Rachel Johnson presents her LBC show on Fridays at 7pm
From our UK edition
This week: James Heale on Farage's plan to win the left-wing vote, Geoffrey Cain on Trump's visit to China, Rachel Johnson has lost her luggage and Melissa Kite wonders why the French love Cork.
From our UK edition
Kyrgyzstan Forget the detailed itinerary – a 12-day trip that included the vertiginous 2,446-metre Kotorma pass on horseback – the packing list alone ran to a dizzying several pages. Sleeping bag, sleeping bag liner, three pairs of jodhpurs, chaps, riding boots, waterproof riding coat… I hadn’t seen anything like it since I went to prep school aged ten as the first girl at Ashdown House. My mother took me from Brussels to Harrods uniform department with an extensive list. I left with a St Trinian’s trousseau of navy kilts and Aertex shirts, tuck box and trunk. As D-Day approached last week, I managed to source most items for the riding safari.
An imposing castle that has been in the same family for 200 years, and was featured as the location for Shiv and Tom’s wedding in Succession, is well worth a visit. And now you can hire this very big house in the country for your own discerning yet hedonistic fun. “What is luxury now,” asks Imogen Hervey-Bathurst, scraping her raven hair from her pale face and ruby-red lips. “It’s authenticity, it’s soul, it’s comfort, combined with bacchanalian, opulent drama in a historic family home,” she continues, with a naughty flash. “Eastnor is, glamorous, it’s grand, it’s relaxed.
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It was when I was staying recently with the Frums in D.C. that, for a dizzying moment, I thought my life-long quest had ended. Nasa can fly us a quarter of a million miles to circumnavigate the moon but nobody has yet, to my knowledge, fixed the perennial problem of making an even half-decent cup of coffee at home. Back to the Frum residence in Georgetown, known inside the beltway as ‘the best hotel in Washington’. It is 8.30 a.m. There is no sign of Danielle, my hostess, but David is at large on the landing, perhaps as he had heard his house guest stir. ‘Coffee?’ he asked. To my amazement, he flung open some doors outside his master bedroom suite to reveal an entire separate walk-in closet complete with serried rows of glass mugs and a space-age espresso machine.
From our UK edition
51 min listen
It is undoubtable that – under the leadership of Zack Polanski – the Green Party have soared to new heights. Having won their first parliamentary by-election in February, polls consistently show them as a force to be reckoned with on the left of British politics. Much of their success has come at the detriment of Labour, with disgruntled further-left progressive voices opting to vote Green. This, though, is a brand of eco-populism that comes at the expense of the Green Party's roots, or so argues Angus Colwell in the Spectator's cover article this week. Have the Greens ceded the issue of the environment?
The snow is deep and crisp and even, the sky bluer than blue, and beneath my Black Crow skis there’s the soft hiss of fresh powder. I’m rehearsing my excuses as I carve my wiggly way down a well-upholstered piste. ‘I’ve gone skiing by mistake,’ I try out on the pure mountain air. I’m almost embarrassed by my own excess as this is my second ski break of the year, and to go twice before Easter during a war and an energy crisis is peak first-world indulgence. Still, as I like to say, I have not one but two Agas, ‘just not in the same house’, so what the heck. Here goes. My two ski trips in two months, then. Last month, we rented a chalet for the annual Dawnay-Johnson family ski holiday. We played Perudo and ate hugely both on and off the mountain.
From our UK edition
24 min listen
On this week’s Spectator Out Loud: Piers Morgan reveals what Donald Trump told him from his hospital bed; Melanie McDonagh ponders the impermanence of email, amidst the Peter Mandelson scandal; Matt Ridley argues that polar bears – which are currently thriving – pose problems for climate enthusiasts; and finally, Rachel Johnson attends the memorial service for Dame Jilly Cooper – and says she made a fool out of herself. Produced and presented by Patrick Gibbons.
From our UK edition
I am ‘sharing’ what follows as a public service. Also, as self-care in the hope that publicly shaming myself might stop me from doing it again. What can she be on about, you must be thinking, this time? My name is Rachel Johnson, and I have a chronic inability to leave the house on time, even for something I have been looking forward to for months. One example: heli-skiing in Italy with my son Oliver. All I had to do was catch a flight to Geneva whence we would be conveyed to a divine off-grid chalet via car and driver, then snowmobile. I had one job. To get us to Heathrow for the breakfast-time flight.
From our UK edition
43 min listen
As the world watches events in Iran, and wonders whether the US will intervene, the Spectator’s cover this week examines 'British complicity in Tehran’s terror’. When thinking about what could happen next in the crisis, there is a false dichotomy presented between regime survival and revolution; the reality is more complicated, though there is no doubt that this is the biggest threat to the theocratic regime in decades. For this week’s Edition, host Lara Prendergast is joined by political editor Tim Shipman, columnist Rachel Johnson and features editor – and Edition co-host – William Moore. They commend the bravery of Iran’s protestors but criticise the ‘inept, naive and wrong’ response of the Foreign Office.
For this trip, I’ve had to divulge my social media handles, blood group, shoe size etc, and have therefore assumed the brace position for being ‘processed’ into the US, not least because I was once, under Joe Biden, incarcerated in a side room at JFK for having an apple in my hand luggage. The border protection officers show not the slightest interest in my sarky tweet about neocon Liz Truss Though, I might add, it was even worse under Bill Clinton. My baby boy was placed in a detention centre on arrival at Dulles when we relocated to Washington, D.C. Oliver, aged six months, was travelling separately from us with a British nanny who’d over-stayed on a visa a decade before, and we didn’t know where he was for 24 hours.
From our UK edition
We knew the church would be packed as Shelley had died so young. We knew the church would be freezing, as her funeral fell during the Arctic spell that whitened the bracken and iced over puddles the colour of Dairy Milk. When we drove into Simonsbath just after lunchtime, the sun was only grazing the hilltops, leaving valleys in deep shadows. We’d allowed plenty of time, but the lanes were already crammed with vehicles. My husband and I had intended to stand at the back of St Luke’s so as not to take up precious places, but thanks to Ivo’s near-village-elder status we were ordered into the emergency seating in the chancel.
From our UK edition
The headline smacked me between the eyes. ‘I can’t afford to turn my Aga on this winter,’ a nice writer called Flora Watkins whinged in the Telegraph last weekend (she once wrote a Spectator piece about the sublime awfulness of cockapoos that I wished I’d written myself). The sub-head continued: ‘Our writer’s once cosy Norfolk home is feeling the chill as energy bills rise – how will she and her family cope?’ There was a fetching picture of our tragic protagonist in cardi and layers clutching a mug in front of her Aga and an impressive batterie de cuisine. Watkins had also swathed her pretty neck in the Diana-sheep-jersey scarf (white sheep on red, and one dear little black sheep).
From our UK edition
A man called Gianluca and I mounted the steps to the Friedrichsbad in pensive silence. We hadn’t made eye contact since we’d met in reception at our hotel, the divine Brenners, for this rendezvous with destiny. At the front desk, we were sternly reminded again of the dress code. We nodded. For the next three hours we were going to be stark naked in a 19th-century, Renaissance-themed, domed and frescoed temple to the God of Thermal Springs, adorned with hand-painted majolica tiles, statuary and a sequence of pools and chambers. ‘Kein Textil,’ the woman repeated. After removing every stitch, we processed to the shower room – me checking that the area, which was equipped with vast ceiling-mounted bronze fittings, had several exits. I was wearing only blue plastic slippers.
From our UK edition
Jilly Cooper, the last great Englishwoman of my lifetime – after Queen Elizabeth II and Debo – has died. The lights are going out all over Rutshire. During her life, Jilly shone as an author, a friend and a person – the definition of effervescent. You had to meet her only once to become a founder member of the Jilly Cooper Adoration Society. When she wrote her last book, Tackle!, about a rural football club complete with ‘bitch invasions’ and ghastly Wags, I told her that, in a way, she was the beautiful game, only she gave entertainment to millions not by striking a ball but by putting one word in front of another on her ancient typewriter, Monica. (A friend told me she liked to write topless in the garden, with a glass of wine.
From our UK edition
Like our former ambassador to the United States, Lord Mandelson, I was once vetted by the security services. My brush with the spooks started, as in a Cold War spy novel, with a meeting on a bench in St James’s Park after a distinguished foreign policy wonk of my acquaintance had suggested lunch. As the weather was fine, we decided to pick up sandwiches from the café and sit admiring the pelicans. The diplomat explained the Foreign Office was scouting for new blood for the Policy Planning Staff. I was at the Financial Times and had never knowingly had a blue-sky thought in my life but this sounded… different. The sun shone. Ducks splashed. Tourists wandered past, photographing squirrels.
From our UK edition
It was the morning after the night before and I was picking glass out of my leg by a pool, blotting the blood trickling down my calf with a navy spotted handkerchief. I was trying to work out how the shards of glass came to be there… and then it came back to me. But first, let’s rewind. I was taking my seat on the British Airways 10 a.m. flight to Nice. ‘Not another one!’ a woman right behind me in steerage complained. ‘Is this some special flight or something?’ I stowed my Globe-Trotter in the overhead locker and made eye contact with her. ‘Piers Morgan is up front,’ she explained. ‘And that’s Matt Goss.’ She pointed to a tidy man minding his own business a few rows ahead.
From our UK edition
29 min listen
On this week’s Spectator Out Loud: Max Jeffery reports from court as the Spectator and Douglas Murray win the defamation cause brought against them by Mohammed Hijab; Cosmo Landesman defends those who stay silent over political issues; Henry Blofeld celebrates what has been a wonderful year for test cricket; David Honigmann reflects on the powder keg that was 1980s New York, as he reviews Jonathan Mahler’s The Gods of New York; and, following the Oasis reunion, Rachel Johnson reflects on her run ins with the Gallagher brothers. Produced and presented by Patrick Gibbons.
From our UK edition
46 min listen
First: Nigel Farage is winning over women Does – or did – Nigel Farage have a woman problem? ‘Around me there’s always been a perception of a laddish culture,’ he tells political editor Tim Shipman. In last year’s election, 58 per cent of Reform voters were men. But, Shipman argues, ‘that has begun to change’. According to More in Common, Reform has gained 14% among women, while Labour has lost 12%. ‘Women are ‘more likely than men… to worry that the country is broken.’ Many of Reform’s most recent victories have been by women: Andrea Jenkyns in the mayoral elections, Sarah Pochin to Parliament; plus, there most recent high profile defections include a former Tory Welsh Assembly member and a former Labour London councillor.
From our UK edition
In front of me, a sea of lads in bucket hats and Adidas, with pints. Behind me, a sea of lads in bucket hats and Adidas, with pints. A luxuriantly barneted Richard Ashcroft is concluding his warm-up act and tells us to give it up for the greatest rock’n’roll band in the world, which those in Wembley on the last Wednesday in July do with abandon. A montage of headlines flashes across huge screens about the reunion – the hatchet being buried, the dynamic pricing queue to buy tickets that was so long everyone joked Oasis would have split up again by the time it was your turn to shell out. And then the brothers strolled on. Liam in a bucket hat and zipped cagoule with a rollneck collar, scowling but still managing to look like sex on a stick.
From our UK edition
The first rule of the summer party is do not hold your summer party on the same night as The Spectator. It’s social fight club. You can only lose. This is a rule, however, that our Prime Minister, among others on ‘the left’, ignored to offer competing attractions. Zarah Sultana MP went to the most extreme lengths. She chose the same evening (3 July) to launch a new political party with Jeremy Corbyn, by posting something on X at 8.11 p.m. before her party even had a name, or indeed, Jeremy Corbyn. It was Jezbollah minus Magic Grandpa. Total success, as my father says whenever something goes badly wrong. The band Centrist Dad had a gig at The Water Rats in King’s Cross. This is an inside-the-Beltway boys’ band with Robert Peston and Ed Balls.
