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Monday

Alec Marsh

How to save the King’s English

When a survey of 10,000 teachers revealed this month that Britain’s primary school pupils are increasingly relying on Americanisms (the Times front page declared ‘Trash-talking children are sounding like Americans’) I realised immediately what we needed. Rex Harrison. And if not Rex Harrison himself, then a dose of arguably his greatest role – that of Henry Higgins, the cantankerous professor of phonetics who first burst into the national consciousness in 1914 with the London premiere of Pygmalion. Alas, more than 100 years on, the essential truths in George Bernard Shaw’s now near unperformable play about the dire social harm caused by entrenched illiteracy and its consequences on speech (upon which,

Zak Asgard

The rise of the performative chef

Let me introduce you to the performative chef. The performative chef is a man. He is between 23 and 29 years of age. Both of his arms are covered in fine-line tattoos. His favourite tattoo is a quote from Philip Larkin that reads: ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do.’ His parents are in fact lovely people, but he’ll never tell you that. He sports a mullet (or buzzcut depending on the season). He rides a fixed-gear bike to work. He exclusively wears oversized clothes. He talks to every stranger that will listen about getting an eyebrow piercing. He studied classics

Ruth Bloomfield

Why would anyone live in a listed building?

When Zoë Cave Hawkins bought a run-down townhouse in the heart of the cathedral city of Winchester, she was fully aware that getting permission to update the Grade II-listed property was going to be a bit of a hassle. But the reality was far worse than she could have imagined. As fast as her architects could draw up plans, a phalanx of planning officers, listed building officers and conservation officers would descend to rip them up.  A proposal to build a terrace above the new flat-roofed kitchen extension was nixed because it would mean replacing a series of original windows on the first floor with modern French doors. A new door to an

Sunday

Mark Solomons

The joy of small airports

There’s a saying – the kind seen on ‘inspirational’ posters on the walls of HR departments – that claims: ‘It’s about the journey, not the destination.’ Clearly it was dreamed up by someone who has never flown from Stansted and found themselves jostling through crowds of stag and hen parties, newly arrived Polish workers (there’s even been an Essex-based Polish taxi service to pick them up) and the hordes descending on Burger King as soon as they come through arrivals like John Mills and co. supping their first lagers after trekking through the desert in Ice Cold In Alex. It’s not just Stansted, of course. Gatwick – or ‘Chavwick’, as

Saturday

Sybilla Hart

How I drove away the Range Rover bullies

A few weeks ago, I was driving four of my children to school in my tinny, battered Toyota. We were running late – as per usual – and were speeding – or, rather, chuntering – down a particularly treacherous road. Of all the questionable surfaces in my area of rural Essex, this one is notorious: marked by a huge pothole the size of Snoopy the dog’s head, which bleeds into a smaller, gloopier crater. As I was trying to navigate it, however, a large shadow zoomed into sight in my rear-view mirror. With a jolt and a tremendous bang, it pushed me, my family and my poor, beaten-up Toyota into

Friday

Penworthy

Three bets for Haydock and Ascot

Herefordshire trainer Tom Symonds has his string in fine form with four winners from his last eight runners for a strike rate of 50 per cent over the past fortnight. Even his supposed no-hoper Gaelic Saint comfortably outran her odds at Warwick yesterday when second at 50-1 in a mares’ novices’ hurdle. Tomorrow one of Symonds’s stable stars NAVAJO INDY will try to keep up the good work for the yard at Haydock when he contests the Betfair Stayers’ Handicap Hurdle (2.25 p.m.) in search of a first prize to winning connections of nearly £57,000. At six years old, this progressive and consistent hurdler should be reaching his peak and Navajo Indy shapes as though this three-mile trip, which

Arabella Byrne

Long live the yummy mummy

Yummy mummies everywhere, put your Veja trainers and frill-collar shirts away, because last week the Times issued a stinging broadside. Being labelled a ‘yummy mummy’ is apparently now so derogatory as to be an ‘almost cancellable offence’. The Yummy is dead, the headline declared, while my phone blew up like the fourth reactor at Chernobyl as Yummies far and wide forwarded me the article. ‘We are not dead!’ many fulminated, while others were more concise: ‘That’s just bollocks; I’ve never worn barrel jeans in my life.’ Detailing the sartorial transformation of Yummies into so-called ‘cool mums’, Times fashion editor Harriet Walker wrote that ‘in a bid to put as much clear water as possible’ between herself and the cohort that came before her, the Yummy is now the ‘cool mum’ with a look that is ‘less sleek, more knowingly scruffy’. Where once the

G.V. Chappell

Inside the mind of a modern-day heretic

When I was growing up, it was generally accepted (unless you were a football hooligan) that, however much you disagreed with someone, they were entitled to their opinion. You listened, occasionally interjecting, and then made your case – sometimes forcefully. In the end, you might agree to disagree, but you didn’t harbour any enmity. These days, the idea that a person is free to hold their own beliefs, especially if they run contrary to your own, is considered laughably old-fashioned. The aim now is to silence that individual. If necessary, you eviscerate them, figuratively – usually online. Sometimes, tragically, their views are deemed so unpalatable that they’re silenced for good.

Wednesday