My day started with a bang — or rather, a right hook and a left-right jab combination. A friend in Moscow rang me excitedly, revealing my father had punched someone live on Russian television. I don’t condone violence, but I couldn’t help but find the video clip amusing. Eventually, I got through to my father. He explained that Sergei Polonsky, a corrupt property developer who has long associated with the yet more reprehensible former mayor of Moscow Sergei Luzhkov, was being rude about ordinary Russians and, also, threatening him. Russian people have a fondness for robust characters — hence Vladimir Putin’s occasional displays of manliness. So, rather than causing a scandal, my father instantly obtained cult hero status. I must admit I was rather proud of him.
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At the weekend, in the company of my co-owners Ian McKellen and Sean Matthias, I visited a new venture of mine — a 16th-century public house called The Grapes on Narrow Street, next to the Thames. It was built by Huguenots, and appears in Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend. We had hoped to see Gandalf’s celebrated colourful smoke rings, but the smoking ban denied us. Instead he pulled his first pint — a privilege Tolkien never allowed him in Middle Earth. This provided much amusement for the regulars.
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When I was approached about buying the London Evening Standard nearly three years ago, several friends said I was mad even to consider it. Newspapers are dead, they argued. When we eventually decided that the Standard should be distributed free, the chorus grew louder. But now, with a clutch of awards, a circulation that has trebled and a dramatically improved financial position, our faith in the printed word seems justified.
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