Ivo Delingpole

My sister and her friends were watching the conclusion of Arthur Fery’s third round tiebreaker with Aperol-laced bated breath. Curiously enough, the match had already finished. Finally Fery began to speak: ‘oh thank God, he’s posh’, exclaimed one friend. Fery is this summer’s heartthrob, and a major coup for those who thought the posh boy had had their day. There’s been requisite time between the Hugh Grant heyday that it’s become novel and cool again; Leo Woodall laid some strong groundwork in 2024’s One Day, but it took Wimbledon’s Centre Court to cement the return.  I think the heatwave has a lot to do with it.

The season is here and at Ascot last week, rather than worrying about what hat to wear, the real pros were working out what drug to take. After a series of cubicle swabs, newspaper reports left no doubt as to racegoers’ consumption at 'As-ket': the coke consumed in the car parks alone probably financed the construction of at least three Medellin villas. It also explains the success of that ubiquitous pale blue Oliver Brown waistcoat – lined with two perfectly-sized little pockets.  Dealers’ menus, sent by WhatsApp and laden with emojis, reveal the astonishing array of exotic substances on offer to punters. We no longer live in an era of poorly cling-filmed coke (which turned out to be mainly speed) and hash pellets that look like rabbit poo.

The UK has a Neet epidemic: those aged 16 to 24 classed as not in employment, education, or training. At various times in my life, I have counted myself among their number. It’s an easy status to fall into, yet it’s not the land of sunshine and roses one sometimes imagines jobless youth to be. The numbers grow year by year, and many of those entering the status fall further into Neetdom, whether it be by a conspicuous gap on the CV that leaves them even more behind, the realisation that you can live just as well on benefits or mere feelings of hopelessness after hundreds of failed job applications.   The truth is, it’s bloody tough out there getting a job.

Today, Rivals returns for a second series on Disney+. The first series was that rarest of phenomena: an adaptation that didn’t hate its source material. Sure, the producers decided to cram the plot with more subtle-as-a-sledgehammer politics than appears in the actual book, but you could tell they revered Jilly Cooper and the world of Rutshire and wanted to do it justice. Cooper executively produced the first series but must have been away on some days (I can’t see her let a well-heeled huntswoman pronounce the Beaufort hunt ‘Boh-fore’ rather than ‘Boh-fuht’, particularly when a major scene in the book hinges on the pronunciation of ‘Belvoir’).

To my mind, there can be few more perfect games than backgammon. Equally at home in an Iraqi teashop or played atop a fur in a plutocrat’s ski chalet, it is a game punctuated with bitter glares, bemused chuckles, and outrageous reversals of fortune. For those not yet initiated, the aim is to race all your men (pieces) to your home section and off the board first, avoiding their being knocked off the board and sent back to the beginning, while delaying your opponent’s men as much as possible. It blends luck and skill, and is at times infuriating, but always fun.  The name we know dates to 1635, but it has been played under other names and variants for at least 1600 years – 5000 if you think The Royal Game of Ur is close enough.

After three years of theatrical um-ing and ah-ing, the Prince and Princess of Wales have seemingly acceded to the obvious: Prince George is apparently going to Eton. Despite their perennial posturing at being a ‘modern’ royal family (is there such a thing?) there was really only one option. Eton is after all – somewhat paradoxically – the only place capable of offering any semblance of a normal adolescence for George, as well as mentally preparing him for kingship. To an outsider, this sounds ridiculous. How can prancing around in tailcoats while speaking unique slang (teachers are ‘beaks’; Year 9 is ‘F Block’) have any bearing on normalcy? Yet normal is relative. One of the first things you realise at Eton is that the exceptional is unexceptional.

Would you inject yourself with an unapproved drug you could only buy off a sketchy website? Most people instinctively would say no. Yet, throw in a debilitating chronic condition or a crippling insecurity, and the promise of miraculous effects, and the question becomes a lot harder. Such is the quandary faced by those considering taking peptides, the hottest health trend in Silicon Valley, but a trend soon to leach into the mainstream.   Peptides – mainly produced in China – are short chains of amino acids that carry out a range of biological processes, from modulating hormones to repairing tissue damage. You know one of them already – GLP–1 (Glucagon-like peptide-1), marketed as Ozempic or Mounjaro.

This new year, you may find yourself in the gym. The aim, of course, is to mitigate the effects of the gallon of brandy butter consumed over Christmas. But you may also be trying to build the ‘new you’ (clichés abound when it comes to fitness). Yet as a Spectator reader, you might soon find yourself strangely at home. That’s because the gym is a curiously conservative space. Partly that’s down to the kind of people it attracts, but also because of its existing clientele: disaffected young men. Last year, a Guardian columnist was mocked for stating this, but anyone who’s spent time in a squat rack knows it’s true.

If Marcus Aurelius were around today, would he have a podcast? The answer, of course, is no. His meditations were for his own guidance and never knowingly meant to be published. This doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have found himself shoved forward as a hero of a new resistance. His sound bites would be rendered into TikToks while teenagers put his quotations as their phone backgrounds. Twenty-somethings working in industries he couldn’t conceive of (‘digital marketing’? Quid est?) would stutter his words like mantras as they shiver in Clapham back garden ice baths. For stoicism has returned, and in its strangest form yet.

To my great disappointment, I was never (knowingly) fed qarta – a popular dish of boiled and pan-fried horse anus served without sauce or spices. I did, however, get to try the next best thing – kymyz, mares’ milk fermented in a goatskin. It was the second day of a horse trek in Kyrgyzstan and it had begun to hail. Not exactly golf ball-sized, but close enough to the golf ball sweets you bite into to find bubble gum. The horses coped, perhaps because getting pelted with hail is a fair trade for not being on a Kyrgyz menu. We stopped under a tree and our guide’s blank stares gave no indication of whether the weather was normal or not. The following two hailstorms suggested it was.

One of the first things you realise on arriving at Eton is that while you may be at arguably the best school in the world, you’re also possibly among Britain’s most hated. It’s great being surrounded by 15th-century quadrangles and Georgian boarding houses, and your uniform is as dapper as it gets (so long as you don’t mind dressing like a penguin). But you can’t walk into Windsor wearing a college crest, for fear of being mugged, and the papers are filled with stories claiming you’re overprivileged or not actually that clever. It’s a double-edged sword. You have the advantage of a brilliant education, but bear a stigma that can’t be removed no matter how many times you pretend to your friends that you vote Labour.