Spectator Life

Are you hungry, peckish, esurient? Join me at Josie’s diner in Lexington, Kentucky, in the heart of Bluegrass country, where the horses are lean and very many people are, let me be frank, not. Josie’s is heaving at 8 a.m. as the well-upholstered clientele arrive for the morning feed. A mercifully slim student at the University of Kentucky is my waitress. ‘Hi, y’all! I’m Madeline Rose and I’ll be your server today,’ she announces, in the earnest tone of wait staff in a country where the credit card terminal offers the option of a 25 per cent tip. The menu she hands me is already expansive, but there’s more.

Saying that national generalisations have fallen out of fashion is an understatement. Stereotypes have become less common and less tolerated. But not all is unblemished improvement, and something of value has been lost. National generalisations – often misnamed racial – now veer close to thought crimes. A pity – national generalisations are a basic tool for making sense of the world, and for understanding how people’s backgrounds shape their values, character and culture. Abusus non tollit usum – that something can be misused does not mean it should not be used. As a man with a very limited range of anecdotes and conversational gambits, I frequently repeat myself. Handily, I work as a hospital doctor, supported by an ever-shifting cast of juniors and students.

Filthy, foetid and fraught with danger. A magnet for hooligans, hard drinkers, a few saints and plenty of sinners. And that was Fleet Street before the newspapers moved in. This ancient thoroughfare, in use since Roman times, is one of London’s most famous occupational streets, much as Jermyn Street is known for its tailors and Harley Street its medics. The difference is that Fleet Street is inexorably linked to newspapers despite the fact journalists have not pounded its pavements for decades, the trade having moved on to Wapping and beyond at the tail end of the last century. Now Fleet Street is on the cusp of another new era, with plans to replace many of its historic buildings with modern office blocks.

Let’s cherchez un violon petit! Skiing is now too pricey for the middle classes. According to a recent flash poll by the Telegraph’s ski section, 70 per cent of readers now think skiing holidays are unaffordable. For the bourgeoisie, skiing – along with many of the other trappings they used to take for granted, such as being able to afford the fees for a private day school or a daily takeaway coffee – ce n’est pas possible. Quel dommage! (Let’s parlez anglais now; I think you get the point.) It’s not just the accelerated cost of living in the UK – or Liz Truss personally putting our mortgages up by a grand a month. Long gone are the days of getting almost €2 or $2 to the pound. In France last week, it was around €1.

Hello and welcome to my podcast Are you a high agency individual? My name is Muscle McSteroid Face, but my friends call me the Beast for short. Please enjoy the next 135 minutes while I talk about myself and make you feel inadequate. I am a high agency individual. I was born this way, but you can learn my skills for an introductory offer of $59.99 a month (link in my bio). A high agency person is a risk taker. We are mavericks. We are the writers of our own destiny, the authors of our own story. We are leaders. We make tough decisions. If you were stuck in a rancid prison cell on the corner of some godforsaken slab of land, who would you call? You would call me. When a bouncer tells me that I’m too drunk to get in, do I simply walk away and go home? No!

The Dan Skelton versus Willie Mullins battle reaches its finale at Sandown tomorrow when one of these two brilliant trainers will be crowned Britain’s champion National Hunt trainer for the 2024-5 season. Skelton, who trains in Warwickshire, goes into the final two days of the season with a narrow lead over Mullins, who trains from his all-conquering Irish yard in Co. Carlow. However, with all the firepower at his disposal, it looks highly likely that Mullins will overtake Skelton’s prize money total tomorrow, given the latter’s lead is less than £60,000. For example, Mullins fields no less than ten runners in the bet365 Gold Cup Handicap Chase (4.10 p.m.), worth nearly £100,000 to the winner.

Any sane proponent of Britain’s liberal democratic values should be angry. We are facing an apparent crackdown on our once-robust freedoms in the form of a ban on banter. A tweaked clause in Angela Rayner’s Employment Rights Bill, currently making its way through parliament, says that employers must take ‘all reasonable steps’ to prevent harassment of their staff by third parties. It is intended to relieve ‘anxious’ staff of the fear of going to work and being upset by colleagues or punters, and has caused a total meltdown on the free speech right. Rightly so. The bill could indeed equate to a clampdown on normal back-and-forth between human beings. There are fears that pubs could be sued if their employees are offended when overhearing customers’ conversations.

In 1906, Sir Francis Galton observed a crowd at a country fair in Plymouth attempting to guess the weight of an ox. Nearly 800 people participated – from butchers and farmers to busy fishwives. Galton, ever the measurer of men and beasts, gathered the guesses and calculated their average. The result was startling: the crowd’s collective estimate came within one pound of the actual weight. This elegantly simple experiment is the founding parable of what we term the ‘wisdom of crowds’ – the idea that while individuals may be flawed, the collective judgment of a sufficiently diverse group is compellingly accurate. Galton’s experiment also became one of the great justifications for democracy.

Seeing that photograph of J.K. Rowling, I reflected gleefully that her journey from mousey, play-nice moderate to unapologetically glam and flamboyantly defiant fox is complete. It’s not often that glamour and righteousness come along in one person – but when it occasionally happens, as her caption said, ‘I love it when a plan comes together.’ Many brave people – mostly women, but joined by a few exceptional men – have sacrificed much for the victory we finally took receipt of in the Supreme Court last week. They have been robbed of reputations, careers, relationships and – almost – sanity, as much of the world’s establishment and institutions went gender-woo gaga and told us that women could have penises, men could grow cervixes and giraffes are born without sex.

I blame The Spectator. The chain of events that has led me to be christened and confirmed in the Anglican Church began with an article I wrote for Spectator Life in January. I had spent New Year’s Eve with a friend, a former vicar, who had lost his faith and honourably resigned his living as a result. He claimed that most contemporary clergy no longer believe in the basic tenets of Christian doctrine: the divinity and miracles of Christ; the Virgin birth; the resurrection; life after death; even the very existence of God. I wrote an article bemoaning this, and mourning the decline of the Church as an essential element of the nation.