequin suite in Park Lane's exclusive Dorchester Hotel.

The Lions of the British Press, the men from Fleet Street, were at work on a tough customer.

Now the Harlequin suite, overlooking Hyde Park is the suite in London. Mike Todd and his bride, Elizabeth Taylor spent their honeymoon there.

But the reason for the Press's presence wasn't a film star - although he was once a bit player opposite Boris Karloff.

It was that well-known politician, Mr Charles Robberts Swart, Governor-General of South Africa, in London on a three day visit during which he saw the Queen over luncheon at the Palace.

A bustling official with a South African Oxford accent told the Pressmen: "No interviews." Uproar followed. Eventually the harassed man said "His Excellency will permit pictures in his apartment. Twenty at a time please."

So in I went, following in their wake trying to look like a newshawk.

Officials trying to control the press were swept away into a corner - and forgotten. I joined them there and leaned against the elegantly papered walls, and eavesdropped on their conversation in Afrikaans. "They wouldn't allow this at home" one grumbled.

Mr Smart relaxed in his chair and smiled politely. Thirty photographers called at him: "turn this way, turn that way; One more please Mr Swart" (they called him SWORT). They had him standing up, leaning against a doorjamb, touching the lintel above the doorway - and taking his black silk umbrella from a shiny bamboo case. It was chaos.

An enterprising young man from the Daily Mail ventured a question: "Did you see the anti-apartheid slogans at the airport?"

"No comment. I'm on a visit to Her Majesty and only Governor General elect."

"Are you pleased to be in England, what do you think of it?"

"I have nothing to say."

Then we were asked to leave.

I walked up to His Excellency. "Tot siens, U Edele", I said, and shook him by the hand. "Oh - ahh, cheerio", said the Governor-General. Quite a different man from the one I saw not so long ago on a Nationalist platform complaining about the outrage of the "English Press."

Down in the Dorchester's American bar, hard-bitten pressmen, eyes black-ringed after a 52 hour vigil waiting to buttonhole Anna Kashfi (Joan O'Callaghan or Mrs Marlon Brando) for a story, were swallowing peanuts and beer.

There I met a Guido Orlando, America's biggest promoter and who modestly styles himself "the King of Publicists". "I could even teach Prince Philip a thing or two" says this dapper little man who has won an Italian election with publicity stunts, boosted unknown girls into stardom and notoriety, told lies to the Pope in order to sell hats for a client and invented a 16 years old mistress to add some "glamour" to a fading King Farouk.

"What's you name?" he asked in his Brooklyn-Italian accent.

I told him.

He winced. "No wonder you can't get one", he said. "The foist thing ya gotta have is a name - say - what about Leo Dorchester. That's a real elegant moniker. From now on, you're Leo Dorchester."

It was no use protesting with Mr Orlando about my swift change of name. "You just listen to me Leo", he said, "stay off the booze and follow me - and you're in big business. If you have any talent I could make you famous."

I shuddered when I thought of falling into my Orlando routine and I pushed off, leaving him as he told me he was working on a "big deal, selling Baroda's yacht" - only the celebrated Gaekwar doesn't have a yacht.

You can never get away from East London. Studying the flags of many nations one night in an Earl's Court Olde Worlde pub called the King's Head, hang-out of South Africans, Australians, New Zealanders and Rhodesians I met John Ryan.

He's a former Daily Dispatch reporter and his parents, Mr and Mrs J.G. Ryan, live in Buckingham Court, Brighton Street, on the Quigney. John had just completed the tour of he Continent. He had given up his newspaper reporter job in Plymouth to go and was trying to get a job on that journalist's mecca, Fleet Street. Meanwhile, he was working in a record store near Harrods, in Knightsbridge till his break comes along.

And here's where Publicity chief, Mr Robbie de Lange can help. The King's Head sports the banners of a score of commonwealth cities - those little triangular flannel things. I saw them labelled, Winnipeg, Sydney, Christchurch, Salisbury - but not one from East London. Mine host, Joe Doakes would welcome one for the collection.

  One of my father's accounts of life in London, found among his papers after his untimely death in 1990.