Spectator Life

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.

I was in Scottsdale, Arizona and, to put it mildly, a little squiffy. Most folk go there to play golf (yawn) but I’d gone there to drink and, after a lengthy tequila masterclass in La Hacienda and several cocktails at Platform 18 (‘best US cocktail bar’ in the 2023 Spirited Awards, incidentally) in nearby Phoenix, I was also more than a little disorientated. No, don’t laugh. Firstly, La Hacienda – a fancy bar in the Fairmont Scottsdale Princess resort – has more than 240 different tequilas and mezcals on its list and, thanks to the resort’s resident Tequila Goddess (its term, not mine), they just kept on coming.

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.

British pubs are having a moment. Not in Britain: you can blame Keir Starmer’s rise in business rates for that. Instead, they are branching out overseas. Take Wetherspoons, the granddaddy of British boozers, set to open next month in Alicante airport, or BrewDog, which has opened its doors in Dubai and many other international outposts besides.  Perhaps British pub chains will prove to be our next big export market. No doubt there will be the obvious jokes about arch-Brexiteer Tim Martin opening pubs in Europe. But would you really bet against him? Whatever you think of Wetherspoons, I can assure you that you’ll never find an empty one. Just imagine the kind of trade they could do in Barcelona or Rome. Which brings me to Dubai. Did you know there was a BrewDog in Dubai?

Travel to Hokkaido, Japan’s northernmost island, and I imagine one of the last things you’d expect to find is a Frenchman making wine. But tucked away in Hakodate, Etienne de Montille, a ninth-generation winemaker from the 300-year-old Domaine de Montille in Burgundy’s Côte de Beaune, is challenging preconceptions about Japanese wine. The de Montille family has been synonymous with Burgundy for centuries, but Etienne decided in 2016 to try something different, setting up vineyards in both Hokkaido and Santa Barbara, California.  ‘I was touched by what I saw,’ Etienne told the Japan Times last year.

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.

With two of the big races on Cheltenham Trials Day tomorrow attracting four runners, I am looking at the lower-profile contests for my suggested bets. Without each-way betting, I have no desire to take on odds-on shots Grey Dawning in the Grade 2 Betfair Cotswold Chase (2.25 p.m.) or Sir Gino in the Unibet Hurdle (3 p.m.). If Jagwar is as good as connections think he is – the horse’s ultimate aim is the Grade 1 Ryanair Chase at the Cheltenham Festival – then he will need to win tomorrow’s Betfair Exchange Handicap Chase (1.15 p.m.) off an official mark of 149. He’s probably the right favourite on form and expectation but his joint trainers Oliver Greenall and Josh Guerriero have still not peaked with their horses this season and I would prefer to look elsewhere.

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.