Spectator Life

Snus is a smokeless nicotine product that you insert between your gum and your upper lip. Your saliva soaks into the pouch which in turn releases nicotine, entering the bloodstream without a million tiny pesky tar particulates. In the UK, it is illegal to sell tobacco-based snus, though the non-tobacco variant, also known as nicotine pouches, is legal and widely accessible. The industry is worth something like £250 million and is growing rapidly. It’s a discreet way for smokers to opt for a safer hit of nicotine – so, inevitably, Labour is looking to ban it. I think part of the charm of snus is its subtlety. A vape can be garish and obnoxious Labour’s authoritarian approach to nicotine products is a confusing one.

Before the op, I was going to write a jaunty piece about how getting yourself ready to go into hospital is like getting ready to go to a wedding. Both require new clothes – that is unless you feel confident that your jimjams – dressing gown, slippers and, for goodness’ sake, knickers – are all presentable. Now, back home after quite a major op for bowel cancer, I’m not feeling quite so jaunty. At a time when the NHS is described as broken and in need of reform, I know I’ve been lucky. I was diagnosed early, had a brilliant consultant surgeon whose communication skills were equal to his surgical skills, and a specialist nurse who was able to talk me through my many anxieties.

As I leant over to speak to one of my dining companions in a busy restaurant, I felt something shuffle on my knee. I briefly wondered if it was a rat. But it was just a busybody waiter, who had taken my napkin from the table and folded it upon my lap. It was a bit strange that he did so without asking – but then, this same waiter had, when taking our order, crouched down (so that he was sitting on a chair) and asked, ‘Are you guys ready to order, and do you want me to explain the concept?’ So much to dislike. My most serious complaint is reserved for restaurants that are incapable of serving up everyone’s food at the same time My biggest gripe used to be waiters who poured your wine too frequently, and too full, in their mission to total the bottle so that you order another.

How many Spectator readers are aware that tiny Montenegro, that silver sixpence of south-east Europe, so long lost in the jumbled purse of geopolitics, has some of the deepest canyons in the world? Not many, I’d bet – we know the luscious Montenegrin Mediterranean coast, if we know anything. And I’d wager even fewer know that one such abyss, the Tara River Canyon, is one of the fastest watercourses on the continent. I’d imagine no one at all, including me until five seconds ago, knows that the longest stretch of rapids on this giddying torrent is called Borovi. It’s like Utah hooked up with Iceland, somewhere in Sicily, and brought a friend from Dartmoor I only know this because I’ve just fallen in.

I doubt that Sir Keir Starmer has ever been inside a TK Maxx. I don’t see him, even in his early parliamentary days, hunting and rummaging for designer fashion, or trying on dozens of duds in a bid to find ‘the one’. We know the Prime Minister loves swanky clothes at the lowest possible price – and that’s TK Maxx’s raison d’être. But I don’t think he has the attitude required for shopping there. It's a pity because, with the right approach, TK Maxx can deliver great rewards. It has for me – calming my nerves when my personal life turned frantic and distracting me when the entire world seemed insane. It works as a tonic, I think, because TK Maxx shopping is an all-embracing activity requiring total concentration and commitment.

Who honestly has the time or inclination to finish long novels these days? I yearn for a serene period when I can read The Red and the Black or The Raj Quartet each night before bedtime, but I seem to be imagining someone else’s life. When new content, cool and engaging, is flooded onto YouTube daily, when you have subscriptions to four different websites, and the telephone regularly pings (or rather, zhuzzes) with WhatsApp messages, entering the world of Julian Sorel or the British in India is a struggle. I used to read two or three books a week, very cheerfully, but since around 2016 we’ve lived in a world so swirling and volatile that literature has at times seemed like its shadow.

The NHS uses 130,000 pagers, 10 per cent of the world’s total, and a fraction that slightly increased on 17 September when several thousand of those belonging to Hezbollah exploded. In fact, the NHS, where I work, and Hezbollah share certain problems when it comes to communication infrastructure. A few years ago, I was delighted to see a ward computer with a floppy disk drive – 5.25”, of all things, and be thankful if you’re too young to know the difference between that and 3.5”.

The Starmers were supposed to have the moral high ground – at least according to Labour eschatology – and yet we read of their grubby relationship mega-donor Waheed Alli. Alli was given a security pass to 10 Downing Street in return for his money. During the election, he lent Team Keir the use of his £18 million Covent Garden home. Lady Starmer, meanwhile, certainly has time and taste for more than NHS occupational health work. Vics was pictured front row at the show of London Fashion Week’s wokest designer, Edeline Lee, dressed head to toe in Lee’s own creation, a polka dot dress (on loan), worth over £1,000. Altogether, Vicky has been clothes-horsed in £5,000 of designer-wear courtesy, once again, of Alli.

I grew up in the America of the 1960s, an era renowned for its kaftan-wearing hippies, its ethos of free love and hallucinogens, and demos against the Vietnam War. This was something that caught the imagination of my two London-born, English sons, once they were old enough to have acquired some knowledge of recent social history. And they naturally assumed I’d been part of that whole scene, with flowers in my hair and love beads around my neck, smoking pot and blasting out Jimi Hendrix records from a bedroom hung with Che Guevara posters. They took it as read that I was at the legendary Woodstock music festival and danced all night in a muddy field. This image of their youthful mum appealed to them, so they convinced themselves it was real.

Getting to Genoa is quite a schlep and, unforgivably, like a spoiled child, I got grumpy. The only direct flight is from Stansted and who the heck wants to travel from Stansted? Nobody. Especially those of us who live in Brighton. So, Mrs Ray and I flew from Gatwick to Milan Malpensa, took a train to Milano Centrale, kicked our heels for 90 minutes and then took another damn train to Genova Brignole. We were delayed every step of the way, and it took bloody ages: 13 hours. We were knackered and I was shirty – we should have gone from Stansted. Idiots.

She looked up at me imploringly from the simmering pavement as the sun beat down on one man and his dog in Seville. ‘You haven’t peed yet, Amaya, we need to walk on a bit more,’ though I realised the injustice, as we were both so dehydrated neither of us had much chance of fulfilling such obligations. I found myself unexpectedly dog-sitting in the Andalusian capital after my English landlady got rather tipsy and, in a moment of reckless abandon, committed to booking a flight back to the UK to spend time with her family for the first time in a year.

As an 11-year-old, I tried to persuade my mother that we should sell our Victorian farmhouse in the Wiltshire countryside and pour every penny into a brand-new 212mph Jaguar XJ220, which cost £435,000 at the time. We would simply live inside this low-slung two-seat supercar, parked up in a lay-by with a washing line hung between the car aerial and a nearby tree. ‘We’re not just doing that to be cool, we’re doing it because it makes us more money’ Now an alternative has arisen. Car manufacturers are racing to build luxury residential towers in the enclaves of flashy money. In Miami and Dubai, Mercedes-Benz is putting the three-pointed star on buildings designed to accommodate their aspirant demographic.

Few franchises have the cult-like devotion of Harry Potter. One only has to watch the video of hordes of adults counting down the arrival of the Hogwarts Express at King’s Cross, and their fury when it didn’t arrive, to understand the religious fervour people feel for the wizarding world. Yet one announcement did come last which, one that will send shivers down the spine of every magic-loving millennial super-fan. HBO has launched a casting call for its new Harry Potter series. Even the teaser trailer makes it clear the creative chokehold the series is in I am sure this is exciting news for some: mainly pushy parents who are already prepping their little darlings on how to pronounce ‘wingardium leviosa’, ready for the ultimate vicarious thespian high.

I try to head for cooler climes year-round but particularly during the summer, as anything over 20 degrees has me sweating like a pervert and swearing like a docker. But this year I was persuaded to join friends in Corfu, and so with my younger daughter in tow, I braced myself for the inevitable perimenopausal response to savage heat. 10-year-old Ottilie, of course, loved it instantly. Reflecting, as she basked in the balmy waters of Corfu Old Town, that while she’d loved our holiday in Iceland a few weeks previously, and while she agreed that Norway is a peerless destination, she could now understand why some of her friends like a Mediterranean jaunt. Indeed, a war of attrition for a return visit next summer commenced pretty much immediately.

They came straight off the back of a lorry and were placed carefully – top to tail - in three cat carriers, two hens in each. Broken feathers stuck from the air vents, bright, suspicious, amber eyes peered out. We drove them home, listening out for any squawks of distress, but they were silent. Bemused, exhausted, probably wearily resigned to whatever fate awaited them next. These former battery hens, who’d spent the entirety of their short lives living in metal cages no bigger than a sheet of A4, should have been on their way to slaughter These former battery hens, who’d spent the entirety of their short lives living in metal cages no bigger than a sheet of A4, should have been on their way to slaughter.

Minor royal and former rugby player Mike Tindall was criticised this week when his daughter was spotted wearing an Apple AirTag, a £35 digital disc that can be tracked from a phone. This was apparently an invasion of his 10-year-old’s privacy (nevermind the fact the photo that revealed his daughter’s accessory was taken by a press photographer).  I have over 15 people on Find My Friends, including my parents I really don’t see what the fuss is about. Plenty of people happily sign up to allow their friends and family to track them in real time. There is Snapchat Maps, WhatsApp location, Life360, Google Family Link and GeoZilla  – the list goes on. Microchips, like the one attached to the 10-year-old Tindall’s denim shorts, are for the seriously committed.