Spectator Life

I’m not usually in favour of money-grasping councils, but I will make one exception: I’m afraid I am not on the side of the SUV drivers of Cardiff who are bleating about having to pay higher parking charges. Under new rules introduced by the Labour-run council – and likely to be copied elsewhere – drivers of vehicles which weigh more than 2.4 tonnes will have to pay extra for a parking permit, and drivers of cars weighing more than 3.6 tonnes will be refused parking permits altogether. How much extra has yet to be decided – the council has so far voted in favour of the principle of charging more – but the cost of a parking permit in Cardiff is currently just £35 a year. Compared with the cost of renting somewhere to live, that is a ludicrously good deal.

‘Live fast, die old’ ran the strapline to the David Brent: Life On The Road film a decade ago. The movie itself was a textbook example of how unwise it is to attempt to cash in on the earlier (read: much funnier) successes of your career. Not that Ricky Gervais gives a damn while residing in his Hampstead mansion, of course. As increasingly pompous as his persona now is, I’ve finally reached a place where I know I’d rather have a night out with Brent than with his creator. There would be pathos. But there would at least be lager. Although I’m certain that a 2025 London ‘big’ night out with Slough’s finest former paper salesman would almost certainly take place at the Hard Rock Café.

Turning 24 came with more than just cake and candles. Alongside the celebrations came a barrage of life-determining questions: when are you getting married? Where do you see yourself living? When will your job become a career? With a single step into my mid-twenties, I felt suddenly catapulted into a new world of adult expectations. And nothing captured this shift more than my birthday presents. I love my new pilates ring and am curious to see what collagen will do to my complexion, but there was something unnerving about receiving an entire haul of health-inspired gifts. When my friends arrived that evening to celebrate my ‘achievement’ of turning 24 – still unemployed and still at home – the wellness theme continued.

The SS Californian deserves more than mere footnote status when it comes to its role in the story of the RMS Titanic. For that was the name of the ship that sent repeated messages to the crew of the doomed cruise liner, all of them warning of ice ahead. But the Titanic’s wireless operators weren’t interested – to the point where one employee dismissed the Californian’s communications with a reply that read: ‘Shut up, I’m busy.’ Of course, the Titanic wireless crew weren’t really busy at all. They were simply spending their time sending private telegrams on behalf of the first-class passengers on board. A few hours later, well, we all know what happened. But we haven’t yet gone public enough with the overuse of what was, back in 1912, an absolutely deadly adjective.

Reading about the break-up of the 19-year marriage of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban, I was interested in some comments from our old mate ‘A. Source’ about the possible cause. According to the Sun: ‘Keith put a brave face on Nicole’s raunchy screen roles and all the comments she’d make about her sexuality. But he didn’t react well when people teased him about Nicole getting it on with hunky younger guys, albeit only on camera, and it was a sensitive topic that became a real issue as time wore on.

I first wore a beret for a fancy dress competition at my infant school summer fete in June 1975. My mother had entered me in the ‘topical’ category and tapped into the media furore around the nationwide referendum a week earlier over whether or not the UK should join what would become the EU – an issue that has managed to remain topical. My costume consisted of said beret (borrowed) paired with a stripy top, an extravagant moustache drawn on with charcoal from a burned cork and a string of onions hung around my neck. And I was pushing a bicycle.

My quince tree thrives – proof that nature can overcome adversity. I planted it, and I am a bad gardener. Childhood hours spent waiting for my mother to finish watching Gardeners’ World left me with fond memories of Percy Thrower, but in place of horticultural skill I inherited indolent incompetence. Our garden did not seem so big when we moved from a flat a decade ago. But for most of the second half of the 20th century, the former occupant of our house had been a keen gardener. Carefully planted beds, it turns out, need care, which I have failed to provide. Each spring I wage a blood feud with ground elder, to the point where I hallucinate its leaves.

My wife put it in her usual succinct way: ‘Why do you want to write a book about such a sleazeball?’ I couldn’t really say. The late Richard Booth, second-hand bookseller and former self-crowned king of Hay-on-Wye, was not instantly lovable. Some found him the essence of unlovability. He was scruffy, disorganised, egocentric, impetuous, hopeless with money and capricious. At times he was rude, promiscuous, bad-tempered, small-minded, boring, bombastic, unscrupulous and unaware of the upset he could cause. Yet most of his staff – those who survived the whim of iron – loved him for his good heart, his childlike enthusiasm, his humour, ingenuousness, irreverence, shyness and kindness.

‘Books are a load of crap’, wrote Larkin the librarian, for a bit of fun. But some books are not very good, no matter what guff they put on the cover. Those promotional blurbs, where adverbs and adjectives jostle for supremacy, are often as false as Judas. Shami Chakrabarti, for instance, plugs With the Law on Our Side, the new book by Lady Hale, as ‘accessible, forensic, and breathtakingly humane’. Line-and-length humanity is clearly for those poor souls below the salt. Her ladyship is a grandee with a natty brooch, and must therefore be breathtakingly humane. It’s verbal sludge. Also, do the publishers really think that Little Bo Peep’s approval will shift a single copy?

I am five minutes out of the Faroe Islands’ windy, stomach-churning airport when the world twists into legend. It looks like Lord of the Rings but more menacing. Ten minutes later it’s a nightmare of single-track tunnels – go slooooow – carved into the earth by crazed dwarfs with too much time on their hands. Five minutes after that it’s Tolkien again, but redrafted by a boozed-up Norse god: dramatic buttes crumble into the Atlantic, mad farmers are ploughing near-vertical slopes, and waterfalls leap joyously from enormous cliffs to dissolve into lacy surf 300 yards below. The land here feels tormented, as if the sky and the sea endured a bitter divorce and the cliffs are their broken children: jagged, furious and full of vengeance.

Call me crazy, but I’ve always loved Belfast. Even when it was grim, scary and unlovable, I loved Belfast. It doubtless helped that when I came to know it, I was courting a local girl. I loved it because she loved it and, well, I loved it even after she chucked me. The people, the bars, the craic – gosh, the very air – invariably get under my skin. I’ve always felt at home in the city’s embrace. And now that Belfast is no longer grim, scary and unlovable – and long since my Colleen came to love another and long since I came to love another too – I love Belfast even more. The craic is just as hilarious as that in Cork, Dublin or Galway. And today it’s even more so thanks to a swank and a pride (and a peace) that was absent before.

My son’s first birthday has arrived, which feels like a much bigger milestone for us than it is for him. I had to let go of any expectations around motherhood early. At eight months pregnant I learnt that I could not have the calm, candlelit water birth I had planned (does anyone actually have one of those?). It transpired that I had a condition called placenta previa, and so would need a planned caesarean. The midwife cheerily told me not to worry about him ‘coming out the sunroof’ – a rather grating expression as it implies an easy way out, when I am, as it happens, a car without a sunroof. Then came the rather startling announcement from the surgeon that my baby was ginger (my husband and I are more Draco Malfoy than Ron Weasley).

Newmarket trainer Harry Eustace is a master at targeting his best horses at big races. If there were those who did not know it before this year’s Royal Ascot, they certainly knew it afterwards. He landed two winners at the five-day meeting from his relatively-small string: Docklands (put up at 25-1 in this blog) at 14-1 and Time for Sandals at 25-1. One of his near misses at the meeting was Divine Comedy who was a close fifth in the Ascot Stakes over two and a half miles despite a troubled run in the home straight. Ever since that run, tomorrow’s Club Godolphin Cesarewitch (Newmarket 3.40 p.m.) has been the end-of-season target for this seven-year-old mare.

I am not sure about the protocol for arguing with a royal essay, but at the possible cost of my head I will respectfully disagree with the Princess of Wales’s call for parents to ban smartphones from family mealtimes, written with Professor Robert Waldinger of Harvard Medical School. ‘Our smartphones, tablets and computers have become sources of constant distraction,’ she writes, ‘fragmenting our focus and preventing us from giving others the undivided attention that relationships require.’ She instead appeals to us to ‘look the people you care about in the eye and be fully there’. I know what she means. She is thinking of surly teenagers scrolling through social media over dinner while their parents try to engage them in conversation.