Notes on...

In 2015, an orthopaedic surgeon called Limb, with three other doctors called Limb, wrote a paper on whether people’s names were correlated with their medical specialties. The findings were striking. In general surgery there were practitioners called Gore, Butcher, Boyle and Blunt. In cardiology, Hart and Pump. In anaesthesia there was a Payne but also a Painstil. For the 313,445 entries in the medical register that they examined, the median frequency of names relevant to medicine was one in 149 – but in neurology, one in every 21 doctors had a name relevant to medicine. In genito-urinary medicine, one in 52 had a relevant name.

If something can be squeezed into a jar with brine, Polish grandmas will do it. Walk into the kitchen of the average babcia and you’ll see jars lining the shelves filled with mysterious experiments, as if in an old-fashioned Slavic science lab. Here are pickled cucumbers, pickled peppers, pickled mushrooms, pickled cabbage and pickled beetroot. Babcia knows that pickles are tasty, cheap, versatile and great for your health. Dziadek (Grandpa) knows that they are great with vodka. British Zoomers love pickles as well. Pickles, according to the website Vox, are among 2025’s ‘hottest foods’. McDonald’s has even cashed in on the fad with an advertisement showing a husband affectionately donating pickles from his burger to his wife.

My obituaries habit gets ever stronger. I find there’s nothing as inspiring or instructive or entertaining as reading a few hundred words about someone’s time on this planet. My main dealers are the Times and Radio 4’s Last Word. Each batch throws together a varied mix, people who share only one thing in common: the fact that they checked out at the same time. All human life is here, as it were. A good obituary knows we want stories, not lists of achievements. Some obituaries read like sitcom scripts. Like the obit for a rugby hero who played in a match between the British army of the Rhine and the French army. Twelve players were sent off, one of them our hero for landing a right hook on the nose of an opponent who had just bitten him on the genitals.

The Pope hates gossip. In his Christmas message to his Vatican advisers last year, Francis warned that it is ‘an evil that destroys social life’. It’s not the first time he’s attacked rumour-spreading. He once compared gossips to terrorists because ‘he or she throws a bomb and leaves’. The Holy Father’s condemnations are of particular concern for me because I was recently accused of being a ‘notorious gossip’. I vehemently reject the charge, of course, but if it were true, at least I’d be following a proud journalistic tradition. In fact, if it were not for gossip, this very magazine might not exist. The original Spectator’s founders, Joseph Addison and Richard Steele, filled the 1711 incarnation by hovering around coffee houses, picking up gossip for stories.

Those who use TikTok, or are familiar with Ed Davey’s dance routines on social media, may have heard of the ‘Costco Guys’. For those with an aversion to TikTok (or to Ed Davey), Andrew ‘A.J.’ Befumo Jr. and Eric ‘Big Justice’ Befumo are a father-and-son duo who became internet celebrities by gorging on food items in their local Costco in Florida and rating them on a ‘boom or doom’ scale. Cue 2.5 million followers and debut single ‘We Bring the Boom’ – which Davey chose as the soundtrack to his latest bid for online attention. Patrick Maguire was probably right in the Times last week to say that this sort of soul-crushingly knuckleheaded viral fame justifies Oxford University Press’s decision to make ‘brain rot’ its word of the year. And yet I’m with A.J.

Donald Trump has form with the smelt. In his 2016 presidential run, he complained that California’s authorities were prioritising the endangered fish (which are native to the Sacramento-San Joaquin River Delta) over farmers’ irrigation needs. ‘Is there a drought?’ he asked a private audience of farmers ahead of a rally. ‘No, we have plenty of water.’ Environmentalists, he said, were wasting water in their efforts ‘to protect a certain kind of three-inch fish’. Last week, he levelled a similar accusation against California’s governor Gavin Newsom – or, as he calls him, ‘Newscum’ – for using the state’s water (which could have fought the LA fires) to provide the ‘essentially worthless’ smelt with a habitat.

The cape is having a moment thanks to the Highland wardrobe of Claudia Winkleman, who is currently presenting The Traitors for a third season. Capes are often used in literature to signal an air of mystery (think Sherlock Holmes) or to hide identity (Little Red Riding Hood or Lord Voldemort). The cape is a contradiction: demure but dramatic, it is the perfect item of clothing for a TV programme themed around treachery. But far from disguising the wearer, a cape can’t fail to attract attention. The silhouette gives everyone an aura of stature. I tend to reach for mine for my Monday morning commute when I feel the need to look more put together. Capes give the impression of someone who has got their act together, or at least knows where they’re going.

Two things come to mind when I think about visitors books. The first is the memory of leaving the home of a low-profile and secretive single man whose company is widely craved. I had been revelling in a sense of self-importance as I had good reason to suspect that the previous occupant of my guest bed had been none other than the late Queen Elizabeth II. Surely this proximity elevated my own moral and social status in some osmotic way? But when I suggested I sign his visitors book my host became querulous. He declared that he didn’t have a visitors book for the precise reason that he didn’t like the idea of his friends ‘snooping’ to see who else had been there. I think of the canny businesswoman who ran a holiday cottage letting agency in Devon 20 years ago.

It’s 500 years since Martin Luther, along with the preacher Paul Speratus, put together the first Protestant hymn book, the Achtliederbuch, literally the ‘book with eight songs’. Collections of liturgical chants and songs had existed before, but they had never been meant for the congregation – just for choirs. Luther believed collective sung worship in German (as opposed to Latin) was key to spreading the Reformation’s ideas and inspiring converts. What better way to engage worshippers than to include them in the church services they were attending? A catchy, simple melody and words everyone could understand, regardless of status or ability to read, helped too.

There are not many phrases that offend me more than ‘pigs in blankets’. The correct name for this dish is, of course, kilted sausages. In fact, the bacon-wrapped cocktail sausage has many incorrect names: the Irish go with kilted soldiers while the Germans call them Bernese sausages. The Americans for some reason wrap hotdogs in croissant pastry and call them saucisson en croûte, as though they’re some kind of European delicacy, à la Escoffier. Careful though, sometimes these deviations in name mask a greater sin. One Christmas, my posh nan promised ‘devils riding horseback’. I was thrilled for what I assumed must be the Nigella-fied version. Instead, she served baked prunes stuffed with almonds and wrapped in a sliver of bacon.

Smithfield has been the beating heart of London’s meat industry for more than 800 years. Located at the middle point of Farringdon, Barbican and St Paul’s, the capital’s only remaining wholesale meat market has survived bombings and fire, public criticism and a waning butchery industry; it has been pulled down and rebuilt, and adapted to changing times. In continuous operation since medieval times, to call it an institution is an understatement. But this week it was announced that it will be forced to close its shutters for the final time. The City of London Corporation was granted the right to run Smithfield meat market by Edward III in 1327.

Babycham, the drink you perhaps last sipped while tapping the ash from a black Sobranie as Sade played on the jukebox, is coming back. Launched in 1953 by Francis Showering of the Somerset cider family, it was aimed at giving women something to drink in the pub other than a port and lemon. Demand for the ‘genuine champagne perry’ soared after it became the first alcoholic drink advertised on the new ITV in 1955 – to the extent that Babycham was once said to be stocked by all but two pubs in the country. It’s a ‘champagne’ rather than a ‘sparkling’ perry to this day – an attempt by Bollinger to sue for abuse of their trade name in the 1970s was dismissed by Lord Denning.

‘Le Beaujolais nouveau est arrivé!’ If that phrase means anything to you, you’re likely of a vintage that remembers pre-Clarkson Top Gear. Growing up in the 1980s, you couldn’t miss adverts for the Beaujolais Run – an annual race to be the first to bring the new wine back to England. People would rush over to Burgundy in their Aston Martins and Jaguars, fill up with Beaujolais and roar back home. The idea for a race across France was cooked up by Clement Freud and wine merchant Joseph Berkmann in 1970. It really took off in 1974 when the Sunday Times offered a prize to the first person to bring a case of wine back to the newspaper’s offices following its release at midnight on the third Thursday in November.

Ask young people today if they know that they can dial a number to hear the time and you would probably be met with blank stares. Why would you pay to phone a speaking clock when the time is right there in front of you on your watch or phone screen? However, if you were young in bygone days you may have memories of getting parental permission to phone ‘TIM’ and hear somebody telling the time… precisely. In fact, every year millions of people still phone this service – now the BT Speaking Clock – almost 90 years after its introduction. It was launched by the Post Office on 24 July 1936 and was aimed at folk who did not have a clock or watch to hand.

Bonfire night is more about burning Catholics than haute cuisine and it shows. I’ve always felt for Catholic friends at this time of year, but I am a Jew, and I am told I am oversensitive. It’s also three decades since I made £150 doing ‘Penny for the Guy’ on Hampstead High Street. The last time I went to a bonfire night party it was hosted by a Catholic, and this confused me, until I remembered: she is an English Catholic. If Christmas is for the goose, and Easter for the hot cross bun, bonfire night has the toffee apple. Because this is a desolate festival, it has neither toffee on the apple – we will get to that – nor, too often, a bonfire. I’m not for burning Guido in effigy like those pyromaniac loons in Lewes, about whom I always think: who will they burn next?

Among the many options available for Halloween costumes and decorations these days, from witches to zombies, from mummies to serial killers, there is one traditional Halloween character you are unlikely to see: fairies. But in Irish and Scottish folklore, which provides the basis for modern Halloween traditions, fairies were central to this festival. In Scotland, it was on Halloween night that the ‘fairy rade’ (procession) was said to be seen going through the countryside, bearing the souls of the unbaptised dead or those who were snatched away in life by the fairies. In the ballad of Tam Lin, Janet has to wait until the fairies ride at Halloween to rescue her otherworldly lover from the clutches of the Fairy Queen.

If there’s one thing to bring out your inner Herod, it’s the twee tendency in younger children’s books. It’s at its worst in the depiction of pirates. Ten Little Pirates shows them cute; The Pirates Next Door as rambunctious; Never Mess with a Pirate Princess as egalitarian; Pirates Love Underpants as… oh stop it. It is the latest aspect of our long-standing obsession with pirates, though it’s never been so commodified or so anodyne. Well, there’s going to be a bracing corrective when the National Maritime Museum launches its Pirates exhibition next year. It’s not aimed at rehabilitation.

Sometimes it’s the only word that will do. Every journalist at Max Verstappen’s press conference last month understood him perfectly when he said his car was ‘fucked’, the adjective chosen not to convey mechanical failings but rather Verstappen’s emotions. But the Formula 1 authorities were displeased, and the driver has been punished. Perhaps the FIA should listen to Billy Connolly. The comedian is a fan of the f-word, relishing its harsh consonants. He maintains there simply isn’t a polite equivalent to match it: ‘“Go away” just dissipates.’ Of course you can take it too far. Scattergun swearing is tedious, the words losing their power with each repetition. But sparing, well-timed use of an expletive or two can be hugely effective.

The other day, clearing out boxes, I stumbled on a sheaf of invitations from childhood. Decorated with trains and fairies, they are very similar to those my children still (just about) receive today, except there’s usually a Thelwell pony instead of Elsa from Frozen. The handwritten addresses, the names of the houses and streets (Bluebell Cottage, Leeward Road) plunged me back to 1980s Sussex, sunlit gardens and pass the parcel (where only the winner got a prize, unlike now, when a Haribo lurks in every layer). It was a ritual. There was the pleasure of choosing the invitations (‘Darling, we had spaceships last year’), the thrill of doling them out and the tension of waiting for the RSVPs. It was also, though I knew it not at the time, social preparation.

Earlier this month, the fortunate folk of Frankfurt were entertained by the 11th annual tram-drivers competition, with entries from 26 teams representing 20 countries across Europe. This is as crazy as it sounds, a kind of Olympiad for trams. How do trams compete, given they are not exactly flexible in terms of where they can go and cannot spin round Le Mans-type racetracks? Well, the devisers of this contest have created a series of challenges for the teams of three – two tram drivers, one male and one female, and an assistant. The obvious tests included coming to a halt within a centimetre of a stop along a 300-metre track and rushing out, fire extinguisher in hand, to put out a lineside fire.