Columns

A little while back I came across a copy of Ted Hughes’s Laureate poems which had an inscription to some friends. Inside was an unpublished squib by the late poet laureate which read: ‘The Royalist/ Is afraid/ The Queen’s a pin/ In a hand-grenade.’ If I understand the poet’s meaning correctly then I count myself such a royalist. I dislike criticism of the royal family, especially of the monarch. When it happens it feels too much like people hammering at something fundamental – far more fundamental than the critic appreciates. If criticism is to be made it seems to me that it should be done privately, so as not to disturb the fragile equilibrium of the rather magical arrangement we have on these islands.

In case you missed it (well done, if so), last week Will Self wrote an extraordinary rant on Substack attacking various journalists for how they wrote about Jason Arday and demanding they be held responsible for his death. It reminded me of one of those dogs in a pub that starts barking at some imagined threat to its owner, then gets carried away with the excitement of its own barking until it totally loses its mind and has to be taken outside to calm down.

In my mid-twenties, my one-bedroom in Astoria, Queens, developed a roach problem. I don’t mean the odd single scurry disappearing irretrievably beneath the fridge, either. Oh, it started that way. But I didn’t take measures when the situation was manageable because roaches gave me the creeps, and so many activities beckoned that were much more fun. Between a small shelf and the kitchen wall I stored spare brown paper bags – from which I began to detect a rustling. At some point, the bags began to move. Beside them, the wall gathered an undulating shadow that I trained myself never to look at directly; like Faye Dunaway in Little Big Man, I would ‘avert my eyes at the necessary moment’. One night a friend came to dinner and stared at that wall in frank revulsion.

On Tuesday, a court in Dallas, Texas will convene to decide the fate of a small baby called Gabriel or Rumi, depending on who you believe his mother is. Gabriel-Rumi is at present a sort of Schrödinger’s baby, suspended between possible futures and suspended also, poor sod, between life and death: born with heart disease, headed now for surgery. Gabriel-Rumi’s short life has so far been the subject of a media frenzy, for reasons I’ll explain, but should he later look back and be appalled at all the fuss, I’d like him to know what a service he’s already done the world.

There can be few foreign cities where the Spectator, Times and Telegraph are more widely read than Cape Town. In a queue where I waited before coming home this week, readers volunteered to me – a columnist whom they recognised – their thoughts about these journals, their contents and their columnists. I love Cape Town but it’s not Africa. Along with Nairobi it’s perhaps the African city where white English people could now most easily imagine settling or retiring; but, though visits are always pleasant, I can never quite escape a nagging feeling that something’s not quite right about this lively, wealthy, cultured city in its breathtaking setting – and I’m not just talking about the appalling black slums you pass as you drive to or from the airport.

Sometimes I wake up in the night disturbed by dreams of James Bond. Surely, you might say, that’s the point of him; a man of such raw sex appeal that he can break the somnial boundary of women all over the world. But these aren’t sexy dreams about Bond’s past; they’re nightmarish visions of his future – Bond in the modern British public sector. Picture it, 007 walks in for his briefing with M. The process is not the quick-witted sparring of classic Bond but a long PowerPoint presentation complete with a quiz at the end to show he’s been listening. Miss Moneypenny doesn’t ‘feel comfortable’ booking Bond flights because of the carbon output, so he finds himself on a rail replacement bus service.

I was on friendly terms with Rod Liddle for quite a few decades. He applied for the job I got when I was 17 at the New Musical Express, which kicked off my writing career. Though I wouldn’t claim we were bezzie mates, we had a lot of the same friends and we met up in a couple of group lunches and had a laugh. So I was surprised at my lack of grief when he died. (Apparently he too was remarkably sanguine about his ending.) My overwhelming feeling was: ‘Good for Rod – he escaped!’ It’s the first time I can recall feeling that way about the premature death of someone I knew a bit and liked a lot. Why, I wondered, did I react like this?

I’m sufficiently nostalgic for the British supermarkets I left behind in 2023 that on visits to the UK I run a small-scale import business between London and Lisbon. I restock: Tesco Dijon mustard (top-drawer and a bargain), rice bran oil (unavailable in Portugal) and (do not tell Portuguese customs) blocks of extra-sharp British cheddar along with bags of slender fine green beans, tails all lined up marvellously on the same side. Thus I was put out by the new Chancellor’s warning earlier this month that the government will be ‘watching closely for any suggestions that customers are being taken for a ride’ in supermarkets. John Healey’s keeping an eye out for ‘price-gouging’, assuring the public that ‘our regulators have the powers to clamp down on it’.

I don’t know how many readers have visited the grave of Dobby the house-elf, but any who have should immediately be sectioned and have their subscriptions to The Spectator cancelled. This strong course of action occurs to me after reading one of those stories that can make you laugh, cry and smack your head into your hands all at once. It relates to a ‘memorial’ which apparently sits on Freshwater West beach in Pembrokeshire, Wales. The area is run by the National Trust – a charity which used to look after our nation’s heritage sites. The beach in question was where filming took place for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.