Spectator Life

The 'American Downton' has just hit our screens in the form of The Gilded Age on HBO, a busty, curtain-heavy romp through the moneyed boudoirs of late nineteenth-century New York starring Cynthia Nixon and Christine Baranski. Written by Julian Fellowes, the man who has done more PR for the upper classes than the Windsors could ever dream of, the drama sets its sights on that most nebulous of concepts, American aristocracy. But wait, they don’t have an aristocracy, I hear you cry. Oh but they do, retorts Fellowes. Just look at all the upstairs downstairs drama, sudden destitution of young fatherless women a la Sense and Sensibility, and bitchy sniping in earshot of the servants.

Hooray for Raymond Blanc for stating the absolutely obvious. He’s got an ITV series coming up, which, if I had a television, I’d be watching compulsively, called Simply Raymond Blanc. He’s an instinctively brilliant, self-taught chef, who really was a game changer on the Eighties restaurant and cookbook scene. And in an interview for the Radio Times he declared that Delia Smith was absolutely right to make use of convenience food in her most controversial cookbook, including frozen mashed potatoes. As he observed, ‘Delia Smith was the first TV chef to really simplify food. She was heavily criticised for using tinned and frozen food in her recipes, but she was absolutely right. ‘Take the frozen pea.

After some lengthy troughs and fallows, iconic Spanish director Pedro Almodóvar is enjoying a purple patch with critical acclaim for 2019’s autobiographical Pain & Glory and his new picture Parallel Mothers. Star Penélope Cruz is tipped to have a good chance of winning the Best Actress Academy Award for her performance as middle-aged mother-to-be Janis Martinez. But if anyone believes that advancing years (he turned 72 last September) have tamed the provocateur, they should think again, as the film’s theatrical release poster (featuring a lactating nipple) was temporarily censored by Instagram.

The news that former England manager Roy Hodgson is the new manager of Watford Football Club at the grand old age of 74 has generated quite a lot of excitement. Much of it, of course, is focused on his age ­– 74 is undoubtedly old for a Premiership Football manager, particularly when you consider he’ll be three times the age of his players. Don’t forget that when Sir Alex Ferguson retired as manager of Manchester United in 2013 he was 71, which is positively Jurassic in the land of football. Hodgson’s even older. But we shouldn’t be surprised or indeed sceptical about this, because come 2050, chances are we’ll all be doing a Roy Hodgson. Not managing Watford, but working.

A friend told me awhile ago that whenever they saw my name they’d think ‘Oh no – what has she done to upset people now!’ I was mildly miffed at the time but, as a long-standing defender of Katie Price – the criminal formerly known as Jordan – this is invariably my reaction these days on seeing her name. Seeing her dressed up as a nun to launch her foray into OnlyFans, even I was moved to tut. As an admirer of KP’s sauciness and stoicism, I have watched her antics over the past few years with the feeling of growing dismay which I suspect many of my ex-friends feel viewing my own epic game of Snakes & Ladders with the English media.

Our friend Colin is back in the news again. This time, it's not his name that has caused a storm – Colin's many fans may remember M&S filed an intellectual property claim against Aldi back in April in an attempt to stop them from selling their copy cat-erpillar Cuthbert. Rather, it's the suggestion that he may have been present at the Prime Minister's impromptu birthday party,  that is raising eyebrows. Like Prince, Madonna and Boris, in birthday party circles, Colin needs no second name, with over 15 million sales under his belt during his 30 year life. I’m only slightly older than Colin, and he’s been present at perhaps half the birthday parties I’ve ever attended, plus more than one wedding.

I love wearing ties. I like to match the colour or pattern of it with another aspect of my ensemble. I have a navy and grey basket weave tie from E. Tautz that goes well with my navy basket weave tweed sports jacket and grey flannel trousers from the great Terry Haste. Or my navy and red regimental tie by Ralph Lauren with my navy pinstripe suit (again by Terry Haste) and red socks. I am one of those sensible sorts that doesn’t like to wear a shirt and jacket without a tie. I think just like going on a well-meaning protest or voting, there is something life-affirming about the perfect dimple created just beneath the knot of the tie. What with our much decommissioned, out of office lives these days, is its perceived stuffiness heading the way of the spat?

Vive la France! Our beloved Gallic neighbour has reopened its borders to the casual tourist once more and, as travel slowly yawns its way back to something resembling normalcy, it is the perfect time to hop across the channel. France, in my half-French-totally-unbiased opinion, is never a bad idea. The diversity of the country is staggering – offering you undulating valleys dotted with vineyards, luxurious beach breaks or quaint Provençal villages; the eternal allure of Paris and majestic snow-capped peaks. But why not discover its lesser known enclaves? Seasoned Francophiles may like to take this opportunity, after a miserable time apart, to discover hidden France.

There’s a school of feminist thought which says that women in the public eye should never have scraps with each other. I disagree. I don’t recall anyone ever commenting that when young black male rappers have big public beef with each other they’re being disloyal to the civil rights movement by refusing to speak with one united voice. But this is the way of the Woke. All other oppressed groups – riot! Women – be good little trans-maids and don’t report rapists to the police.

A friend told me recently that the only time she and her husband get passionate these days is when they are yelling abuse at each other across the cup-holders of their Renault Hybrid. He complains that she drives like an anxious old lady while she's convinced he's an entitled prat behind the wheel. During every mangled gear change, every junction missed, every failed three-point turn each reminds the other of his or her imbecility. It's all displacement of course – these disproportionate attacks are never really about whether one of you forgot to indicate. Outside the confines of their hybrid, the couple in question live a life of quiet, seething resentment just like the rest of us.

The humble pork pie has held its place in English culinary history for hundreds of years and now it finds itself embroiled in the latest Westminster plot to oust the Prime Minister. This iconic lunchtime staple may look simple to pull off but, just like the current political manoeuvres of SW1A, it's far from a small undertaking. Although crust pastry predates the pie itself, it wasn't pastry as we now know it, but a water-flour-oil mix used by the Romans to cover their meat during cooking. This protected the meat from burning during the cooking process and helped it retain moisture; it wasn't intended for consumption, and was discarded after baking.

'An aristocracy in a republic is like a chicken whose head has been cut off; it may run about in a lively way, but in fact it is dead'. So said Nancy Mitford as far back as 1955 in her Enquiry into the Identifiable Characteristics of the English Aristocracy. More than half a century later, English aristocrats though – just about, even in the era of Prince Andrew – living in a monarchy, are still running about like headless chickens. This time, however, there are camera crews following them offering the entire thing up for public consumption on ITV’s new three-part series Keeping Up With The Aristocrats, the first episode of which aired last night. Are they dead? The jury’s out on that one but they do want you to know that they’re broke.