Spectator Life

There is surely no better way of passing the time than by doing nothing at all, fuelled by a large well-chilled drink. Nothing beats hanging out with a couple of similarly empty-headed chums in a warm patch of sun, glass in hand, watching the world go by. It turns out that those past-masters of taking it easy, the Barbadians – or Bajans – have a term for this excellent use of one’s time: liming. And given that Barbados is home to the world’s longest-established rum distillery – the peerless Mount Gay, in operation since 1703 if not before – it’s all but impossible to lime without the aid of plenty of rum.

BBC Director General Tim Davie, in his proclaimed push to create 'landmark' TV shows appears to be steering the Corporation in an increasingly conservative (small 'c') direction, intent on trading off past glories. Former soft drink marketer Davie’s lack of programming and editorial experience is often painfully apparent; he is increasingly given to sweeping crowd-pleasing statements, such as the remarks he made to the public about BBC's staff's attendance of Pride marches, telling staff to stop virtue-signalling on social media. Despite having spent 16 years in various senior roles at the Corporation, Davie doesn’t appear to have the antennae to pick up on the mood of his workforce.

Among the glorious shores of these islands, there is one of the best-kept secrets of sailing. It’s a ragged and rocky coastline that is blessed with the sort of idyllic, empty sandy beaches stretching on for miles that would make Tom Hanks's castaway shake from method acting-induced PTSD. Here the blue waters are scattered with islands rising from the depths with the kind of muscular topography that would have your average geography teacher reaching for their colouring-in pencils. This, my friends, is the west coast of Scotland. Forget the Caribbean, wonderful though the punch, the people and the terribly reliable temperature all are. The untouched beaches of the Western Isles are every bit as beautiful, just permanently 15 degrees Celsius colder.

News that the gourmet dog food company Butternut Box has raised forty million pounds to expand its services in the wake of the pandemic puppy boom will surprise no one. More dogs means more chum, after all. But this isn’t just any old chum. This is gourmet dog food, the like of which you may not even sup on yourself. Founded by two former Goldman bankers, Butternut Box promises to deliver a balanced meal of chicken, turkey, fish, or lamb with vegetables to your dog, perfectly tailored to weight and calorie intake. David Nolan and Kevin Glynn who form the savvy former banking duo, even promise that someone will taste the food before it is dispatched to your hound’s high table.

Of all the things sacrificed to public health in the last eighteen months, I think the one I regret the least is the default poolside Summer holiday. I first began to understand something about it, and the counter intuitive aspects of human happiness, on holiday in Cozumel, off the coast of Mexico, in 1999. I was staying at an all-inclusive hotel, not the sort of thing I would normally have done, being more of a self-identified 'traveller' at the time, happier with ad-hoc hostels and thumbing from town to town. I immediately resented the little coloured wristband that alerted the staff to the level of service and the range of free cocktails I was entitled to. But this was the cheapest and easiest way to spend a week scuba diving, which I was eager to try.

When a dear friend recently was clearing out her dad’s house following his death, she uncovered a tin of ancient Harrods’ Madras Curry Powder – several decades old and emblazoned for some reason with the name 'Ameer' on the front. This sort of attic find is considered an offending item nowadays, if the recent ‘curry is racist’ furore is to be believed. Madras curry powder is an essential ingredient of Anglo-Indian cuisine. Indeed, the flavouring is as much a part of British cuisine as Worcestershire sauce and English mustard. And it is, happily, still labelled 'Madras' – the imperial name for the city of Chennai –  when bought today. 'Chennai curry powder' doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.

The horror of August's mass shooting by 22-year-old Jake Davison caused many commentators to point towards a dangerous underbelly of male disaffection. But what many overlooked was the fact that the shadowy underground group of disenfranchised males that inspired Davison to take up arms is part of a much larger network of male activism dating back to the late 1970s when the men's liberation movement split into two camps consisting of the pro-feminist men's movement and the anti-feminist men's rights lobby. Focusing on what they saw as male disadvantage, oppression and discrimination, the men's rights movement hardened into Men's Rights Activism (MRA), an informal network of online communities known as the 'Manosphere'.

With the release of Benedict Cumberbatch's true life spy thriller The Courier, ten films about the era of (relatively) passive aggression between the Superpowers. Director Dominic Cooke’s new picture The Courier is based on the exploits of businessman-turned-MI6 agent spy Greville Wynne (Benedict Cumberbatch), who in the early 1960s smuggled Soviet secrets to the West from his GRU contact, Colonel Oleg Penkovsky (Georgian actor Merab Ninidze). The pair are eventually captured when the businessman travels to Moscow; Wynne faces 8 years’ incarceration at Moscow’s grim Lubyanka Prison, whilst Penkovsky is executed for treason.

Until very recently, the opaque world of American sororities was a mystery to me. I’m a British student at a British University, and these highly selective, members-only groups for American female students were about as foreign to me as guns sold at the supermarket. All of that changed when a hoard of long-haired, glossy-lipped girls at the University of Alabama started appearing on the homepage of my TikTok. I had gained a new obsession. I was addicted to watching Southern Belles vlog what’s known as 'rush week' - a uniquely American phenomenon where thousands of girls spend a week or more interviewing at sororities to get a 'bid' - an offer to join the house.

I am on a mission to befriend my new next-door neighbour. This is the sort of neighbour who has not one, but two, 'DO NOT PARK HERE' signs outside his house – both significantly bigger and shinier than his house number. He is the kind of neighbour that refuses to take parcels for me when I am out. When I asked him once what he did for a job, he muttered 'Work' and shut the door. The closest I have come to having a conversation with him was when he accused me of dislodging another neighbour’s gutter when pruning an overgrown tree. Even that was via text to the guy with the gutter I was just about to reposition. But I’m not giving up. I figure a friend may be just what he needs. And I need a friend too. I don’t even mind the sort with limited social skills.

What’s happened to seagulls? They used to be rather charming. The plaintive cawing of gulls used to be the nostalgic soundtrack to any seaside holiday. In the banal, best-selling book Jonathan Livingston Seagull, the eponymous bird flies for the spiritual joy of it and learns great truth and wisdom. The one thing it doesn’t do is nick your chips. How times have changed. Today, if you go to a harbour town in Cornwall, say, and buy an edible treat, there’s an even chance you’ll see out of the corner of your eye a white flash and — whoosh! — the top half of your pasty has gone. 'Bastard!' you shout vainly at the culprit. The other gulls all yak with mocking laughter. Local news outlets are full of gull attack stories in the summer months.

Europe is opening up again, and it feels great to be back in Switzerland, my favourite holiday destination. Most Britons think of it purely as a place for winter sports, but midsummer here is glorious. I’ve come here virtually every year for the last 20 years, and although it’s gorgeous in winter I like it even more in summertime. The wooded hills and lush green valleys are full of hikers and mountain bikers, but it’s easy to escape the crowds. Even in the busiest places, solitude is only a short walk away. Switzerland has some of the most spectacular landscapes in the world, and the summers here are hot and sunny. The lakes are warm enough to swim in, yet the air remains fresh and cool. So why don’t more Brits come here in summer?

With the recent rumours of increasing tension between Prime Minister Boris Johnson and Chancellor of the Exchequer Rishi Sunak, a look at feuding, fall outs and rivalries in the movies. Infighting between Prime Ministers and Chancellors has a storied history, harking back to the earliest days of the Parliamentary system in the UK. We’ve had spats between Harold Wilson and Roy Jenkins, Mrs Thatcher and Howe/Lawson, May vs Hammond and of course the long-running Blair/Brown psychodrama. The reported comity between Cameron/Osborne and Callaghan/Healey appears to be a relatively rare occurrence when it comes to the two most important offices of state in the British government.

I’m normally averse to leftovers: it’s not a trait I like in myself. I’d far rather be able to eat the same thing for days on end, especially when it’s seasonal veg, or an enormous, hearty stew that I’ve spent ages making. It’s a sensible way of cooking: healthy, seasonal, cheap, time-saving. But I’m easily bored, and the best laid plans of mice and men the night before, clingfilmed or tupperwared up, no longer appeal the following lunchtime. I end up parcelling those thoughtful, carefully prepared dishes onto my husband and plumping instead for so-called novelty in the form of toast, or a sandwich. For some reason, soup is the one dish that doesn’t suffer this fate.

I worry too much; I struggle with the unknown and I don’t like it when life doesn’t turn out as planned. This time last year Harry and I had hoped to say our vows under blue skies, witnessed by our friends and family. Instead we got married in a pandemic and a rainstorm. My sister Pandora says; ‘It’s dangerous to have high expectations - you will almost always be disappointed.’ On this occasion, however, this disappointment turned out to be the best thing that could have happened. We refused to let covid or the weather dampen our day, resulting in no hangovers of failed expectations. We must learn to live with the things we cannot control; our sanity depends on it. My chief worry is about my parents and my imagination runs wild.