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Tuesday 2 December 2008

Shared Opinion

If a policy is in crisis, hand it to the Post Office — or the Girl Guides

In its dying years, the last Conservative government was constantly hit by accusations that it was selling off the family silver. Privatisation, the critics said, for political gain. Bravo to this lot for realising that Britain has some silver left. Not physical assets, this time, but goodwill. What could be more valuable for a government so bereft? Use it, flog it, exploit it, drive it into the ground. Like I said, this could be the start of a whole new movement. Political genius. I am in awe.

Travel writing has become increasingly weird in recent years. Hitch-hiking around Ireland with a fridge (Round Ireland With a Fridge, Tony Hawks), criss-crossing the UK to find people called Dave Gorman (Are You Dave Gorman?, Dave Gorman), all that sort of thing. Last week, a book landed on my desk which may be the apotheosis of the genre. In the Bath, by the comedian explorer Tim FitzHigham, charts a journey undertaken for Comic Relief in which the hero rowed across the Channel in a bathtub. If an American takes to sea in a bathtub, it is wackiness. If a Frenchman does so, it is surreal. It takes a Brit, I think, to make it eccentric.

FitzHigham is that. I met him last year at a big, very starry book awards dinner. We were in the coat queue. It was like a slightly irritable version of Madame Tussauds. There were vicious whispers that Emily Maitlis had just pushed to the front.

‘Tim,’ said FitzHigham, shaking my hand. Then he started to tell me about his bathtub. Copper, plug kept falling out, the coastguard made him put a plug on the shower, etc. All around us, everybody was listening. If this is the kind of thing you have done, I suppose you do tend to tell strangers about it. But still, I wondered if he was winding me up.

‘I showered,’ said FitzHigham, proudly, ‘with the shower. It sucked up water from below.’

At this, a grey-haired man queuing alongside leaned into our conversation. ‘But that would be salt water?’ he said.

‘Indeed!’ said FitzHigham. ‘You must be a plumber?’

He wasn’t a plumber. He was David Gilmour, from Pink Floyd. But the rock god didn’t want to embarrass this strange, bearded man who had sailed from France in a bathtub, so he sort of pretended that he was. And all around us, nobody else said a word. It was as British as anything.

More articles from: Hugo Rifkind | this section

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