Spectator Life

Most of us have had disagreements with friends over politics at some point in our lives. Or worse. One of the constant threats to friendships is that such differences could one day spill over into acrimony or result in a full-blown falling-out. In my youth, the election night parties held by my parents seldom ended without raised voices and tearful eruptions – aided, admittedly, by the vast consumption of alcohol – and who could forget the divisions and severed friendships occasioned by the EU referendum in 2016?  At least most folk above a certain age have been able to establish and sustain friendships with those of contrasting political persuasions. The same can’t be said for Gen Z.

It was the longest pub crawl of my life – visiting numerous boozers across 250 miles over ten days – in homage to one of Britain’s most infamous drinkers, Dylan Thomas. I’m not, I must qualify, a Thomas obsessive, as this enterprise might suggest. If exposed to Thomas at length, I find myself recalling Private Eye’s 1980s characterisation of Neil Kinnock: ‘The Welsh windbag.’ Although, in fairness, even Thomas himself described his own verse as ‘a steaming pile of Welsh whimsy’.

There is something inherently embarrassing about watching Bridgerton in Britain. It is so palpably, monstrously, uninhibitedly woke; an American fever dream of England in which an all-English (and the odd Australian) cast cavort as members of the ‘ton’ for money they’d probably never get from the BBC. In front of the great Bridgerton mood board scrawled with such words as ‘Downton Abbey’, ‘Jane Austen’, ‘Upstairs Downstairs’ and – of course – the most Shondaland touch of all, ‘Diversity!’, the likes of Adjoa Andoh and Lorraine Ashbourne do their thing while (one imagines) the suits at Shondaland clap with pleasure. Shondaland is the woman (Shonda Rhimes) and production company behind Netflix’s adaptation of the Julia Quinn novels.

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.

Can’t get an appointment with your GP? Nowhere to sit in surgeries crammed with the ill and infirm? Spare a thought for your local auctioneer who is also dealing with the effects of a long winter of discontent. The cost-of-living plague, from which almost nobody is immune, has prompted people to rummage around in their cupboards for treasure and to wonder whether they really want to continue to insure that Raeburn or Lawrence at vast expense. Throw in the epidemic of rocketing gold and silver prices, and you’ll struggle to get an appointment with an auctioneer, busy as he is weighing Georgian candlesticks and making house visits to inspect the family portraits.

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.

I saw a chap walking down the road the other day looking, unusually for my part of town, the very quintessence of sartorial elegance: polished brogues, tailored pin-striped suit, rolled umbrella. He was a modern-day Beau Brummell. But what really topped off his ensemble – literally and figuratively – was a bowler hat. I haven't seen anyone wearing one of those for decades. In fact, the last time was about 35 years ago when a girl arrived at a party in one. Cruelly, I pointed and said: 'Ha! Charlie Chaplin!' The awkward silence that followed shamed me rather than embarrassed her.  Since the bottom dropped out of the officewear market during Covid, making an effort with daytime dress is unusual enough.

‘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.

The nicest thing anyone has said to me recently is: ‘But surely you’re far too young to remember cassettes?’ Sadly, I had to break it to my new neighbour that, as a child of the 1980s and a 1990s teen, I’m not – which is why I’m bemused to learn that tapes are the latest piece of retro tech to make a comeback.  Taylor Swift, Billie Eilish and Charli XCX are among artists who’ve released new music on cassette, fuelled by Gen Z’s apparently insatiable appetite for nostalgia and clunky devices long since sent to landfill.

By the calendar it is winter, but the days are longer and the birds are singing. Snowdrops are scattered around the front door, and crocuses have already broken through on my lawn. Mostly they are slim and pale, but when the sun has shone they have opened their purple cups to its warmth. Virginia Woolf compared the yellow anther within to a lit match.  In defiance of the calendar, spring shows its face. Hellebores droop with dappled flowers. Kneeling in damp earth to trim back their old leaves reveals their profusion. Catkins are on the trees, magnolia buds are splitting with promise, the scent of the daphne cuts the cold air, and the blade-like leaves of spring bulbs, ‘the green fuse that drives the flower’, push up along the grass bank beside the road.

Imagine going into an English pub and slapping a tenner down on the bar. ‘All I can drink, please,’ you say. ‘Certainly sir,’ says the barman. ‘You’ve got two hours.’ ‘Right then,’ you say. ‘I’ll start with a pint.’ Ten minutes later: ‘Whisky, please, no ice.’ Shortly afterwards: ‘I think I’ll have a Bloody Mary.’ Then: ‘Pint of that there. The green one. Please.’ Shortly afterwards. ‘Large white wine.’ And so the night wears on. You can have absolutely anything you like: cocktails, double G&Ts, rum and coke, Jack Daniels and Jack Daniels. Two hours is enough to render you senseless. You have drunk the equivalent of £100 of booze for £10, and you need a taxi, a chicken fajita and an urgent visit to the toilet.

If you had been fortunate enough to see the first night of Tchaikovsky’s opera Eugene Onegin at the Opéra National de Paris last week, then it might have been with a slight jolt of surprise that you saw a familiar face take to the stage as the cast took their bows.  Ralph Fiennes, the award-winning actor, was not appearing in the opera – although he took on the role of Onegin in a 1999 film that his sister Martha directed – but instead he made his operatic directorial debut with the production. The reviews so far have been mixed rather than laudatory.

Are we all curators now? From the hotel chef offering an artfully curated cheeseboard to the fashion world’s curated capsule collections, the sound curators (DJs) and the luxury tour operators flogging seamlessly curated travel experiences – and don’t forget the curated (actually, algorithm-generated) lists from Substack – nowhere is safe from the scourge of the contemporary curator. The actor Idris Elba sees himself less as a conventional musician, ‘more of a curator of music’. In 2023, he curated the Nigerian musician Fela Kuti’s Box Set 6, in case you’re not up to speed on your Afrobeat vibes. The American rapper and songwriter Kanye West identifies as an ‘inventor or maybe curator’, possibly not clocking they’re quite different things.