That’s a relief
‘That’s a relief – I thought it was a canvasser!’
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Wednesday
Hurry, you’re missing summer
‘Hurry, you’re missing summer!’
Four wagers for Royal Ascot day two
Aidan O’Brien’s four-year-old colt Auguste Rodin is talented and infuriating in equal measures. When last year’s Betfred Derby winner is good, he is simply superb but when he is bad, he is very poor indeed. He is a nightmare for punters to evaluate because he has been stone last in two of his last five runs but there have been two impressive winning performances during that time too. My big hopes today lie with my two strong fancies for the Kensington Palace Stakes All in all, I am happy to take him on in today’s feature race at Royal Ascot, the Grade 1 Prince of Wales’s Stakes (4.25 p.m.). I am
Not seen for months
Pandora’s box
Pandora’s box
The mysterious sex appeal of Nigel Farage
I remember sitting on the bus a few weeks into #MeToo and thinking all the men looked disengaged – buried in their phones or listlessly looking out the window. I imagined them thinking it just wasn’t worth it to look up lest they be accused of making unwanted advances. These days, I spend fewer mornings worrying about the fate of the red-blooded male. Nonetheless, it’s not rocket science to suppose that for a significant swathe of men – those who fear being publicly shamed or sacked – it really isn’t worth showing their appreciation of women. Farage brings to mind the kind of bonking that wouldn’t be followed by a chilly
Europe shifts to the far right
A paean to peonies
It was a day typical of this year’s early summer. Raining. Cold. Miserable. I was about to crack and put the heating on when my sister arrived, carrying peonies. Over the coming hours, the rain rained harder, the cold got colder, and the peonies opened, becoming frothy balls of the palest powdery pink, touched by gold at the centre. Their unfurling seemed like an act of unbridled generosity. The arrival of peonies is a wonderful thing. They sit in the supermarkets, clustered near the checkouts; their fat, rounded buds, hinting pinkly of what is to come when you take them home, introduce them to water and prepare to be surprised.
Get the government out of my bathroom
Two days before leaving this country for Italy – where, defeated by southern British house prices, I planned to fight for a long-term visa and buy a home – I finally found the exact flat I’d been dreaming of, here in the UK. True, it wasn’t in East Anglia, where I grew up and most of my family still lives, but Shropshire, a county which intrigued me and which emerged over time as my second choice. Green, landlocked, with endless castles, hills and valleys, Shropshire is about as remote from the capital as you can get. It has Ludlow and Shrewsbury, medieval towns with rivers, courtyards, timbered buildings and a
Tuesday
Four tips for day one of Royal Ascot
It is day one of Royal Ascot and there are some fabulous races to savour. I will always marginally prefer the Cheltenham Festival with jumps’ horses to the Berkshire extravaganza on the flat but I am greatly looking forward to the next five days. Down to business: the King Charles III Stakes (3.45 p.m.) offers mouth-watering fare for those who love the speedsters. With fast ground in his favour, I had expected to put up Regional for this race after his near-perfect prep in Ireland and because today’s stiff five furlongs should be ideal for him. However, I can’t back him at a top priced 9-2 in such a competitive
Richard Branson: shyness is a kind of selfishness
I’ve had many encounters with Sir Richard Branson over the 40 years since he launched Virgin Atlantic, the smart, stylish British airline that arguably should be this country’s premier national flag carrier. (As it happens, a Spanish-registered airline called British Airways is the dubious claimant to that status.) The oddest and most revealing meeting took place in 1996 around the time he was planning to re-enter the music market. Five years earlier, Branson had sold Virgin Records to EMI for £550 million. I was living in New York and was looking for financial backing for a musical I’d helped create. I called Branson in London, expecting to be fobbed off. Instead,
Why rich kids are weird
The son of the celebrity chef Marco Pierre White, imaginatively named Marco Pierre White Jr, has been convicted of theft and sentenced to 41 weeks in prison. The former heroin addict briefly became a reality star after a stint on Celebrity Big Brother, but has since reverted to bad behaviour, being imprisoned in 2018 for stealing from Tesco and racially abusing a security officer. His conviction this time was for taking £1,760 worth of clothes from a shop in Bath, £72 from a Sports Direct in Bristol, and £250 from the till at a deli in Bath. He was caught because of an unedifying complication as he climbed out of the
Am I too sleepy for wellness?
‘Melt your heart,’ said Simone, the Kiwi sleep therapist, stretching her generous body as elegantly as she was able on the yoga mat. Waves lapped the beach nearby. ‘Glow it violet, then allow the violet to flow up, up, up into your chest, your belly, now your legs and arms…’ Well, I tried, honestly I tried, but my heart stubbornly refused to melt, or even, for that matter, to glow. As sturdy English hearts of oak appeared to be melting all around me, I felt I was rather letting the side down. And as for the violet? Nada. The beginning and end of this ju-ju ordeal was bracketed by bells
Monday
In praise of lazy tourism
Like a lot of people who didn’t know him, I felt sad hearing of the death of Michael Mosley on the Greek island of Symi, being familiar with him as a doctor whose pleasant voice I often heard on the radio. He had the gift of giving advice without being patronising or preachy. Mosley seemed to be a wise man – and for this reason, the way he died seemed all the more shocking. I found it particularly poignant that his body was found just 30 meters from the perimeter fence of a beach resort. Somewhat sheepishly, I immediately identified with the inhabitants of the beachfront compound; if I’d have
The trouble with having a posh accent
When I was growing up, regional accents were quite firmly delineated. If you came from Birmingham, for example, you spoke Brummie. That is, unless you were posh. In which case, wherever you lived, you spoke the same BBC English – or received pronunciation. Speaking ‘correctly’ was a determiner of class, like a grounding in Latin. If you met someone who spoke RP, you knew they’d probably had a similar education. Even today, when certain people ask, ‘where did you go to school?’ what they really mean is, ‘which public school did you go to?’ I once spent two miserable months working in a housing association, where my accent made me
Why Lakeland beats John Lewis
In these febrile times, there is one place to take refuge and that is in the Lakeland catalogue. Change and decay in all around I see, as John Henry Newman observed, but at Lakeland there is still a universe where you can conquer the perennial problem of taking the tops off strawberries, so tricky if they are a little underripe, with a Chef’n’Stem Strawberry Huller (£8.99), combine a blender with a separate coffee grinder with the Lakeland Blender (£69.99), keep insects off cake outdoors with a food umbrella (£4.49) and deal with wet laundry when you don’t have a washing line with the Dry Soon heated airer (from £99). There
Saturday
Didn’t have a Sky dish? You’re probably middle class too
As any child of the 1980s could tell you, whether your house had a Sky dish had nothing to do with income. The launch of BSkyB in 1989 – when Rishi Sunak was eight and I was 10 – was greeted with horror by our middle-class professional parents, just as with their parent’s generation when that ghastly ITV began broadcasting. Crudely, Sky was common. It was council house – like single parents (still a rarity in my native Suffolk in the 1980s), fish fingers and the Sun. Our route to primary school took us through the council estate where satellite dishes sprouted as quickly as green wellies in the rain
Friday
A royal wager and three more for Ascot
Patriotic racegoers will be hoping the King and Queen are winning owners at next week’s prestigious Royal Ascot meeting. A year ago, the William Haggas-trained Desert Hero duly obliged in the royal colours and the same horse will be among their runners next week too. However, the royal couple could have one of their string in the winners’ enclosure as early as tomorrow when SERRIED RANKS contests the Churchill Tyres Supporting Macmillan Sprint Handicap. This contest, however, will take place at York racecourse (3.35 p.m.), more than 200 miles away from the Berkshire track. I am pretty confident that the Ralph Beckett-trained, three-year-old gelding will step up on his seasonal
Has snooker sold its soul?
Snooker is just the latest sport to succumb to the eye-watering sums of money on offer from authoritarian regimes. Saudi Arabia will host its first ranking event in August, with a £2 million prize fund – the highest of any tournament outside the World Championship. It follows the Riyadh Season World Masters of Snooker, held in March, which came complete with a new ‘golden ball’ and a maximum break of 167 – a crass addition to a game that usually takes pride in its traditions. A massive $500,000 jackpot bonus was offered to any player who could pot the golden ball. Steve Dawson, the chairman of the World Snooker Tour, admitted
My doomed run for parliament
I had always been interested in politics but had not done anything practical until the rise of Nigel Farage’s Ukip. He was proving a thorn in the side of David Cameron in 2013, which attracted my admiring attention, so I decided to try and get involved. Despite having done my bit for European unity by fathering a half-French daughter and a half-Austrian son, I had always been fundamentally hostile to the EU – an artificial and undemocratic structure inimical to British interests and traditions – so it seemed obvious that Ukip was the party for me. A large poster of me was defaced with a Hitler moustache – an episode