Spectator Life

With its elaborate castellated pediment, arched and oriel bay widows, three round towers and snowy-white stucco façade, Hunter’s Lodge, in affluent Belsize Park, is anything but your average North West London home. Throw into the mix 500 years of history, the untimely demise of a British prime minister, scandalous royal shindigs and a recent, lavish three-year-restoration project providing a basement spa, glass-walled champagne cellar and cigar room, and this Georgian gothic revival castle makes for all-round drama.

I have always been a bit of a stew-pusher; it tends to be my answer to any of life’s dilemmas, culinary or otherwise. Friends coming round? Stew. Cold and dark outside? Stew. Feeling sad? Stew. To be honest, it doesn’t matter whether or not the weather demands it, I am always in the mood for stew. I’d eat mince and dumplings in June, a slow-cooked sticky oxtail ragu in high Summer. But once Autumn arrives, and my obsession is legitimised by the cold and the dark evenings, there’s no stopping me. In our household, it’s casseroles from now until Spring. I struggle to think of something more comforting and cosy than a big, generous dish of braised meat, tender vegetables and a beautiful sauce arriving at the table.

For decades we have been told that it’s all our fault; that the reason many of us don’t manage to lose weight is a lack of willpower. But there’s a bigger cause behind our failure to shift the pounds and it’s certainly not due to floundering commitment. It’s down to a part of the brain called the hypothalamus. In fact, there are several well-researched biological pathways that protect our body from weight loss and ensure our weight rebounds each and every time we attempt to slim down. Research shows that in order to lose weight and make it stick, you must eat well and exercise for a month – then have a month off.

When I was young, I watched a television show about a man who, possessed of the spirit of greed, ate gold and died. I recognised hubris then, and I recognise it now. In a country filled with foodbanks people are hungry to eat gold, which is, in food standard circles at least, called something less miraculous: E-175. E-175 usually comes in flakes, leaves or powder. It has no nutritional value. It passes through you, though of that there is no evidence on Instagram, which is a shame. They should really follow through. E-175 is big on Instagram, which is the engine of the fashion for eating gold. It is an entirely visual thing.

It would be interesting to see what people would have turned up in had the Bond premiere not been of the Royal variety with a black-tie dress code. Perhaps Daniel Craig in Yeezys or Lea Seydoux all Parisian chic in a pair of jeans and sweatshirt, we can but wonder. It is a relief that people didn’t treat it like the Met Gala and turn up in anything but the dress code. The turnout was extremely good for the sartorially minded, including from the guests. Jason Momoa showing up in a Henry Poole tuxedo juxtaposed his hobo-rambler-surfer vibe. This came as less of a surprise to me as he is often posting about deliveries of rings and accessories from artisans and I know he has a few bespoke shoes from Gaziano & Girling.

‘Casseroles,’ Julia Child wrote to her long-term penpal Avi DeVotos, ‘I even hate the name, as it always implies to me some god awful mess.’ On this, Julia and I are in full agreement: I have a real problem with the word ‘casserole’. And ‘stew’ for that matter. Both of them sound so unappetising, so school dinners. But Child and I are also aligned in our hypocrisy, because actually, deep down, I love a casserole, as long as you call it anything else. Like me, despite her vocal opposition to the casserole, Child loved bourguignons and carbonnades, coq au vin and poulet poele à l'estragon, and wrote about them with enthusiasm and appetite. Of course, all of these are casseroles, just with fancy (or specific) names.

Something's in the air in Hollywood. It’s the whiff of A-list celebs who’ve given up washing. Jake Gyllenhaal recently revealed that, ‘more and more I find bathing to be less and less necessary.’ Cryptically, he added, ‘we naturally clean ourselves,’ without explaining how he keeps himself smelling of roses while avoiding soap and water. Hollywood’s new dirty dozen is said to include Brad Pitt and Ashton Kutcher. Kutcher and his wife Mila Kunis have said they ‘seldom’ take the trouble to bathe. Power-couple Dax Shepard and Kirsten Bell offered this stern warning to anyone on the brink of a morning shower. ‘You should not be getting rid of all the natural oil on your skin with a bar of soap every day.

Have you ever wondered what Vladimir Putin thinks when he watches a Bond movie? When the credits roll at the end, does he glance at his mobile phone and wonder if anyone else is listening? Does he stroke his cat and gaze meditatively at the wall-to-ceiling fish tank in his dacha and feel some unease? James Bond is made up – and everyone knows it. But just like The Crown, 007 has a habit of shaping global perceptions for better or worse. Why else did China  censor the Skyfall's Shanghai scenes and cut out references to torture by the Chinese authorities, however fantastical the plot may have been?

It's National Inclusion Week when we all come together to 'celebrate everyday inclusion in all its forms'. This year's theme is 'unity' where 'thousands of inclusioneers worldwide' are being encouraged to 'take action to be #UnitedForInclusion.' In the bewildering world of identity politics, however, there is one group of excluded individuals you won't be hearing much about. As a demographic, they suffer from all kinds of discrimination and yet social justice activists seem uninterested in their plight. Unlike oppressed minorities, this particular group may be in the majority and yet they garner little in the way of sympathy from anyone, barring their mums, perhaps.

And so to Whistling Straits, a venue with a name so ridiculous it could only be something to do with golf. The Ryder Cup is on us again, that biennial experiment to discover which overweight American is loudest at shouting ‘get in the hole!’ Golf shouldn’t be about artificial passion. Don’t get me wrong, the game itself is not without merit. For various work reasons I’ve spent a bit of time at professional tournaments, and the players are likeable, down-to earth people from ordinary backgrounds who just happen to be incredibly skilled at hitting a small ball into a small hole that’s far away. They’re as different as could be from the Bossy Accountant types who make amateur golf such a repugnant spectacle.

Once upon a time, the Royal Horticultural Society staged a Great Autumn Show every September in their two Horticultural Halls off Vincent Square in London. It was a fine mixture of colourful nursery trade exhibitions and fiercely-fought amateur competitions, involving fruits, flowers and glowing foliage (Who could forget the amusing annual battle between the Dukes of Marlborough and Devonshire - or rather their head gardeners - over the prize for the best bunch of glasshouse grapes?).

Most Brits will be aware of the Emmys, if at all, as the event that this year generated lots of social media outrage because apparently all the celebrities should have worn masks but didn't. But few will have any idea who won or who was even nominated: unlike the Golden Globes or the Oscars, they too often seem to feature shows we've never heard of on American TV networks with lots of acronyms.