Toby Young

I experienced what the American self-help guru Dr Phil calls a ‘defining moment’ the other day. I’d just taken stock of my life and, frankly, things didn’t look good. The house I’ve bought in Acton — and which I can’t possibly afford — is already worth less than I paid for it. My wife has expressed a desire to have a fourth child. And I’ve recently been ‘let go’ as the Evening Standard’s restaurant critic. It was time to act. I would no longer be carried along by events — I would shape my own destiny. In the words of Dr Phil, I would move my ‘self-concept away from a world-defined, fictional self towards a self-defined, authentic self’. I decided to sell the family silver.

What are the two words guaranteed to fill any parents of young children with terror? School fees? Chicken Pox? Gina Ford? The answer, I’m afraid, is half term. My daughter, Sasha, only started going to ‘big school’ in September so I wasn’t anticipating too many problems. What I hadn’t factored in is that my wife gave birth to a third child this year, which meant she already had her hands full with a three-month-old and a two-and-a-half-year-old. The fact that our au pair resigned a couple of months ago didn’t help, either. How could I cope? The answer, said my wife, was to cram in as many activities as possible. In this way, she assured me, the time would pass quite quickly.

‘You’re joking, right?’ The person on the other end of the phone was Grub Smith, a sports-loving friend of mine who I was hoping might get me out of a spot of bother. The problem was, I’d arranged to watch this Saturday’s rugby World Cup final with some neighbours and I thought my knowledge of the game could do with some brushing up. The question that had prompted Grub’s incredulous response was about Jonny Wilkinson. For some reason, he was surprised by my reference to him as ‘the quarterback’. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be afraid to reveal my ignorance in front of the neighbours, but not knowing about rugby carries all sorts of unwelcome implications.

Toby Young on the social pitfalls of your child's birthday party I suppose it had to happen. There comes a time in every father’s life when his son’s social activity begins to eclipse his own. I used to find it amusing when Ludo received a stiffy in the morning post. ‘What is it now?’ I’d say, waving the letter about in mock indignation. ‘Another garden party at Buckingham Palace?’ These days, I sneak downstairs before he gets up and root about in the pile of invitations on the doormat, trying to find one that isn’t addressed to him. It wouldn’t be so bad, but the little bugger is only two-and-a-half. The reason for this deluge of invitations is that he’s started going to a posh nursery school in west London.

As a lover of good drama, my favourite week of the year falls in the late summer when I make my annual pilgrimage to Scotland. The fabulous scenery, the weird and wacky costumes, the inventive use of language — it all adds up to a very memorable few days. No, I’m not talking about the Edinburgh Festival, but about deerstalking in the Highlands. For sheer, heart-stopping excitement, it knocks spots off a trip to the theatre. If you’re lucky, you’ll come home with more than just a fistful of programmes, too — though hand-luggage restrictions make it advisable to stick such souvenirs in the hold. Admittedly, it has taken me ten years to become fully conversant with the sport.

Not long ago, an obscure journal published what must rank as the most controversial essay of the 21st century. No, I’m not talking about ‘The Israel Lobby and US Foreign Policy’, an attack on the influence of the Jewish lobby that appeared in the London Review of Books. I’m referring to ‘Viewing American class divisions through Facebook and MySpace’ by Danah Boyd. Ms Boyd is a 29-year-old PhD student in the Sociology Department of the University of California, Berkeley and the reason her essay was so inflammatory is that she dared to raise the spectre of social class in a discussion of social networking sites on the internet.

Toby Young presents his latest video diary of the Boris Johnson campaign. You can watch previous entries here and here.

Being a journalist, sooner or later, you’ll get a call asking if you want to be in a reality show. One of the occupational hazards of being a journalist these days is that, sooner or later, you’ll get a call asking if you want to be in a reality show. The reason is simple: we’re just about the only people left in the country who are likely to say yes. It is not just that we’re complete publicity whores — we’re hardly alone in that respect — it is also that we have the perfect excuse: we can pretend we’re just doing it for ‘journalistic reasons’. I don’t think I’ve ever turned down the opportunity to appear on a reality show.

I first bought a flat in Shepherd’s Bush in 1991 and I’ve never missed an opportunity to tell the world just how marvellous it is. The shops, the streets, the people — it really is a showcase for Britain’s multicultural society. You couldn’t ask for a more vibrant and lively neighbourhood. My intention, obviously, has been to boost property values in the area so I can afford to move somewhere else. Almost anywhere in west London would be preferable — Olympia, Baron’s Court, Queens Park — but Notting Hill would be my first choice. If only I could bring local property prices into line with most other west London neighbourhoods, I’d have a chance of relocating. Well, I’m happy to report that it’s finally happened.

Poor Colin Wilson. Has there ever been such a spectacular decline in an author’s fortunes? His first book, The Outsider (1956), was an overnight sensation. Hailed as a literary breakthrough by Philip Toynbee and Cyril Connolly, it earned him £20,000 in its first year of publication — the equivalent of £1 million in today’s money. ‘I have just met my first genius,’ declared Daniel Farson in the Daily Mail. ‘His name is Colin Wilson.’ He was only 24 at the time and, on the back of such fawning attention, seemed destined for a long and distinguished career. In fact, Wilson fell from grace within a year. To a large extent, he brought this on himself.