Spectator Life

The words ‘immersive experience’ have always suggested, to me, a rather strained hour or two smiling patiently at unemployed actors pretending to be ghosts or personages from the olden days or, if I’m really lucky, chocolatiers who are not called Willy Wonka for legal reasons. In fact, all the publicity for the ‘Fish and Feast with Paul Whitehouse’ seemed designed to raise my blood pressure: it was not just ‘with’ the comedian and actor, but ‘expertly curated’ by him and included a session with a ‘wild cooking expert’. Animals, plants, and the man of Borneo can reasonably be called wild; cooking is in the other column with swimming and camping.

For as long as anyone can remember, Tottenham Hotspur have offered half price season tickets for pensioners. No longer. This has been scrapped from the beginning of next season. Those already enjoying the 50 per cent concession in the vain hope they will live long enough to see the team win a trophy again will see their annual discount reduced, in phases, to 25 per cent. And only if they sit in certain allocated sections of the ground. For those of us approaching our golden years, we don’t even get that. The discount has been discontinued. Older fans are being pushed to one side by a club that seems hell bent on appealing to a younger market The price of a standard season ticket is going up too, by 6 per cent.

Last month, the BBC offered an apology of sorts after a red-carpet reporter at the Baftas asked Andrew Scott, star of the film All of Us Strangers, about fellow Irish actor Barry Keoghan’s appendage. This had been the subject of conversation thanks to Keoghan’s naked dancing in the film, Saltburn, in which Keoghan’s floppy bishop steals the final scene. To settle this nagging concern the BBC turned to a gay man. ‘There was a lot of talk about prosthetics. How well do you know him?’ the reporter asked an annoyed Scott who shook his head and walked away.

They’re everywhere, it seems: in the oceans, the fish, the soil, our drinking water, our vegetables, our grains and cereals, our meat – even in us. Microplastics and smaller nanoplastics are tiny particles of plastic flubbage measuring half a centimetre or less that result from the degradation of plastic refuse, and according to recent news coverage the world is simply crawling with the stuff. Anxiety might turn out to be the biggest health problem caused by microplastics It’s getting everyone in a tizzy. On the one hand you can’t possibly avoid it, since it’s already more or less everywhere. But you must do something, the reports insist, or risk a plethora of terrifying health consequences: cancer, hormonal imbalance, diabetes, reproductive problems, and more.

Yay! Boobs are back! Sydney Sweeney made engagement farming easy with her cleavage-revealing curtain call this past weekend as the host of Saturday Night Live. If you spend any time online at all, I’m sure you’ve seen the video. Wrapped in a revealing little black dress, Sydney thanks the cast, the crew, Lorne Michaels and giggles and bounces in familiar ways I haven’t seen in decades. For anyone under the age of 25, they’ve likely never seen it in their lifetime – as the giggling blonde with an amazing rack has been stamped out of existence, a creature shamed to the brink of extinction. sydney sweeney’s end speech at SNL pic.twitter.

Yeah, I know, ridiculous. Cambodia? How can that be the best country in the entire world? For a start, most people can’t place it on a map. This includes close relatives of mine who are studying geography at A Level. They know all about the Marxist topography of urbanism, but Cambodia, err, um, is that near Africa? Also, Cambodia?? Isn’t that the country that suffered a fearsome Maoist genocide within living memory, with a quarter of its population dying by execution, torture, famine and disease, and the rest left so hungry they resorted to eating giant spiders roasted in tomato powder? The landscape is agreeably green, the jungles are often untouched, the islands can be Edenic (but primitive) Well yes, it is.

I’m sleeping with the actor Richard E. Grant at the minute and can highly recommend the experience. He’s reading Agatha Christie’s The Murder at the Vicarage to me and has the perfect voice for it, faintly lascivious but not disturbingly so. As for the content, it’s just what’s wanted – engaging but not too stimulating. Like so many of us, I’m nodding off to the sound of an audiobook. Crime novels work well, as long as they are not overly gruesome or suspenseful I was already enamoured of Richard E. Grant who’d, on other late nights, read me Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea. The plot unfolds at a gentle pace and nothing unduly dramatic or loud happens – there are no car chases or football chants.

Each time I return to Hamburg (about once a year, on average) I pay a sentimental visit to my grandmother’s magnificent old house, where she spent her cosseted, idyllic youth, during the Weimar Republic and the Third Reich. It’s a robust Teutonic villa, a bombastic relic of the Gründerzeit – that flamboyant building boom which followed Bismarck’s triumphant unification of Germany. It’s on one of Hamburg’s smarter streets, a leafy avenue called Heimhuderstrasse – but it’s not the ornate architecture that draws me there, or even the snob value of the neighbourhood. What brings me back year after year are the stories that cling to this house like ivy – stories from the life my German grandmother lived before I knew her, before and during the second world war.