After finishing Nick Wallis's excellent book on the Post Office Horizon IT Scandal, I took a break from reading on the subject. Which made even more powerful catching up with the Panorama programme. I sat and watched with mounting anger, ultimately uttering an expletive as erstwhile CEO Paula Vennells, resplendent in her part-time vicar's dog collar, read from the Bible. It was almost time for a vom.
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'Vom com': An excruciatingly sentimental romantic comedy.
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'Vom' has been around for a while, and was first introduced to me by a colleague in the context of the last train out of Fenchurch Street on Friday night, popularly known as the Vomit Comet.
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Two people leave a table in a bar or pub, to go outside. If it is winter they put on coats, but perhaps not the full attire in which they arrived, a sort of half-way house. The exercise is preceded by a conspiratorial glance and knowing look. If there is no other company to hold the table, they leave behind enough evidence of presence eg a scarf casually draped over a chair, to deter others from doing a possession is nine tenths of the law job on them.
The popping out for a ciggy is part of boozer theatre, and has left me pondering how in the absence of empty glasses that could signify time for another round they know that the nicotine levels in their lungs have depleted to a mutually unacceptable level. But what about popping out for a 4.20? Now this is not anything naughty. The term, so I have learnt, comes form the States, and represents 20th April in any year, a day that celebrates the smoking of cannabis. Mind you, on a balmy late Spring afternoon as I strolled along the Regent's Canal from Kentish Town to King's Cross, the aroma from a couple of peaceful 4.20 gatherings was almost enough to send an innocent like me tottering into the water.
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I came across a Spectator piece I had put aside. It was from February 2022 and was titled 'Grapes of wrath'. In it, Ysenda Maxtone Graham bemoaned the absence of wine at Communion during the pandemic. The article contained such insights as: 'There's a theological war raging in the C of E about whether individual shot-style glasses are theologically sound' (meaning are they an adequate substitute for the common cup, replicating wot Jesus done wiv his disciples at the Last Supper - honest, you have to believe it cos it's in the Bible?).
I wondered whether knowledge of this discussion would spiritually enrich Elsie as she turned off her heating and boarded a bus for another day. Ms Graham declares being a parishioner of St Mary Bourne Street. The church is off Sloane Square. Paraphrasing L P Hartley: 'Belgravia is a foreign country: they do things differently there'.
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Monday 9th May: Laura Kuensberg slips her hand off the wheel of the BBC's flagship, 'Political Editor', and hands over to Chris Mason. As this happens, the anti-BBC sharks, led by the Great White, Charles Moore, are circling around the craft, looking for an opportunity to attack if there is the slightest poop poop of the boat's horn to mark the occasion. But poop poop there is none - the overriding principle is that political journalists should discuss the news, not be the news. The disappointed sharks dive to look for other prey.
On these big appointments one is always assessing the defining characteristics of the incomer. Mason is a white male (BBC tips back balance slightly after appointments of women and ethnic minorities), but also he is from Yorkshire (tick regional agenda), and even better he has not had the accent torn out of him through public school education. BTW he also happens to be a good journalist.
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We may be on a roll with this thing of shortening of English language words in order to reduce carbon dioxide emissions - see Emma Raducanu piece in April's Late Life Crisis. My namesake, Sir Ed Davey, is skilled in another branch of the concept, namely elision. I illustrate this by his description of his Party as the Libberdemocrats. Another timely example is his reference to 'the cosliving crisis'. The man is a thought-leader.
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Is Queenie's appearance at the Windsor Horse Show an indication that she values horses more than politicians? Wouldn't blame her... But of course the appearance is carefully choreographed to enable her to show her face without having to travel very far. And monarchists or not, most of us are happy to see this. The event itself was apparently dull, unless you like horses, horses, horses, horses, horses, horses, horses...
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Perfect Eurovision outcome, IMHO.
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Gap yaas: So much fuss here. Even in the days way way back when I had some interest in graduate recruitment, the profile of 'I climbed Kilimanjaro while simultaneously reading War and Peace and enabling a child in Africa to have an education' was treated as a pastiche. These days I would rate an applicant for a professional services role if they had had experience of waiting on table or serving behind a bar, a perfect preparation for looking at service from a client's perspective.
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Soon the hungry Russian public will have to make do with a Big Vlad. No, I am not going to speculate on what might be in it.
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To the South Bank, for some higher culture and lower culture.
First, Louise Bourgeois at the Hayward Gallery: the soft fabric texture of many of her artworks did little to mitigate the horror of the pieces. I did note an exhibit of various of her clothes hung up (on bones, which I could not understand), a sort of Tracey Emin tidies up the bed. I mused that I could have achieved something similar with my washing, but to articulate this would reveal that there is art I will never get.
Then to Fascinating Aida for the evening. The girls (and they would not object to that term), were in fine form. Whilst rattling out 'Dogging' (which is not about dogs), Dilly Keane paused to address the audience. In past performances she has invited confused older members to consult younger members on the meaning of the word. On this evening, 39 years after FA started and with few folk present who would claim to be young she invited the uncertains to consult the front-of-house staff. As the average age of the volunteers was greater than the average age of the audience, there was a supreme irony in this.
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My grammatical bete noir, so I shall probably keep returning to it. A health insurance adviser writes to its customers:
'As a valued customer of [company], I am writing to advise you of some important changes taking place within our business'.
Anyone reading this will be intelligent enough not to need an explanation.
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10% off for Iceland. Get the Passport ready. But it is nearer than you think. There is a branch in Kentish Town High Road. Due to my age I have the opportunity to get 10% off my groceries. Procrastination looms.
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RIP Vangelis. When I ran the London Landmarks Half Marathon I vowed to hum the Chariots of Fire theme tune over the last mile. Unfortunately by that stage my legs were so tired that all my energy went on putting one foot in front of the other.
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The toxicity of social media is beyond redemption. Nasty things are said under anonymised accounts. Some argue that such accounts give a safe outlet for people with legitimate (whatever that means) things to say. But it is only one factor. An American academic has suggested a modest reform whereby, whilst you may post own views freely out of the account, if you want to share or retweet (actions that create exponential shoutiness) you must provide evidence of personal identity. I approve of that idea.
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The Elizabeth Line has opened. Social media was flooded with posts of people who had ridden the Lizzie (sorry - someone else wrote this) on the first day. I was not one of them (not available). I am a failure.
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There is a dog in a local restaurant. It is a small poodle. It is off the leash. It is running around. It is not an it, it is a 'she'. How do I know this (no self-identification jokes, please)? Because she is wearing a dress...as much as a dog can wear a dress..The dress is pink. Maybe the dog has come from a matinee of the show I report on below. The dog does not bark. It is not massively annoying, though it skips around looking for food from other tables, to the point occasionally of rearing on its hind legs in a hideous circus pose. To the old fart school of how animals should behave in restaurants, the whole thing feels odd. My pizza has arrived. I have asked for chilli oil. I wonder if I might drizzle a few drops on to the floor and see what happens....... The wrath of the RSPCA would be in sight.
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If your dinner party conversation concerning the Open Air Theatre at Regent's Park revolves around the 17th production you have seen of Midsummer Night's Dream, then stay away from Legally Blonde - The Musical.
Imagine a cast that has exploded out of musical theatre school with enough energy to leave the usually fearless Park parakeets cowering in the branches above. Imagine a show where the pre-performance parade of audience attire is almost as entertaining as the show itself. For the more conservative types who have dared to give it a go, cast aside your prejudices on body shapes and give a big bear hug to diversity (though one set of violently quivering thighs might have caused a minor earthquake).
At the end the audience stood up to clap and cheer, Broadway style. The joy of it was how much they felt they had had a bloody good night out.
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The author is a writer, speaker, historian, occasional tour guide, and former Managing Partner of a City law firm.