David Cameron is too cowardly, or too cynical, to debate with Ed ‘Two or Possibly Three Kitchens’ Miliband — which depends entirely on the breath of your own cynicism — or is he perhaps just too busy eating? (Here I address Sarah Vine, or Mrs Michael Gove, the Daily Mail columnist who analysed the smaller of the so-far-discovered Miliband kitchens and decided that Labour is, on the basis of its contents alone, moribund. Sarah, you’re an idiot, an anti-journalist, a pox.)
The Prime Minister’s adventures in restaurant-land are a moveable feast, and changeable; he has, in his years of power, visited ‘Jewish’ Oslo Court, like a wasp drowning in a mikvah, and ‘sexy’ Clos Maggiore in Covent Garden, like a man searching for a condom he can eat. Now he’s been spotted in Kitty Fisher’s with what the diary pages called ‘friends’, but which I, who have long watched the Prime Minister interacting with the shapes that pass for human beings in his eyes, suspect are ‘employees’ or, at best, ‘allies’. To which I say — if only he had as good a taste in policy as in bread rolls, Britain would be marvellous.
Kitty Fisher’s is a fantastical cave in Shepherd Market, Mayfair, near the spot where Jeffrey Archer planned to meet a prostitute; near where Bertie Wooster lived; and also near the Saudi embassy, a low-slung yet puffed-up palace I can never pass without longing to pull my top up and flash my breasts, or even possibly drop my pants. There is a whole school of feminist thought dedicated to the ideologically correct time to drop your pants, and outside the Saudi embassy (its motif is a pair of gruesome cutlasses, crossed to keep out women) is surely one of them.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in