Comment: The Weasel

In which I search in vain for peace at the Imperial War Museum, find fault with film-makers and lose my shirt at the Grand National

THOUGH THE late Bunny Roger famously touched up his mascara in the trenches and went over the top carrying a furled copy of Vogue, I was nevertheless surprised to find the Imperial War Museum shop selling Eyelure Fashion Lashes ("All you need to be eye-catchingly gorgeous") at pounds 3.55 a pair. On the bookshelves, there were further incongruous juxtapositions - Schiaparelli Fashion Review was cheek by jowl with Liddell Hart's History of the First World War, while Bayonet Warfare in the 20th Century rubbed dust-jackets with Come By Sunday: The Fabulous Ruined Life of Diana Dors.

In case you're worried that the Imperial War Museum has been occupied by an invading force of garcons de Nancy, perhaps I should explain that these unlikely intrusions are souvenirs of the new exhibition, From the Bomb to The Beatles. Mind you, not every memento is frivolous frippery. I was tempted to buy Mrs W a Morphy-Richards electric iron (pounds 22), but I feared that such a sentimental gesture might ignite hostilities in Weasel Villas.

"These are from the old days - Grandad's time," a young father told his squabbling offspring as we stared at the first display in the exhibition, a room filled with utility furniture. It was pretty much like a flat which I shared for 10 years, even down to the mysterious grid of Littlewood's Pools lying on a moquette armchair. Feeling my age, I peered at a display of post-war cuisine and was slightly mollified. Though some may harbour happy memories of Sausage Nuts, Macaroni Fish and Turkish Herrings, I am pleased to say that I never encountered the gruesome recipes suggested by the Ministry of Food to eke out supplies in the age of austerity.

Aside from an ominous room devoted to the nuclear threat (it includes a useful tip from the Ministry of Civil Defence in 1959: "Contaminated clothing can be cleaned to a very considerable extent by means of an efficient household vacuum cleaner"), the exhibition is mainly made up of the valuable oddities that everyone hopes to find in their attic. Legendary moments of sporting triumph are commemorated by two gnarled cricket balls, a tarnished stop-watch, a frayed jockey's shirt. A tatty piece of paper turns out to be the most celebrated moment in The Archers. It is the script announcing the fatal combustion of Grace Archer on 22 September 1955, by an uncanny coincidence also the launch date of ITV: "Phil [dazed, helpless]: In my arms... on the way to hospital... She's dead." A scribbled addition reads: "Remember - no sig tune."

Some may wish the exhibition organisers had obeyed the same injunction. The section devoted to the Forties echoes to both the sound-track of Brief Encounter (Celia Johnson witters, "I couldn't possi-blah") and hits of the era. Sir Noel Coward chirrups an ironic ditty called "Don't Make Fun of the Festival of Britain" over a display devoted to that charming festivity. To evoke the spirit of the Fifties, Danny Kaye yodels "Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen". A juke-box churns out the tunes that inspired the Aldermaston marchers of the early Sixties. The accompaniment was provided by that arch-firebrand Acker Bilk. In the Imperial War Museum, peace is far from peaceful.

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AFTER HE was overlooked by the Oscars, I was pleased that Peter Weir won a Bafta award for his direction of The Truman Show. An intelligent and offbeat work, it concerns the secret filming of an individual who becomes the star of an immensely popular soap opera. However, I was struck by a minor blemish. About a third of the way through, a boom microphone bobs into view in Truman's kitchen. Nothing so special about that. In Stephen Frears's film noir The Grifters, the boom mike is continually in and out of shot like a yo-yo. As defects go, it scarcely compares with the Norse warrior who wears a Rolex in The Vikings or the way that two door panels are destroyed in The Shining though Jack Nicholson axes only one. I wouldn't mention the bobbing microphone in The Truman Show at all, except for the fact that this is probably the only film that could explain away its appearance as part of the narrative. But I don't think it does.

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A PALL was cast over Weasel Villas when we lost our collective shirt on the Grand National last Saturday. Oddly enough, this is the one occasion when Mrs W lays claim to anything in the way of female intuition. She says she can always nap the winner of the National. It should be a remunerative gift, but somehow it never turns out that way. Annoyingly, my spouse says her gift only works if she doesn't bet on the race. A few years ago, however, she picked the winner when we were actually at Aintree, though the winnings on a pounds 2.50 each way bet scarcely put us in the clover.

This year I pressed her for a tip before the race began. She made her choice and I trotted round to the bookies. Twenty quid each way might not be much to those who can understand the gibberish spouted by McCririck, but I felt to be among the highest of high rollers when I emerged from Ladbroke's.

So what happened? As the winners romped home, Mrs W's nag was nowhere to be seen. "Can't be helped," I said through gritted teeth. Oddly enough, she didn't appear in the least dismayed, but positively beamed at the TV screen. "See, I always know."

"But you haven't won this time," I seethed.

"I knew that Bobbyjo was the one."

"So, why did we plonk our all on Fiddling the Facts?"

"I told you Bobbyjo but you said it was carrying too much weight," she said, still inexplicably pleased with herself. "I knew it was going to romp home."

Queer horses, women.

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THE CRITICS were right about C: Because Cowards Get Cancer Too by John Diamond, just out in paperback from Vermilion (pounds 6.99). Coolly observing the ebb and flow of his his battle against cancer, Mr Diamond has produced a wonderfully readable piece of journalism, its intolerable subject illuminated by flashes of wry humour. Anyone in his state who writes that cancerous cells are "glamorous and successful", compared to the "plodding drones" that are non-cancerous cells, is a bit of a hero. The book is excellent in every respect - except for the staggeringly crass self-promotion of his publisher. A line on the book cover reads: "Choose Vermilion because your health and well-being really matter." I doubt if John Diamond, of all people, needs to be reminded of this fact.