In today’s Impromptus, I have occasion to mention George Blake. There aren’t many such occasions anymore (at least for me). Blake, you remember, was the British spy whose actual spying was for the Soviet Union. He cost many brave people — most of them in Eastern Europe — their lives. He fled “home” to Moscow in 1966.

After writing my column, I got to thinking, “When did Blake die?” I couldn’t remember reading his obit. The answer, according to Wikipedia, is that he has not died. At 90, he’s still living in Moscow. He has his KGB pension. The Soviet Union fell more than 20 years ago — and Blake has remained unmolested. Evidently, Free World intelligence services never take revenge. In 2007, Blake was given some award by Putin.

What if Blake returned to Great Britain today? I can imagine tender treatment by the BBC. I can see a special perch at Oxford or Cambridge. And, if UKIP manages to deliver a Miliband government, I can see — almost see — some official honor. Is that too McCarthyite or cynical for you? Well, Hobsbawm got the CH, and though he wasn’t a spy, he was a Communist, and an unrepentant Stalinist at that.

Moving on to a lighter topic — barely. In Impromptus, I tell a story — which, later, reminded me of another story. The first story first:

I thought of Bill Buckley the other night, and I’ll tell you why: I was in the 21 Club, having dinner. It was hot and humid in there. I took off my jacket (as any sane person would). A waiter quickly came over to tell me to put it back on.
I burned.
Why did I think of WFB? He was big on jackets. . . . But he also said, “Politically, I’m a conservative, but, temperamentally, I’m not one of the breed.” I’m sure I have that almost verbatim.
To wear long-sleeve shirts and jackets in hot and humid weather strikes me as — I’m sorry — barbaric.

Okay, the second story — one I heard some years ago. Nureyev has recently defected from the Soviet Union. (Early 1960s.) His British publicist is taking him to lunch. Nureyev is dressed in one of those patented tunics. He is probably the most elegantly attired man in London at the moment. They’re turned away from the publicist’s chosen restaurant because the dancer is not wearing a coat and tie.

A proper conservative, I think, would hail this, or at least approve: There must be tradition, rules. I understand this. Me like tradition and rules. Still, some of this stuff is cuckoo.

Have a nice day. And keep cool!