Spectator Life

At first glance, there are few similarities between Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh’s classic 1945 novel – later adapted into an equally classic ITV series – of prelapsarian bliss in Oxford and Industry, the BBC’s adrenaline-fuelled show that exposes the dark iniquity at the heart of the financial industry. The one is a languid examination of (discreetly portrayed) same-sex love and Catholic guilt, and the other is a profane, sexually charged and palpitation-inducing dive into hedonistic self-indulgence. Brideshead is plover’s eggs and Meursault; Industry class A drugs and group sex. They would seem as distinct from one another as chalk and (Comté) cheese.

Eighty years ago this month, in February 1946, the left-wing Tribune magazine published George Orwell’s essay ‘The Decline of the English Murder’ in which the writer identified a certain class of crime as most appealing to the tabloid-reading British public – and contrasted the ‘cosiness’ of this type of early 20th-century domestic murder with the brutal sadism of killings committed in Britain during the second world war.  Two years previously, in 1944, while war still raged, in another essay entitled ‘Raffles and Miss Blandish’, Orwell specifically contrasted the ‘hard-boiled’ school of crime fiction with the gentlemanly Raffles stories of E.W. Hornung, featuring a well-mannered upper-crust jewel thief.

In a week in which embarrassing and damaging revelations about past misdemeanours are very much in vogue, let me reveal one of my own. When I was seven years old, I wrote in to Jim’ll Fix It. My request was to play a giant Wurlitzer organ, preferably the one in the Blackpool Empress Ballroom. To my retrospective relief, Savile didn’t respond to my letter. But I did purchase a second-hand, two-tier Hammond organ when I was at university, which I played as part of an acid jazz group. No tapes of our band’s songs or gigs survive I am delighted to state. I was reminded of my rather strange and atavistic early love of organs last week when I read of the death of Nigel Ogden, the presenter of the long-running Radio 2 show The Organist Entertains.

‘Screenagers’, ‘lonely’, ‘boring’ – all words used to describe Gen Z. Born between 1997 and 2012, we are the first generation to grow up with omnipresent technology and are often maligned as phone addicts and loners. But things are changing. Now the first tech-native generation is actively seeking out the most analogue hobby of all: community choir.  Community choirs have boomed across the UK following the pandemic, and the country’s youngest adults are clamouring to get in. Some Voices, a non-audition choir in London which started as six friends singing in 2010, has grown to more than 1,200 members since 2020. Many of these newer members are Gen Z, searching for a connection which is more reliable than the wifi.

Two years ago, I wrote an essay here called ‘In praise of Kemi Badenoch’. To say it was admiring is like saying that Abelard quite fancied Heloise. She sent me a nice message on X; I went mildly berserk one evening when drunk and sent her a poem I’d had ChatGPT write, basically saying that she was going to save the world. Our communication understandably dwindled after that, as she probably came to believe I was a crazy person. To be fair, I also became increasingly taken with Reform; the re-nationalisation plan in particular grabbed me. I wrote about my turncoat ways in the i Paper: ‘When I and millions of other former Labour voters choose Reform at the next general election, it’s not because we’re rabid right-wingers.

‘Do you want to stream something?’ my girlfriend asked me. It was 5 p.m. on a Saturday and I’d had a horrendous week. I’d caught one of those mutant viruses that you learn about in nursery rhymes or at the London Dungeon. The cough was the worst part. It was the sort of cough that evacuates a Tube carriage. It was the sort of cough you hear in a western before the protagonist says: ‘Old Billy Boy got consumption. There ain’t a darn thing we can do ’bout it. Doc says he got weeks. Poor bastard. He ain’t never gon’ make it to Montana.’ In short, I was feeling out of sorts. And as such, I was ready for some mind-numbing television. ‘We can watch something,’ I said. ‘What do you fancy?

If you make your way to the Design Museum, which occupies the horned modernist structure that was once home to the Commonwealth Institute in Kensington, you are in for a surprise. And not just because it’s one of those buildings that is far more inspiring on the inside than its rather Stalinist exterior would have you imagine. No, the biggest surprise is that our national temple to design has decided to dedicate its ground floor to Wes Anderson, the American filmmaker (‘auteur’ is the word film types like to whisper) behind such idiosyncratic gems as The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) or, probably his biggest hit, The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014), which starred Ralph Fiennes, Adrian Brody, Saoirse Ronan and Willem Dafoe, among many others.

There are so many ways to mangle brilliance. If you’re a present or former member of Take That, you’ll know what I mean when it comes to taking the sweet essence of the Bee Gees and turning their hits into something as bland and devoid of colour as an Ikea Billy bookcase. And if you’re James Cleverly, you may have learnt last week that members of parliament using comedy catchphrases invariably turns the gag from gold into something that floats at the top of a storm drain.  Referring to Housing Secretary Steve Reed, Cleverly asked in the Commons: ‘What was it about the Labour party’s collapse in the opinion polls that first attracted him to the cancellation of local elections?

When did you last visit the National Portrait Gallery? If, like me, you haven’t darkened its doors since it reopened following a £43 million makeover and expansion in 2023, stand by for a shock. Instead of being just a selection of the famous faces featuring in our island story – the politicians, poets, scientists and showbiz giants who did their bit to make Britain great – the NPG’s collection is being deliberately diluted to provide a portrait of ‘ordinary people’ who make up the tattered fabric of the nation today. I made my first visit to the gallery since it reopened this week.

When I heard that Robbie Williams had written a song called ‘Morrissey', I didn’t know whether to be delighted or irate. It’s no secret that I idolise Moz, and the idea of a somewhat seedy showman attempting glory by association made my hackles rise somewhat.  But on the other hand, Williams has co-written several songs which have caused my toes to tap over the years and has a history of acting gay when it suits him. (Indeed, Take That’s appeal might be crudely summed up as four lads who looked like rent boys and their concerned social worker, Gary Barlow.) Then there was the ‘Shame’ video of 2010 by Robbie and Gary, in which the two principals start by exchanging copious meaningful glances in a shopping mall.

The biggest rebel in my year at school (a pretty raggedy state comprehensive near Chester) was a guy called Paul. He had very long hair, wore a trench coat and was regularly told to ‘have a bath’ by the more boorish elements of the playground. Paul railed against the system in the way that only teenagers who have experienced nothing of life but have read at least half of The Catcher in the Rye and The Outsider can. The more militaristic tranche of our teachers also hated him for the permanent odour of weed that followed him around and the crude drawing of Che Guevara on his rucksack. He was one of my best friends. Paul cut his hair and stopped reading Noam Chomsky in his mid-twenties.

Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson is best known for his 1972 narcotics-fuelled fantasia Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. In some ways, his is a story of life imitating art. Thompson lived large, once saying: ‘I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.’ He killed himself in 2005, at the age of 67, fearing that health problems would ruin what was left of his life. His funeral was a grand, set-piece affair, costing $3 million and paid for by Johnny Depp with the swag from his Pirates of the Caribbean movies; it ended with Thompson’s remains being shot out of a cannon to Bob Dylan’s ‘Mr Tambourine Man’. He went as he lived, in a blaze of glory. Except members of Thompson’s family are now telling a different story.

On 15 November 1975, Elizabeth Taylor died. No, not that Elizabeth Taylor – she had many more years, and many more husbands, to get through. I mean Elizabeth Taylor the author, whose 12 novels and four volumes of short stories so piercingly and hilariously chronicle the quietly desperate lives of middle-class women in and around the sleepy towns and villages of the Thames Valley in the middle part of the last century. Kingsley Amis thought her ‘one of the best English novelists born in this century’. Anita Brookner considered her ‘the Jane Austen of the 1950s and 60s’. Despite such accolades, Taylor never quite achieved the status she deserved. She was never a bestseller; she never won a prize. In fact, a faintly patronising air bedevilled her throughout her writing life.

I write this piece while listening to an album that I suspect will be widely regarded as one of the best of the year. That it is by Robbie Williams may come as a surprise to many. After all, Williams has often been mocked as a cruise ship entertainer who got lucky, a Butlins redcoat who has somehow become Britain’s most successful solo pop star. If his new album, Britpop, goes to number one in the charts – and he deliberately delayed its release from last autumn so that it could avoid being trampled by Taylor Swift’s The Life of a Showgirl – it will be his sixteenth chart-topper, thereby setting a record that even the Beatles were unable to equal.

I’ve been fat and I’ve been thin; I’ve been pretty and I’ve been plain – ugly, even. Throughout this, my self-esteem has stayed generally constant, as if you’re going to base it on something as ephemeral as physical beauty, you’re going to run out of road very quickly indeed. This objective attitude to my own appearance reminds me of a funny story from the infant days of the internet. Imagine my surprise one morning to receive a message from an unknown recipient informing me that they had film of me masturbating to online pornography which they would make available to a wider audience should I fail to pay a ransom. (Don’t judge – I was young-ish and frisky and it was all so new – I soon grew out of it.

Normally rail ticket prices are raised in line with the Retail Prices Index (RPI) plus 3 per cent. This January, unusually, they didn’t increase. But that is not how it will feel if you fancy a short break in Edinburgh. In that case, you may well find yourself paying double what you used to pay. Say, on the spur of the moment, you fancy a short trip to the Scottish capital from London this weekend, but you are not quite sure which train you can leave on and when you want to come back. In the past, you could have bought a Supersaver Return, which allowed you to take any off-peak train there and back.

My husband and I share a bank account, and I don’t care who knows it. This detail lumps us in with many Boomer couples who have typically shacked up together financially – for better or worse, richer or poorer – for the duration of their married life. As (geriatric) millennials, our joint bank account therefore renders us something of an anachronism, but we’re used to this by now. We are outdated and unfashionable in our approach to many things, including (but not limited to) childcare, housework and car management.

It feels like the 57th day of January. Last week the coldest temperature of the winter so far (-12.5°C) was recorded about 20 miles west of my house. And according to every newspaper and social media feed I have scanned since new year, I should be purging my body of toxins by eating ‘plant-based meals’, abstaining from alcohol or otherwise giving up any semblance of comfort and joy. But there is another way. This may be ‘the worst time of the year… the very dead of winter’, as T.S. Eliot described the season in ‘Journey of the Magi’, but we are still in Christmastide – right up until 2 February, or Candlemas.   Twelfth Night used to be about fun and misrule, incorporating elements of the Romans’ midwinter festival Saturnalia.

I was walking my dog when a WhatsApp message and photo came through from Simon, an old school friend of more than 50 years. His kids had sent him a picture of a man who had turned up unexpectedly at the family home. The accompanying message said simply: ‘Your friend Andrew from Epsom College is here?’ Simon, who was out shopping, didn’t recognise him. Did I? No, I replied, but he looks familiar. But then again he was white, rotund and greying and thus a 99 per cent DNA match for one of our social circle: i.e. a well-fed 60-something with a 20-something handicap. The more I studied the photo the more worried I got. For Simon and his family. Who on earth was this mysterious visitor standing in the middle of his kitchen? What did he want?