Mary Wakefield is commissioning editor of The Spectator.
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Mary Wakefield talks to Angus Jackson about directing David Hare’s latest play If I’m never quite content with a glass of water in an interview again, it’s Angus Jackson’s fault. There we were in a soundproofed meeting room on Friday evening, the National Theatre a whirl around us: jazz in the foyer, gossip in the
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The evening is laid out above the houses, behind Mr X’s head. Pinkish clouds collide then slide apart, exposing jigsaw shapes of darkening sky. A thumb smudge of moon appears over Westminster as Mr X gets to the point: ‘A new space age is about to begin,’ he says. ‘The question is not “will it
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Even at 78 and from a distance, Sir Peter Hall has the look of an alpha male. There he is about 100 or so feet away, advancing towards me across the polished boards of his rehearsal room; head forward, bear-like, with the lonely charisma of a boxing champ. As he passes, the younger members of
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I met Boris Johnson in his office in City Hall overlooking the Thames and Tower Bridge. Our former editor seemed a more thoughtful and sensible character than the man who used to practise cycling with no hands down Doughty Street at lunchtime, but there were signs of the old Boris tucked around his mayoral office:
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Mary Wakefield meets the successful pop duo the Pet Shop Boys, and finds them eloquent critics of New Labour, staunch defenders of civil liberties — and fans of Vince Cable Through the woods, the trees And further on the sea We lived in the shadow of the war Sand in the sandwiches Wasps in the
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The news that abortion clinics are to be allowed, for the first time, to advertise on TV and radio strikes me as utterly grim: a bad idea and a deeply sad one to boot. The Broadcast Committee of Advertising Practise say they’re responding to Government calls to combat rising teenage pregnancy but if so they’re
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Mary Wakefield takes a postwar tour through Gaza and surveys a psychological landscape warped by conflict and suffering — and hear whispers of a further Israeli incursion The border control at Erez, separating Israel from Gaza, was built in a happier age. It looks more like an airport than a checkpoint, a vast glass hangar
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Mary Wakefield meets Niamh Cusack and finds an actress full of contradictions It’s oddly exciting, upstairs at the Old Vic: there are actresses rushing to rehearsal; the burble of PR ladies schmoozing the press; the sense of a curtain about to rise. A bright new play. I smile, look around hopefully for my interviewee-to-be, the
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It’s a little awkward, standing nose to nose with strangers. Here, inside a lift the size of a train loo, are two young actresses, a PR man, one actor on the brink of proper stardom (Rory Kinnear) and me, all inching down through the body of the bustling, gossipy National Theatre. We’ve been silent for
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Cameron’s little talk to Demos today (to launch their Progressive Conservatism Project) was full of pleasant abstract stuff about de-centralisation as a means to fairness. But what was most interesting was how dangerous the Tory schools policy suddenly seemed. Why? Because when education came up during the Q and A (after an hour of generalised
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Alice looks down from her perch on top of the rocking horse, bright-eyed behind big specs, says: ‘Catch me!’ then propels herself into the air. I catch, hug, then prop her back up again, ready for another go. ‘Ooh, she likes you,’ says Iris, director of the 999 Club and uncrowned queen of Deptford. ‘She
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Mary Wakefield talks to a courageous woman who blew the whistle on the deep systemic failures in the foster care service — and whose only reward was to be hounded and vilified I spotted Sarah immediately, though I’d never seen her before and she was tucked in among the commuter crowds ebbing and flowing through
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Should Debbie Purdy’s husband be allowed to kill her? I’m keen to know what you think, because – for me – both instinct and reason say: no. Absolutely not. Debbie, who has a particularly nasty form of MS, is considering going to the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland to be killed, but wants to be sure
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Because I spoke to him on the phone, not in person, you’ll have to share my mental picture of William P. Young. There he is in a hotel room in Texas: 53, balding, with bright eyes and a greying goatee. He’s ironing as he talks (he says so), his sleeves rolled up (I reckon), with
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When David Miliband’s team get together this afternoon to talk through his performance on the Jeremy Vine show, I hope they realise they’ve got to do something about his voice. There’s the embarrassing ‘mockney’ accent (not shared by brother Ed). And worse — his recent attempt to widen his appeal and stop dropping his t’s:
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The one fact that screams out of the proposed murder law shake-up, is that it’s great news for girls. Reform is overdue — there hasn’t been any change in the law for 50 years — but the picture that emerges from all the crunchy details is especially cheering for chicks. That centuries-old defence of ‘provocation’
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Gore Vidal tells Mary Wakefield that America has forgotten its constitutional roots, and explains why Bobby Kennedy was ‘the biggest son of a bitch in politics’ To kill time, as I wait for Gore Vidal by the reception desk in Claridge’s, I leaf through the pages of his memoirs, looking at the photographs. One in
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This morning as I cycled through Covent Garden, Melanie Phillips nearly killed me. Here’s how: I often jump red lights in London on my bike. I quite see how irritating it is, but it just feels safer to be in front of the buses. This time though, as I was about to sidle through a
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Ken or Boris: it’s still anyone’s guess. But whoever wins, (and I do hope Pete and Fraser are right to be optimistic) the question remains: what will they do without each other? One of the funniest elements of this mayoral contest has been that, whilst their supporters are animated by ferocious hatred of the other side,
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Mary Wakefield talks to the RSC’s Michael Boyd and learns how he scared the Establishment Halfway through our interview, in the middle of a discussion about the future of the RSC, a tired Michael Boyd rubs his face with his hands, looks up at me through the gaps between his fingers and says, ‘Well, my