Steerpike

Welcome Rt Rev Justin Welby, who became the 105th Archbishop of Canterbury this morning at St Pauls. The Church of England’s first tweeting ABC has been a bit quiet online of late, but that hasn’t stopped us nosy parkers getting a glimpse into life behind the scenes of this most holy transition. If Welby’s twenty-something daughter Katherine is anything to go by the flaws in process have not gone unnoticed: ‘Off to St Paul’s today for the confirmation of election. Anywhere else in the world an ‘election’ that had only 1 candidate it was illegal to vote against would be called corruption.’ Well quite, but it’s not all self-flagellation.

The new Intercontinental Hotel in Westminster seems determined to become the chosen haunt for the political great and good. The swanky hotel has opened its doors — and more importantly its late hours bar — to the Village. Cabinet Ministers and media luvvies have been spotted conspiring long into the night. I also hear that one leading conservative-supporting website was recently given free rein for the evening for less than a thousand pounds. The bar’s decor is stuffed with political photographs and Spitting Image puppets, as you might expect; but whoever commissioned the greatest works of Gerald Scarfe, which stretch along an entire wall, must be hoping that this week’s rumpus is soon forgotten.

There has been much hilarity in the wake of the abdication of Queen Beatrix. The obvious comparisons between Willem-Alexander of Orange and our own Prince Charles have been laboured elsewhere; but I was reminded this morning of the Queen’s response to the another Dutch abdication in 1980. The story goes that Her Majesty’s Press Secretary telephoned her to report that Queen Juliana had just abdicated, to which Brenda replied: 'typical Dutch’, before promptly hanging up. Seasoned Royal watchers will know that Elizabeth frowns on abdication, not least as a dereliction of duty, but also due to the impact it had on her own father.

Journalist Iain Overton is back, in a way. The former head of the Bureau of Investigative Journalism is due to cash in at journalism luvvies’ favourite haunt, the Frontline Club. Overton, who resigned following the Lord McAlpine affair at the end of last year, will be sharing his tips of the trade for a bargain sum of just £150. ‘Investigative Journalism with Iain Overton’ is a one day course that ‘will introduce you to life as an investigative journalist.’ Now you too can learn golden rules like ‘showing the victim pictures of the subject’ and ‘calling up the person you are about to smear on national TV before you go on air’. What could possibly go wrong?

Terrible news reaches me from the top of the Shard. The viewing platforms at the top of the 1,016ft glass wonder, which is the tallest building in western Europe, are set to open to the public in the coming weeks; but preview guests and party goers have reported a rather shaming interior design flaw. My mole says that complaints have been submitted about the reflective glass in the loos, which is causing havoc, discomfort and embarassment to users. It seems that the trendy designers did not appreciate that the reflections bounce off the ceiling and walls, and into and out of the cubicles. How very, very modern. The Shard team has, as of yet, declined to comment.

Michael Winner’s family have announced that he’s paid his last bill and checked out. The 77-year-old director of Death Wish and world renowned food critic died at home in West London earlier today. In what became his last Winner's Dinners column, Winner recently gave his loyal readership a glimpse at his final days, recounting his trip to Switzerland where he stayed at Mr Steerpike’s favourite haunt, the Gstaad Palace, where his ‘bill for 12 nights was 47,900 Swiss francs (£34,963 at 1.37 Swiss francs to the pound, the rate I got at Marks & Spencer).' Winner poignantly signed off with the observation: ‘Gstaad is packed with famous names, all fighting not to be in this column. I totally understand.

Tragedy has struck Vogue House this morning as the sad news emerges that Tatler’s famous in house dachshund, Alan TBH Plumptre, is dead. Details are sketchy at the  moment and Condé Nast are refusing to comment beyond saying that there was an ‘accident’, but Mr Steerpike can reveal London’s most glamorous puppy was killed by the revolving doors. Alan’s owner, editor's assistant Jennifer George, has broken the corporate silence: ‘he was so awesome and so very loved’. The little dog’s loyal social media following is distraught: pictures of Alan looking cute in the office were never ending.

The ladies of the London chatterati are at each other’s throats. Left-wing identity politics has been eating itself since the New Year, when the leading feminists of Fleet Street went into battle over who is the better feminist. The  great titan-esses are actually secret subversives determined to surrender their cause to subconscious patriarchy. Well, that’s what you would think if you believe some of the words that have been thrown at the likes of the Times’ Caitlin Moran or the Observer’s Julie Burchill and Suzanne Moore in recent weeks. The barbs are getting sharper. The promotional materials for Be Awesome: Modern Life for Modern Ladies, the latest offering from Hadley Freeman of Guardian and Vogue fame, have reached me.

In the latest Spectator Life, our very own Taki told us: 'I learned long ago that the harder it is to arrive at one's destination, the better the resort.' Apparently 'Gstaad is one of the few ultra-chic winter playgrounds where big jets cannot land.' Always up for a challenge, I decided that Switzerland's finest mountain spot needed checking out. Bloody Mary-spilling turbulence, various coach 'malfunctions' and sideways snow aside, our resident High Lifer was proven wrong; ten hours after leaving London I arrived outside, as Taki finely puts it: 'The Palace — a large chocolate cake of a castle-hotel, favoured by mad King Ludwig of Bavaria.