Spectator Life

Occasionally, a French person reveals – without any malice or superciliousness – that they run on an alternative operating system from us Brits. Over the years, a surprising theme has emerged in my conversations with Frenchmen: butter. Take my first visit to Paris, more than 30 years ago. I innocently asked for butter with my croissant. Simple answer: ‘Non.’ Naturally, I remonstrated. The waiter retorted: ‘A croissant eeez butter!’ He had a point. Upon biting into said viennoiserie, I had to concede: it was nothing like the dry grocery store versions I was used to. Moments later, a small pot of raspberry confiture was graciously placed on my table. (To this day, it remains the best service I’ve ever received in Paris.

‘Evidence-based policy-making’ is very much in vogue – until, that is, the evidence doesn’t quite support what the government wants to do. Then governments tend to plough on ahead anyway, evidence or not. Just why is the government proposing to lower the drink-driving limit in England from 80mg/100ml to 50mg/100ml? To many people, government ministers included, it just feels the right thing to do. England does, after all, look a bit of an outlier in Europe, where most countries have a 50mg limit. And then there was a 2010 study by Sir Peter North which concluded that lowering the blood-alcohol limit from 80mg to 50mg would save between 43 and 168 lives in the first year alone, and prevent between 280 and 16,000 injuries. Who, then, could possibly oppose the reduction?

About a week into an open-ended early pandemic stay in Ortigia, the antique, tourist-beloved spit off Siracusa on Sicily’s eastern coast, I had an epiphany. I hated the food. I’d just had a few bites of a clammy aubergine parmigiana, and a plate of oily tuna steak dressed with a bit of lemon was on its way to me. I felt sick and couldn't face another bite – and yet, supposedly, I was right in the heartlands of the finest continental gastronomy. This, at least, is the orthodoxy of the world, of tourists low- and high-end and home cooks everywhere – and especially in Italy itself.

Of all the months to choose for abstinence, January seems the strangest. May is intoxicating by itself; winter, when life feels threatened by the silent ministry of frost, needs cheer. Christmas and New Year are past, the birds are already singing loudly in the early mornings, snowdrops push up their green fuses, hellebores grow fresh leaves, and the magnolia buds swell. They will bloom on sunny but cold days and look perfect for a moment, before frost burns their scarlet and white edges to brown. Spring is coming, but winter retains its hold. January is the time to drink port. Dickens understood this. He mentioned drinks of all kinds a great deal, and port more than any other wine.

On Christmas morning, as you make your first tea or begin mixing your eggnog, spare a thought for our armed forces. Since the 1890s, they have been starting Christmas Day with a drink that sounds more like a bizarre hangover cure than a festive pick-me-up.  Known as ‘Gunfire’, the drink is made of one part rum to three parts black tea. By tradition, the beverage is taken hot and is served by senior officers to junior soldiers, making it one of the few occasions in which the ordinarily inflexible roles of the military are reversed.  Although no one is quite sure how Gunfire got its name, the most compelling theory, according to the Royal Norfolk Regimental Museum, comes from an encyclopaedia compiled by Major R.D. Ambrose.

There’s a trading estate, which might possibly need an envoy. There’s a Pizza Express, whose user ratings online are the equal to the Woking branch. And there’s also a branch of Boots which has a solid range of deodorants. Should Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor ever acknowledge any perspiration issues, desire a pepperoni or feel like taking on a part-time job, he’s moving to a most suitable neighbourhood. At only around seven miles from Sandringham, King’s Lynn will be Andrew’s nearest town when he takes up residence in his new home.

A close relation of mine is taking Ozempic. I shan’t name them or give anything else away other than to say this: they are set to ruin our Christmas lunch. They know it, and we know it. Welcome to British Yuletide 2025 – a country where more than 1.5 million people are estimated to be using GLP-1 agonists such as Ozempic, Mounjaro and Wegovy, with the vast majority (90 per cent) obtaining the drugs privately. NHS analysis of Ozempic hotspots reveals Leicester, Thurrock in Essex and the Wirral to be where users congregate. Clearly, they haven’t done an analysis of private users in Oxfordshire where I live.  This being so, we are locked in a curiously modern etiquette conundrum.

Food courts appear to be everywhere in London at the moment and, for reasons too boring to go into here, I found myself at three of them across the capital in the space of four days last week. (Yes, before you ask, I am beginning to question my life choices as a result.) Not that there is anything innately wrong with food courts as a concept, of course. If you’ve been to one, you’ll know the drill, which is essentially that they are semi-industrial spaces lined with vendors plying all manner of street food from locations that aren’t too challenging to the average British diner.

When Columbus brought chilli back from the New World, the British were indifferent. Strange, really, when our taste for horseradish and mustard was keen, and when we later found a love for Marmite, stilton and Pickled Onion Monster Munch. A culture shaped by drizzle should have been an early adopter. Instead, that part of our culinary soul which prizes macaroni cheese for its inoffensiveness prevailed. Kedgeree had been here for a century, spiced with nothing hotter than pepper, when we started developing more fiery tastes. Students showing off to each other would compete to eat a vindaloo or a phall. There are attitudes that youth and inexperience make forgivable.

‘Be not solitary; be not idle,’ wrote Robert Burton in The Anatomy of Melancholy. Now, 400 years later, one bar is taking his instruction to heart and banning solo drinkers. An Altrincham venue which goes by the gloriously 1990s nightclub name of Alibi will only allow groups in after 9 p.m. Owner Carl Peters said he introduced the policy after certain individuals had been ‘mithering other groups’ – ‘mithering’ being a northern word meaning to pester or make a fuss. Alibi also has a strict dress code: ‘No sportswear/trackies, no Stone Island, no ripped/frayed jeans, no baseball caps, no roadman vibes.’ I should point out to Spectator readers that a roadman isn't someone employed by the council to fix potholes, it's a young man with gangster pretensions.

Where else would you see anyone wandering around with a plate heaped with such incongruous ingredients as bacon, olives, blueberry waffles and a side order of yoghurt and prunes? Nowhere but at a hotel breakfast, of course. More often than not, the food is inedible, and nothing works properly. The coffee machines always seem to be faulty, although even this is preferable to being served from a silver coffee jug filled with tepid, muddy brown, tasteless water that leaves you hankering after service-station machine coffee. Then there is the room: inevitably, it is dark and windowless, usually in a basement that smells vaguely of damp underneath the stench of cheap cooking oil. Beware the hotel that serves dinner and then drags out the leftovers for breakfast.