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He’s a natural journalist, always on the phone to his contacts, and he has a lot of highly privileged information.” He lives next door to the Duke of Kent in Belgrave Square and he’s got his friends in the Commons, so he has Stanley Baldwin’s side of things, too. But when the crisis blows up, he’s got all sorts of channels.
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In 1935, Emerald Cunard is trying to recruit friends for her, and Chips is her first port of call. They were friends from 1924, and Mrs Simpson is an American who, like him, is cracking her way in to high society. “But Chips is the ultimate star fucker, and if you get into that in this country, then the ultimate star to fuck must be the monarch. “Of course he’s entirely wrong about David,” he says.
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As for her husband, George VI, he was “a well-meaning bore”, and no patch at all on his brother, David, AKA Edward VIII, later the Duke of Windsor, who though “unintellectual, uneducated and badly bred” would have made a “brilliant” King, notwithstanding his “Nazi leanings”.)įrom his own family seat in Essex, Heffer laughs loudly (he’s speaking to me via FaceTime from a rather grandly proportioned study, the bright yellow spines of a collection of Wisden, the cricketers’ almanack, on a shelf behind him). (She was, he writes, indolent and unambitious, “with a streak of treachery and gay malice”. And so it is that we now know, among a thousand other delicious things, exactly what Channon thought of Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother. The first volume, which runs to more than 1,000 pages, is published next week the second will follow later this year, and the third in 2022. It was, Heffer says, an honour and a privilege to be invited to do this mammoth job – “Chips with everything!” as he puts it – and three years on his labours are finally at an end. When the book did appear, then, it was as a single, slim volume: enough words to fill a Penguin paperback, the edition I owned.Ĭut to 2018, when Simon Heffer, the journalist and historian, having been asked by Channon’s grandchildren to edit a new, complete edition 60 years after his death, excitedly took delivery of copies of all the extant notebooks, including those lost volumes from the 1950s that had famously turned up at the family seat, Kelvedon Hall in Essex, after someone bought them at a car boot sale (“I believe these are yours,” said the purchaser to Paul Channon, handing over the goods in a plastic bag). As Chips’s ex-wife, Honor, said at the time: “Some of the catty remarks (which fascinate) MUST be cut.” She was especially worried what Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother might think. Quite apart from his father’s sexuality – among Channon’s male (and often married) lovers were the playwright Terence Rattigan and, almost certainly, Prince Paul of Yugoslavia – pretty much everyone named in the book was still alive. But they would need, it was agreed, to be heavily redacted.
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When Channon died in 1958, aged 61, his son Paul (later a transport secretary in Thatcher’s government) green-lit their publication. Most eye-popping of all, during a visit to Berlin for the Olympics in 1936, he and various other of his smart English friends had partied wildly with leading Nazis, among them Hermann Göring, whose floodlit garden had been made over to look like a cross between a Coney Island funfair and the Petit Trianon in Versailles – a theatrical coup that seemingly drove both Joseph Goebbels and Joachim von Ribbentrop half mad with jealousy.īut dripping with juice as these diaries were – Channon’s chief virtue as a writer is his abiding awareness that dullness is the worst sin of all, and for this reason they’re among the most glittering and enjoyable ever written – they were also incomplete. As a friend of Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson, he had enjoyed a ringside seat during the abdication crisis as the Conservative MP for Southend he had looked on with fawning admiration as Neville Chamberlain negotiated with Hitler, and abject horror as Winston Churchill succeeded him as prime minister (Channon was in favour of appeasement). Channon, an upstart Chicagoan who’d unaccountably managed to marry the daughter of an exceedingly rich Anglo-Irish Earl, moved in vertiginously high circles. W hen the diaries of an obscure politician called Sir Henry “Chips” Channon were first published in 1967, they caused a sensation, and not only among those whose names appeared in their index (“vile & spiteful & silly,” announced the novelist Nancy Mitford, speaking for the walking wounded).