A theory about the Tory victory perhaps not of blinding originality was put to me the other day by a good friend of mine. It was that perhaps Mr. Heath was helped to his surprising triumph by the bad press he’d had all along. Maybe, my friend pondered, maybe people are slowly, quietly, firmly reacting against the image-makers and the images they create. I have not seen Mr. Wilson often enough to know how much his rumply air of comfort, his steady blue eyes, his way of suggesting with the slightest smile that he knows more than you do but he’s sporting enough to think you should have your say—how much this is the God-given character of Harold Wilson and how much of it has been created and successfully foisted on the original flesh and blood.
Anyway, my friend’s idea is that while Mr. Wilson’s latter-day impression of jaunty confidence and the ability to cope may be genuine enough, there were large numbers of people who were more drawn to Mr. Heath because no press kit, no public relations cosmetician had been able to make him acquire any phony charm or synthetic bounce.




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