Report from Rainbow Land

Report from Rainbow Land For millions of British newspaper readers, the U.S. is "Rainbow Land," a world of dazzling fluff and foolishness. The man who paints it that way is Britain's favorite Manhattan columnist, a sleekly combed English reporter named Don Iddon, who writes his weekly "Don Iddon's Diary" for the London Daily Mail (circ. 2,293,565) and a string of other papers on the Continent and through the British Commonwealth. Since British newspapers generally do an indifferent job of covering the U.S., many readers rely on Iddon's hodgepodge of gossip, pressagentry and political hip-shooting for much of their U.S. news. Over the weeks, he leaves the impression that most Americans guide their lives by astrology, gorge themselves on thick steaks, give their daughters $10,000 debuts and are all ready to jump into aluminum pajamas and lead-foil brassieres at the first hint of atomic attack.

Such airy servings, neatly calculated to confirm preconceived British notions, have won Iddon the Fleet Street title of "Britain's Walter Winchell." Since 1943, bumptious Reporter Iddon ("let's face it, I'm a terrific egotist") has been doing his diary the way his bosses and readers seem to like it--by skimming the foam from the U.S. scene.

Whose America? Last week, in England on a refresher trip, Reporter Iddon looked about him and blandly remarked: ''There seems to be a surprising amount of ignorance about America. People here seem to think Americans eat nothing but steak and ride in enormous cars. Of course, that's nonsense." Then he went to work to plug his new book, Don Iddon's America (Falcon Press, London; 125, 6d), a collection of his columns which have been carefully edited with the wisdom of hindsight. Some still unedited Iddon items: P:"The electric chair is working overtime and Sing Sing's Death Row is jammed as detectives round up gun-happy youths hepped up with dope." P:"The sleeping-pill habit is getting more widespread [in Hollywood]. Actors and actresses take them to get a few hours' rest and then swallow benzedrine in the morning to do their work." P:"The simple truth about the Negro in America . . . is that he is treated as subhuman . . . [Negroes] live worse than the white man's dog." (Explained Iddon later: "I probably meant an Englishman's dog. After all, Britons treat their dogs very well . . .")

Such sensational jottings are the result of long practice. Don Iddon began his reporting career in London, at age 18, with such torrid features as "The Cocktail Girl Myth" (for the Sunday Mercury), later caught on at Beaverbrook's Daily Express, which sent him to New York in 1937. He landed on St. Patrick's day and, say critical Fleet Streeters, "he still writes as though every day is St. Patrick's day in New York." In 1938 he switched to the Daily Mail, started his column five years later and thereby got what he proudly describes as "the best job in British journalism" ($25,000 a year, plus expenses).

Personal Affection. Despite his flippancies and irrelevancies, Iddon usually tries to be kind to the U.S. in his own way, often shows a sharp editorial insight. He has cautioned Britons against being shaken by the Anglophobia of such "choleric" isolationist newspapers as the Hearst press, Bertie McCormick's Chicago Tribune and the New York Daily News, and has admonished his readers: "Remember this personal affection of Americans for the British when you read the melancholy stories of abuse . . ."

When the North Atlantic Treaty was signed in 1949, he caught its impact better than many U.S. reporters. "Not many Americans know or pretend to know much about the big leap into the European dark," he wrote. "They feel in their bones . . . that it was inevitable . . . I have never during all the years here felt a greater admiration for America and the Americans. The clock strikes for them and they are ready."

But Iddon never forgets that the tune Britons like to hear has a Rule, Brittanial theme. For example, after many a laudatory word about U.S. generosity in the Marshall Plan, he once summed up his sentiments in a way to bring cheers from home: "I await the day when we shall be sending bundles for America and floating loans for Washington. That day I shall crow until I am hoarse."

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