T o the Cavalry and Guards Club to speak to Francis
Maude’s constituency association. A bit like West Ham’s Inter City Firm, the Horsham Tories have a reputation that precedes them. They don’t mess about, this lot. After one such Horsham gathering, the Iron Lady herself said she would never do a constituency association event again. Francis tells me that Michael Howard was similarly mauled and asked him afterwards: ‘Are they always like this?’ So I arrive with some trepidation. As it turns out, the Horsham Firm gives me a pretty easy ride. Obviously they reserve their proper kickings for Conservative leaders, past and present. At the end of the evening, there is a sweepstake on my age, with guesses ranging from twenty-something to my real age (40). Gratifying, really. But, as Harry Secombe’s Neddie Seagoon would put it: young here, old everywhere else.
Nikki and I head to the Dorchester for the Magic Bus Gala, which has been masterminded by her longtime friend, the splendid Nisha Paul. Set up in 1999, Magic Bus is a charity that works with 3,500 children a year in Mumbai, using sport and creative workshops to raise their horizons from the abject poverty of the slums. The room is full of Asian tycoons, Bollywood big shots and bankers with brio (yes, they still exist). I have pride of place at dinner next to Nisha who reveals that, as an old friend of Guy Ritchie, she was present at many of the script sessions for Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, one of the greatest of British films. It is intriguing to imagine Nisha and her equally gentle husband, Akash, chipping in to the gangster dialogue immortalised by Jason Statham, Nick Moran and Vinnie Jones as ‘Big Chris’ (e.g. ‘Oi! Next time you use language like that, boy, you’ll wish you hadn’t!’). And sticking with movies: I turn into a pathetic fanboy meeting Gurinder Chadha, the brilliant director, who is returning to the Southall setting of Bend it Like Beckham for her next feature. Gurinder’s aim is to create a British-Asian trilogy in the style of Terence Davies’s homage to Liverpool: if anyone can do it, she can. Working title for the next chapter: It’s a Wonderful Afterlife.
In spite of the financial meltdown, the evening is a great success, raising £200,000 for the charity’s work in India. To celebrate everyone takes to the dance floor, as Tony Hadley delivers a medley of Spandau Ballet classics, leavened with a smattering of Elvis. Once a chiselled Blitz Kid, the singer has reinvented himself as a well-padded cabaret crooner, and has replaced Patti Boulaye as the Tory party’s top celebrity. The age demographic of the gala guests quickly becomes apparent as we all belt out the lyrics of ‘Gold’. Tony may occasionally forget the words of his own songs. But we don’t.
Fraternal salutations to Spectator Australia, the latest addition to the Old Queen Street family, now in its fourth issue and fair dinkum by any standards. Edited by Oscar Humphries, Spec Oz is but Phase Two of a programme of world domination that has already seen the monthly Spectator Business triumphantly launched by Martin Vander Weyer. What would Addison and Steele, masters of the 18th-century coffee houses and founders of the original Spectator, make of such expansion? My guess is that they would love it all and post scabrous comments on our Coffee House blog. Next stop Spectator Mars.
Ihave a novel out next month called Nothing To Fear, which is partly an exploration of what fairy tales mean, and thus took me back to Bettelheim’s great book on the subject, as well as to Perrault and many other source materials. To finish it off, I took some leave this time last year and spent a week in a bed & breakfast on the grey, windswept seafront of Herne Bay. Short of going to the last unexplored recesses of Papua New Guinea, this is about as remote from London civilisation as it gets. By the end, I was climbing the walls — but, boy, did it focus the mind. In the strange lull before the novel’s publication, I am using my spare time to edit a book on Britain and Britishness, based on an original cup of coffee with the Prime Minister, who has promised to write the first chapter. Each day a piece by one of the contributors pings into the inbox: Sir George Martin’s finely honed essay just arrived. So come on, Gordon: where’s your copy? It’s not like you have much on your mind.
Ithink it was Tom Wolfe who said that a man’s clothes are a window on to his soul. In the case of a journalist, his online amazon orders are a better bet. My recent purchases include: Revisiting Keynes, Galbraith’s The Great Crash and David Kynaston’s Austerity Britain. A crash course, so to speak.
John Cleese calls for a chat and to fix dinner. My seven-year-old has a picture of himself as a baby being held by John, with the caption: ‘Zac with the Greatest Living Englishman’. And now he is old enough to grasp how true that is, and how wondrous is the legacy of Monty Python. Zac and I go with his younger brother to see the new cartoon, Igor, and realise that John is providing the voice of the mad scientist, Dr Glickenstein. Much excitement. I suppose I should concentrate on taking my elder son to galleries and worthy concerts, and I dare say I will in due course. But, to be honest, there is nothing like introducing your firstborn to the Dead Parrot Sketch.
Nothing To Fear is published by Hodder in November. For details of Magic Bus go to www. magicbusindia.org.
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