In a departure from the usual style of asketchofthepast.com, I have decided to write a post not only in a far more personal tone, but also about someone who is still very much alive. This is a response to the rather churlish little piece in yesterday’s Daily Mail, and the hackneyed ‘revelation,’ that Max Mosley’s 2015 autobiography, Formula One and Beyond, describes events from half a century ago with ‘selective memory.’ I have yet to come across an autobiography that would not face a similar charge.
The passage in the book which struck me most was Mr Mosley’s description of a particular conversation with his father, in which he compared their struggles and achievements at the same age. Sir Oswald, whose political career was effectively finished at the age of 34, replied ‘Well, that just shows what a mistake it is to start too soon.’ For his son, one doubts the fight will ever be over.
I met Max Mosley in September 2015. He had kindly agreed to meet me, in order to speak about his family as well as his own remarkable life. I had heard that he was impossibly charming in the flesh, and he did nothing to dispel such assertions. With the gait and appearance of a man several decades younger, and impeccable manners straight from the pages of Debrett’s guide to etiquette, Mosley embodied the sort of genteel Englishman I had always secretly hoped still existed.
After ordering tea – a macchiato for Max, I enquired about his celebrated aunts, the Mitfords. Honest to a fault, he ventured up amusing personal recollections without hesitation. Having written my thesis on the Bloomsbury Group, the most self-aggrandising and cliquey set one could possibly imagine, I found Max’s own modesty and the complete candour with which he described his famous, and in some cases notorious, relatives, as simply being ‘ordinary people,’ incredibly refreshing. He seemed genuinely confounded by the continuing interest in them. Continue reading