Spectator Life

London’s food scene is a Petri dish of Michelin-starred bistros, gastropubs, and overpriced tourist traps where waiters crouch by the table and call you ‘bud’. The days of staying at home, watching Raffles, and eating tinned fruit with evaporated milk are long gone. London’s new culinary culture is an expensive one. But one institution has remained true throughout this tsunami wave of progress: BYOB restaurants. Or so I thought. It’s not that they don’t want us to finish our drinks, it’s that they can’t afford for us to finish our drinks BYOB stands for ‘bring your own bottle’ or, if you’re boorish like me, ‘bring your own booze’. I think the ‘bottle’ gives it an undeserved prestige.

Pin yourself to the spinning wheel as the knife thrower aims his blades. Take a Northern Soul twirl on the talcum-powdered floor. Play ‘With My Little Stick of Blackpool Rock’ on George Formby’s banjolele. At last popular entertainment, from Sooty to Strictly, is being given its rightful part on the nation’s stage. These fabulous artforms, nurtured in Britain’s seaside resorts, are getting their own interactive museum. The moment you step outside, you hear the seagulls screech, smell chips cooked in the same fat since last season, taste the salt in the air Showtown museum, a neighbour to Blackpool’s iconic Tower, is an extravaganza.

There is no clearer demonstration of the difference between America and Britain than their attitudes towards teeth. In America, you fix them. Doesn’t matter if they’re nearly straight. You subject yourself to years of semi-torture to achieve the American dream – a white picket fence of perfectly uniform teeth. Most perfect teeth are artificial – some so artificial that they’ve entirely replaced the real ones When I was about 11, I was taken to the orthodontist to straighten out my slightly overlapping front teeth. I dreaded those appointments. Our orthodontist was a tall, overly friendly man with large hairy fingers which he would shove into my tiny mouth without gloves. Surely that broke protocol even back then.

Recently, I was walking down a London street when on the pavement I spotted a worm. It was so motionless I wasn’t sure if it was alive or dead. Normally, I would have passed the worm by without a second thought. But I’d just been to my local park to do stretches, meditation, breathing exercises and to hug my favourite tree. Yes, I have become a tree hugger. I actually put my arms around the tree trunk – or as much as I can manage. I squeeze tight, pressing my body against it to absorb its life-giving energy – and I get wood. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that joke.) There was a time in my life when I would have said if you ever catch me hugging a tree, shoot me before I turn into Sting. Hugging trees is not what we hip, deracinated, self-loathing modern men do.

Attending an English public school in the 1970s when you weren’t from that world was a tough gig. Mum’s family were from the East End. Dad was what might euphemistically be called a ‘wheeler dealer’. Having had little education, Dad was determined his children wouldn’t suffer the same fate. So my brother and I were privately educated from the age of four. Cars, like everything else, were meant to be expensive but understated. Dad obviously hadn’t read that memo At our public school, I was painfully aware of being an outsider. Although I spoke received pronunciation like my schoolmates – regional accents were verboten – I knew I wasn’t one of them. I didn’t share the same interests. I hated sport, especially rugby, and even now avoid discussing it.

If Marcus Aurelius were around today, would he have a podcast? The answer, of course, is no. His meditations were for his own guidance and never knowingly meant to be published. This doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have found himself shoved forward as a hero of a new resistance. His sound bites would be rendered into TikToks while teenagers put his quotations as their phone backgrounds. Twenty-somethings working in industries he couldn’t conceive of (‘digital marketing’? Quid est?) would stutter his words like mantras as they shiver in Clapham back garden ice baths. For stoicism has returned, and in its strangest form yet.

The presence of ‘The Hat’ has already raised disputes within my family. My wife refuses to walk with me in our village, which I think is unreasonable. ‘Well, would you walk around with me if I were wearing a witch’s hat?’ she said. I know what she means, but she’s wrong. This is not fancy dress; it is a statement of style and taste and should be as acceptable as wearing a pair of Australian R.M. Williams boots or South African veldskoens. Could I wear it at Lord’s this summer? Daughter Two thinks the MCC would be tempted to withdraw my membership Last week, in a Texan town called Bryan (I know, very Monty Python), I had a custom cowboy hat made for me.

It began, as these things often do, in the Births, Deaths and Marriages column of the Times. ‘On 29th February, to Olivia von Wulffen and Rupert Oldham-Reid,’ the announcement read. ‘A daughter, Antigone Elizabeth Anna, sister to Peregrine Yorck von Wulffen and Otto the dog.’ The ad was spotted by journalist Harry Wallop who posted it on social media last week without comment – but plenty of comment would follow, much of it negative. I think that shows a sad lack of imagination.  My rule is that any choice should be recognised as a name: so no Zowie, Moon Unit or Blanket, say The Oldham-Reid von Wulffen family is configured like Enid Blyton’s Famous Five: two girls, two boys and a dog.

Rob Stephenson is trying to produce a sonic representation of joy. He’s DJing on stage at the World Happiness Summit in London, pumping out a kick drum at 124bpm. The sound represents the subliminal satisfaction you get from a walk round the park, Rob says. He adds bongos and the dinging noise of a triangle to the track – acoustic equivalents of proper sleep and good nutrition. ‘Can you feel it?’ Rob asks. ‘Can you feel it?’ More inexplicable sound is layered – the melody from ‘Clocks’ by Coldplay, the riff from ‘Seven Nation Army’ by the White Stripes – and Rob starts gyrating at his decks in aural ecstasy. The crowd dance and raise their hands to the roof. They close their eyes and smile.

I love certain sour flavours, such as the sprinkle of lemon on a piece of oily fish, or fatty meat. It is perfect with food that is naturally sweet, such as brown shrimp, scallops, or young, fresh peas. But spare me the heavy hand with the acid, which seems to be getting more and more frequent when it comes to pre-seasoned food in restaurants. Lemon juice should be a background note, helping the main flavours to stand out. It should not make you wince as though you are chewing a live wasp. We should resist drowning our food in lemon juice in the way that we would ketchup or salt I am just back from lunch at a lovely little Cypriot joint where every single thing is made from scratch.