Spectator Life

Despite having to cope with family strife, a partying prime minister, the unctuous musings of BBC Royal Correspondent Nicholas Witchell and, most recently, a bout of Covid, our Queen conducted herself in the only way she knows how during the first two months of her platinum jubilee – with the utmost dignity. But 'dignified' might not be the first word that springs to mind in regard to a commemorative 'timepiece' launched this month by plastic watch pioneer Swatch. The £83 effort designed to appeal to the proletariat is decorated with a cartoon Queen flanked by an eager-looking Corgi – and dressed in an outfit that changes from red to yellow to green as the days go by thanks to an adapted cog behind the dial that more usually powers a date display.

I’m not sure how a family of Warsaw bakers – my own – ended up in the northeast of England, specifically Sunderland, in England in the 1860s. The family myth – and it is a myth, because we have absolutely no evidence for it – is that they planned to take ship for America, but were dropped off in Sunderland, having been assured it was New York City. Perhaps it was a foggy day. And if it wasn’t, how would they know it wasn’t New York City? This myth is powerful though. Growing up in Surrey, as I did, will do that to you. Dreaming of other lives is narcotic.

The old banger is a vanishing breed. And it's not because all drivers want new cars. On the contrary, not everyone wants to pay out monthly for a fast-depreciating asset. Many drivers would rather opt for a cheap, serviceable car in its dotage. Although I write about cars for a living, and shiny new ones sometimes cross my path, cars I’ve actually owned have mostly come from the bargain basement, including a venerable Toyota which lasted for three years and 50,000 miles that someone gave to me because they wanted it removed from their drive. I saved vast sums of money and had fun in the process. Today, such cars are virtually non-existent and demand for them has never been greater.

Set on a frozen Alpine lake in the glitzy Swiss ski resort of St. Moritz, the 37th annual Snow Polo World Cup — the world’s oldest snow polo tournament, held over the last weekend in January — is quite the sight to behold.  With 322 days of sunshine per year, St. Moritz’s cloudless winter sky is the kind of highly saturated, completely uniform cyan blue usually only found on Pantone colour swatches. Standing in contrast are the snow-capped mountains, blindingly white and fleecy with larch pines.

Brooklyn Beckham, the eldest son of David and Victoria, has launched a new television show Cookin’ with Brooklyn which allegedly took £70,000 and a team of 62 professionals to create. The result is an 8-minute episode that produced a fish-finger sandwich. Brooklyn oversees an assembly of chefs preparing the ingredients, he looks into the camera, totally deadpan and informs his audience, 'With sandwiches you can go so many different ways. It really does help to be creative'. Is this show the epitome of everything that’s wrong with our society, as some have claimed? Brooklyn Beckham is rich. He is the amusing celebrity-child kind of rich.

Readers of a certain age might remember when some car marques were the butt of relentless derogatory jokes. Czech brand Skoda – which has since been brought up-market under VW ownership – was an especially popular victim (Q: 'What do you call a Skoda with a sunroof?' A. 'A skip..') as were Lada (Q. 'How do you avoid a speeding ticket?' A. 'Buy a Lada') and Malaysia's Proton (Q: 'How do you double the value of a Proton?' A. 'Just add petrol.'). But even makers of famously good, solid, reliable cars can be coy about their original brand names when they decide to up their game by trying to penetrate the luxury market – which is why Toyota created Lexus, Nissan invented Infiniti, Honda coined 'Acura' and, more than 100 years ago, Ford adopted the Lincoln nameplate.

Does the future of motoring really lie in electric cars? Battery powered motors are now commonplace, but a few intrepid British drivers have gone for hydrogen fuel cell models instead. They currently have two choices. The £69,495 Hyundai Nexo (28 sales) and the £55k plus Toyota Mirai (about 200 owners including James May), so they’re hardly cheap. Eventually there will be more, including a BMW X5 4x4 due to be launched later in 2022. Jaguar Land Rover is also said to be looking at the technology for its heftier offerings. These cars take minutes to re-fuel, go further between top ups and, unlike battery cars, aren’t adversely affected mileage-wise by cold weather. The only thing they emit is water vapour.

I love wearing ties. I like to match the colour or pattern of it with another aspect of my ensemble. I have a navy and grey basket weave tie from E. Tautz that goes well with my navy basket weave tweed sports jacket and grey flannel trousers from the great Terry Haste. Or my navy and red regimental tie by Ralph Lauren with my navy pinstripe suit (again by Terry Haste) and red socks. I am one of those sensible sorts that doesn’t like to wear a shirt and jacket without a tie. I think just like going on a well-meaning protest or voting, there is something life-affirming about the perfect dimple created just beneath the knot of the tie. What with our much decommissioned, out of office lives these days, is its perceived stuffiness heading the way of the spat?

EVs have been easy to poke fun at over the years. Comedian Chris McCausland has a popular stand-up sketch about how Jaguar spent four years developing a space age noise for its electric i-Pace, only to silence it because people were looking skywards when they heard one coming towards them. And yet, despite their futuristic novelty, society has actually adjusted remarkably quickly to the advent of electric cars; they are fast becoming commonplace on British roads. Last year the Government’s EHVS home charging point grant scheme, which ends on 21 March, helped fund almost 61,480 charging units, and last November just under 19 per cent of Britain’s new car market was taken by electric models. These vehicles are no longer niche.

'The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind.' So said Freud in 1899 as the world was about to tip over into the dream obsessed twentieth century and its many decades of tortured introspection. For years, Freud has been roundly discredited. But it seems that, even if Freud remains unfashionable, his belief in the meaning of dreams is making a return, namely in the form of dream retreats and therapies marketed at our pandemic-addled subconscious. Whilst it was once formerly the duty of the long-suffering spouse to listen to last night’s dream – naked in an exam, driving down the M40 backwards and on fire, giving birth to the wrong child etc.

2030 is the deadline: the end of petrol cars in Britain. Because nothing lasts forever. 'This may be the last petrol car that I design,' said a British marque designer, sketching lines on a napkin wistfully. I threw the napkin in a trunk in the attic for memorial. I have become addicted to petrol cars in these last years because they are so conventionally masculine: driving them feels like theft, and it is mind-altering. If you don’t agree, drive an Aston Martin DB11 round a small bend. It will change you. I could write about the unspoken, unconscious joy of polluting – if you trash a planet it won’t forget you – but, like me, you are probably here for the car. So, electric. So far, I have only driven a Tesla model X.

Say it quietly, but a new must-have accessory is stalking the bank accounts of Britain’s middle classes. Like several of the other essential baubles of bourgeois life (BMWs, Audis etc) it hails from Germany, and just like these brands it’s pitiless in its quest for your dosh. But it’s also very, very good. Step forward the Thermomix. At first glance it could be the world’s most expensive blender, but as the name implies it also cooks. Yes, it chops, whisks, sous-vides, steams, boils, it acts as weighing scales, it makes sauces and batters, virtually anything you could wish for – it even self-cleans. Better still it actually tells you what to do and when to add the ingredients for your recipe.

The royals, like most families, had a very different Christmas last year due to Covid restrictions. Traditionally, multiple generations of the family gather at Sandringham House for the festivities. This year the Queen is expected to return to her Norfolk residence once again, to host her extended family for what will be a poignant Christmas – the first one without her husband in over 70 years. We have HM’s great-great grandmother’s generation to thank for many of the traditions of Christmas time. Queen Victoria’s husband, Prince Albert, inspired by his German heritage, popularised the idea of decorating a tree in the home.

Like a lot of things it began with the cleaners. You may be old enough to remember when there were actual cleaners in offices before they all vanished about 20 years ago. In fact they didn’t disappear, they just got outsourced. That usually meant that nothing much got cleaned especially anymore, but bins were changed at night by unseen hands – the invisible Morlocks in fluorescent bibs, wearing the last person’s name-badge. Now there are plans for us to outsource our offices altogether. In this case it might make sense: after all, if it’s not your core business, why bother? You’re better off leaving it to the experts.

In the latest James Bond movie, which passes for the National soul – though I think Roald Dahl was closer to nailing it – a Toyota Land Cruiser Prado wins a fight with a Land Rover Defender in Norway. Or rather two Land Rover Defenders. Out they bounce from forest to stream and back to forest. Kiss-kiss, bang-bang, snort, rattle. I long to know what conversations marketing executives have with the Bond franchise. Do you pay to have your car win a fight with a commercial rival? And, if your car doesn’t win, can at least it be beaten by a minimum of two cars, and one of them not a Kia? And, do they get it in writing?  At the end of the car fight, the minor villain ends up crushed by his own Land Rover Defender. From COP with love, you might say.

It feels good to say that you own a Peloton bike. After months of peering into those enigmatic Apple-style Peloton stores which came into being unsurprisingly in the more affluent areas of London (Knightsbridge, Marylebone and Oxford Street), my wife and I decided to bite the bullet and buy into the Peloton dream. Like many lockdown fitness devotees, a cancellation of our Central London gym memberships unlocked some disposable income which meant we could afford it. Only just though. When delivery day finally came, I realised just how heavy the bloody thing is. Peloton had sent what looked like its two oldest employees to haul it up the stairs and into our second bedroom. One looked 70 and the other about 90.

Britain’s legendary red phone boxes are in the news again. Of course they’re a symbol of the country’s past (about 2000 of them are officially listed buildings) – but what makes them really great is their capacity for reinvention. The story this week was about Ofcom preventing BT from closing down many of the nation’s 21,000 phone boxes. A box will now be saved if it meets one of several criteria, such as being located at an accident or suicide hotspot, or if more than 52 calls have been made from it over the past 12 months. But everyone knows what the long-term trend will be in a country where virtually everyone owns a mobile phone.

The British have a long-standing reputation for coming up with great ideas, executing them quite well – and then leaving others to really run with them. Such is the history behind what is officially the best-selling two-seat convertible sports car of all time, the evergreen MX-5 made by Japanese marque Mazda. The story goes that the MX-5 was born out of a conversation held 45 years ago between Mazda's former head of research and development Gai Arai and US automotive journalist Bob Hall. The latter had been bemoaning the impending demise of the simple, open-top sports car after it had been threatened with extinction during the late '60s due to US safety legislation on sales of conventional convertibles.

Inspiration comes in unusual forms. David Lorenz’s lightbulb moment arrived when his classic Mercedes broke down. His small daughter was in the car, and Lorenz began thinking about ways to make it cleaner, more reliable and give it a long term usable future in a world that is turning its back on the internal combustion engine. This led him to set up Lunaz Design, close to the Silverstone racing circuit in Northamptonshire. It’s high end old car restoration business that fits electric drive systems to sometimes exotic period Jaguars, Rolls-Royces and Aston Martins amongst others.

One of my favourite off-duty pictures of HM the Queen is this photo taken at the Royal Windsor Horse Show in 1979. I love the look of HM’s long pink tweed cape worn with a matching silk headscarf and leather boots. A simple, understated country casual outfit but she still has an air of superwoman about her from her choice of cover up – the cape.  Queen Elizabeth II at the Royal Windsor Horse Show, May 1979 (Getty Images) It is a popular outer garment with the Royal ladies of all generations, demonstrating its timeless and classic appeal. There is something undoubtedly regal about this style of outerwear, reminiscent of the coronation robes.

It's not so long ago that old watches used to turn-up at car boot fairs, charity shops and jumble sales (remember those?), usually in the form of unremarkable models set aside to be 'got rid of' after the grim reaper had called time on their original owners. Back then 'watch collecting' had yet to benefit from the turbo-boost of the internet and remained an esoteric hobby enjoyed by scholarly types who had put the work in to discover the varied histories of all the best brands in the old-fashioned way: by reading books. To everyone else, one second-hand watch was very much like another, regardless of the signature on the dial –unless, of course, it was a Rolex.

When the famously gloomy British winter starts to tighten its icy grip and spirits begin to wane, a tangible reminder that the sun will shine again always provides a fillip. And I find watching David Niven in the 1958 film Bonjour Tristesse usually does the trick. The movie version of Francoise Sagan's famous novel about a young girl called Cecile who lives with her rakish father, Raymond – effortlessly played by Niven – is based around the family villa on the Côte d'Azur, from where Raymond cruises the corniche in a silver Bentley S1 Continental drophead while looking tanned, relaxed and unspeakably sophisticated.

It would be interesting to see what people would have turned up in had the Bond premiere not been of the Royal variety with a black-tie dress code. Perhaps Daniel Craig in Yeezys or Lea Seydoux all Parisian chic in a pair of jeans and sweatshirt, we can but wonder. It is a relief that people didn’t treat it like the Met Gala and turn up in anything but the dress code. The turnout was extremely good for the sartorially minded, including from the guests. Jason Momoa showing up in a Henry Poole tuxedo juxtaposed his hobo-rambler-surfer vibe. This came as less of a surprise to me as he is often posting about deliveries of rings and accessories from artisans and I know he has a few bespoke shoes from Gaziano & Girling.

Once upon a time, the Royal Horticultural Society staged a Great Autumn Show every September in their two Horticultural Halls off Vincent Square in London. It was a fine mixture of colourful nursery trade exhibitions and fiercely-fought amateur competitions, involving fruits, flowers and glowing foliage (Who could forget the amusing annual battle between the Dukes of Marlborough and Devonshire - or rather their head gardeners - over the prize for the best bunch of glasshouse grapes?).

After Cabinet members recently took to the microphone for a karaoke evening, is Westminster's new favourite hobby on course for a winter comeback? With summer days of al fresco cocktails and late-night picnics in the park almost behind us, a let-your-hair-down evening belting out karaoke could be just the answer. Here’s our guide to London’s best booths. Bloomsbury Bowling Lanes Bloomsbury bowling lanes Cosy rooms with vinyl records covering every inch of wall, studded leather sofas and low-lit kitschy lamps create a perfectly funky vibe for an evening of crooning along to Otis Reading and Stevie Wonder.

It’s a kind of alchemy, transforming worthless clutter into pleasing and valuable collectors’ items, a slow but gratifying process all but forgotten in the modern age. I first learned it from the woman who ran a second-hand record store in my hometown, Tunbridge Wells, from the late seventies to the early nineties, where I misspent much of my youth and most of my pocket money. Fiona, a hangover from the hippie era, with her whispered husky voice and the endless extraordinarily-thin hand-rolled cigarettes that perhaps explained it, first imparted this lesson in around 1982. I speak of the lost art of fixing warped records.