Modern manners

Thursday

Mary Killen

Dear Mary: How can I spike a gossip-pedlar’s guns?

Q. On arrival at a top level dinner, I was surprised to see at the table a woman who, I have reason to suspect, sells gossip as a sideline. However, clearly no one else suspected her and, assuming it was Chatham House rules, everyone was talking freely. When one man began to regale the table with an anecdote which was bound to culminate in a dynamite piece of gossip, I was paralysed with horror but I couldn’t think how to stop him before it was too late. The consequence was that the item appeared in the press a couple of days later, causing all manner of probable future security problems

Rory Sutherland Rory Sutherland

Why I no longer want to live in America

A few years ago I would have quite liked to live in America. I’m not sure now. For one thing, most of the things perfected by Americans (convenience, entertainment, technology, a very small bottle of Tabasco to accompany your breakfast) very soon make their way over here. On the other hand, the things Europeans do well (cathedrals, four weeks’ annual holiday, more than two varieties of cheese, general all-round classiness) don’t travel in the other direction. In fact, once the right-hand-drive version of the Ford Mustang reaches the UK in 2015, it is hard to think of any remaining reason to emigrate at all. Besides, the political scene over there

Cosmo Landesman

When did it become OK to be boring?

[audioplayer src=”http://traffic.libsyn.com/spectator/TheViewFrom22_8_May_2014_v4.mp3″ title=”Cosmo Landesman and Lara Prendergast debate if the bores have taken over” startat=1297] Listen [/audioplayer]I can remember back in the 1970s when a girlfriend of mine, sensing my lack of interest in her very long and very detailed analysis of the lyrics of Bob Dylan suddenly said, ‘Am I boring you?’ Of course she was. And of course I denied it. Why? Because it was a hurtful and embarrassing thing to say to someone. Back then to be seen as boring was the verbal equivalent of having bad breath or body odour. But today no one worries about boring other people — or being branded a bore. I

Thursday

Mary Killen

Dear Mary: My teenager insists on an NHS operation. What can I do?

Q. Our son, aged l6, has a medical condition which, although not life-threatening, requires surgery by a specialist to pre-empt it becoming lifestyle-threatening. The NHS waiting list is long. He has had private health insurance since birth and never yet used it but he refuses to jump the queue as he disapproves of ‘elitism and privilege’. We’ve explained that by taking up his right to go privately he would help another young man with the same condition move more quickly up the NHS list but to no avail. While we admire his ethical aspirations, my wife is having sleepless nights. — N.G., London SW1 A. First find a surgeon who

Thursday

Mary Killen

Dear Mary: How can I escape the tyranny of teacher presents?

Q. It’s only April and yet I am being emailed by parents who have already taken charge and are drumming up support for collective year presents for teachers at my children’s schools. I have one son and two daughters who are all leaving their respective schools and I would prefer to thank staff members on my own terms. Am I being petty? — H.K., Hampshire A. Many parents would be relieved that this organisational chore was taken off their hands but others would agree with your instinctive reaction. If you wish to distance yourself from the herd and the modern tyranny of present-giving, say, ‘Oh dear — for the first

Thursday

The Spectator

Spectator letters: Bereaved parents against press regulation, and a defence of Tony Benn

Why we need a free press Sir: As bereaved parents and (to borrow from some signatories of last week’s advertisement) victims of public authority abuse we wholly oppose adoption of the politically endorsed Royal Charter of Press Regulation. The European Court of Human Rights ruled that Christopher, our mentally ill son, had been denied his right to life as a result of failures by the prison service, the police and the NHS. Our experience was that, in the aftermath of our son’s death, the primary objective of the public authorities involved was to protect themselves from criticism because of those failures rather than to achieve justice for our son. If

Dot Wordsworth

When did we stop ‘tossing’ coins?

What kind of scientists do school inspectors not need to be? ‘Inspectors don’t need to be rocket scientists.’ For what must we make sure that the school inspection regime is fit? ‘We make sure that the school inspection regime is fit for purpose.’ In what manner do we need an independent schools regulator to inspect all schools? ‘We need an independent schools regulator that inspects all schools freely.’ Apart from freely, is there another manner in which we need an independent schools regulator to inspect all schools? ‘We need an independent schools regulator that inspects all schools freely and fairly.’ I don’t really mean to make fun of Jonathan Simons’s remarks on his excellent report

Rory Sutherland Rory Sutherland

The engagement-ring theory of property bubbles

Google ‘the bread market’ and you get 135,000 hits, mostly from specialist food industry websites. Google ‘the property market’, however, and you get over 180 million. ‘The financial markets’ nets you 282 million. Seen like this, it’s unsurprising that capitalism has a reputational problem. The likelihood that the word ‘market’ is attached to any area of commercial activity is in direct proportion to the degree to which that category is seriously messed up. The idea that all ‘markets’ are effectively the same is perhaps one of the stupidest economic errors of the past 50 years. For a start, asset markets are not like other markets. As John Kay explains, writing in

Thursday

Virginia Blackburn

I don’t want to rate the restaurant. I want to rate the date

It was an averagely OK evening at one of London’s smarter restaurants: the food was edible, the wine wasn’t vinegar, the company was quite adequate and I managed to return home without actively wanting to shoot myself, which is always a plus. But a mere 12 hours later these feelings of nondescript non-satisfaction turned into a boiling rage, because it had happened yet again: an email pinged into my inbox. ‘Rate last night’s experience at London’s finest,’ it urged. ‘Were you a) Extremely impressed with the restaurant? b) Quite impressed? c) Neither impressed nor distressed…’ And so it went on, pages of it, because you cannot do a blinking thing these

Hugo Rifkind Hugo Rifkind

Six months as a TV critic, and I’ve seen enough corpses to last a lifetime

It was Shetland that tipped me over the edge. Not the place, but the TV series. Although that’s set in the place. So both, really. It’s a crime drama, see, and people keep getting murdered. Roughly speaking, so far, there’s been a corpse every episode. Which by the end of the series will mean eight corpses. Which, given that there are only 20,000 people in Shetland, means that Scotland’s most northerly islands have a murder rate roughly comparable with that of Belize. Or higher, even, because my calculations assume that a series happens in a year, and that we are seeing all the murders there are, rather than just the

Julie Burchill Julie Burchill

The joy of less sex

From the age of 13, when the hormones kicked in, till I left my parents home at the age of 17 to become a writer (nearly forty years later, I’m still waiting) I must have been the most sex-mad virgin in Christendom. Nights were spent dressed as a West Country approximation of a transvestite Port Said prostitute, blind with eyeliner and dumb with lipgloss, alternately dancing like the lead in a Tijuana pony-show and hiding in the toilets during the slow numbers, crying repeatedly ‘Why won’t all those men just LEAVE ME ALONE!’ Days were spent in an attempt to evade the attentions of the regiment of leering males while

Cosmo Landesman

Why working class grandparents are better than middle class ones

When I told a friend that my nine-year-old son was staying with his grandparents for the whole week of the half-term, she said: ‘A whole week! My son would be lucky to get his grandparents for a weekend! Who are these people?’ ‘His grandparents are working class,’ I said. She looked puzzled. ‘What?’ I explained. ‘Working-class grandparents are the best you can have — these days middle-class grandparents are bloody useless.’ I’m not alone in thinking this about the middle-class grandparent (MCGP). Just ask any middle-class parent about their children’s grandparents and out pours the same litany of complaints: ‘They’re too busy’, ‘They’re too selfish’, ‘They’re not really interested in

Matthew Parris Matthew Parris

We have to tell the truth about Tony Benn now. Who will hear it later?

I could start by remarking that we should not speak ill of the dead, quoting the pertinent Latin phrase: de mortuis nil nisi bonum (‘of the dead, only good’). But this would be to miss a key qualification because the whole quote (from Diogenes Laertius, circa ad 300) adds ‘dicendum est’: ‘is to be said’. And that puts a different complexion on things. Commentators have preferred to describe the advice as an established social convention rather than necessarily their own opinion. Indeed it is often used as a sly way of indicating (without stating) the speaker’s disapproval of the deceased. But if the phrase has been thrown once at my

Thursday

Rod Liddle

Dyslexia is meaningless. But don’t worry – so is ADHD

There is a beautiful symmetry to all things, I think, and probably related somehow to the concept of karma. Only two weeks ago, a bunch of researchers at Durham University came up with a report which insisted that dyslexia is a meaningless term. You and I know that, of course, but we dare not say so in public. For decades now dyslexia has been the crutch upon which middle-class parents support themselves when they discover that their children — Oliver, eight, and Poppy, ten — are actually denser than a ton of highly enriched uranium, contrary to their expectations. The fact that these kids cannot spell their own names is

Mary Killen

Dear Mary: Is there any way to wriggle out of a phone invitation?

Q. Is there a tactful way to keep one social offer on hold while waiting to see if you have made the cut for something ‘better’ you know to be happening on the same date? It’s easy enough if the invitation comes in by email or letter, but not when you are put on the spot by someone ringing up. This happened the other day and the caller, a slightly bullying woman, sensed that I was prevaricating and said, ‘I don’t want you to feel ambushed. Take your time, think about it.’ Not wanting to be rude, I quickly accepted immediately. Inevitably the invitation for the preferred event came in

Thursday

Mary Wakefield

Would you let parents destroy ‘gay’ embryos?

Because I’d like to have a child, and I’m getting on a bit, my husband and I have spent time recently with consultants. They’re an odd breed with distinct and shared characteristics. Invariably, after we’ve all sat down, their first move is to tilt their chair back, or give it a little twirl (design permitting), just to signal how free and easy it is at the top of the medical tree. When they speak it’s with a sort of hurried condescension, as if giving career advice to a hopeless niece. And they scribble as they go, on some scrap of paper. Ovary, ovary, arrow, hieroglyph, arrow, ‘Got that? Hmmm?’ Follicle,

Mary Killen

The question that Dear Mary refuses to answer

Q. One of my best friends, who knows I don’t have a great social life at university, has a brother in a band which is touring and will have five nights of gigs at my university town. He is offering me a free ticket for any night that week and to hang with the band backstage. But I cannot bear this artist’s music or voice, and couldn’t sit through a concert, let alone socialise with him. My friend knows very well I won’t have anything else on. Is there a tactful way to extricate myself? — Name and address withheld A. Yes, but it would do you no favours were

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

It’s time that Scotland’s timid posh folk spoke out

I took part in a documentary about Scottishness a few weeks ago, and it wasn’t bad at all. I mused, mainly, on my own border-hopping, fretful-about-independence Scottish-Britishness, and a decent number of people got in touch afterwards to say I’d been speaking for them, too. Others were more cross, but interestingly so. One thing about the whole experience bugs me, though. That was the way they had me sit in a swanky Scottish restaurant in Belgravia and made out like I belonged there. It’s not that you don’t get Scots in Belgravia. Most will probably own castles back in Scotland, too, though. When they move to Belgravia, they do so

Andrew Watts

The church of self-worship: Sunday morning with the atheists

I had always assumed that the one thing atheism had going for it was that you could have a lie-in on Sundays. For the past year, however, an atheist church has been meeting in London on Sunday mornings. Founded by two comedians, Sanderson Jones and Pippa Evans, the Sunday Assembly is a symptom of what Theo Hobson identified in this magazine as ‘the new new atheism’, the recognition that the new atheism of Professor Dawkins et al had, in rejecting God, gone too far in rejecting all His works. Churches, the founders felt, had much to recommend themselves — a space for inspiration, reflection, and a sense of community in

Tanya Gold Tanya Gold

The Fable would do better as an American Psycho theme bar

The Fable is three floors high and two days old, a monster newly hatched on the Holborn Viaduct; deep below is the valley of the River Fleet, which is genuinely fabulous, but absent from sight. The Fable has the following interesting schtick — fairytales. The question, of course, is whose? Here, cries the PR nonsense, lie the breadstick fairies, who I thought were all dead and lying at the bottom of the Thames, poisoned or just killed by ennui. ‘Inspired by the wit and wisdom of Aesop, the fantasy world of fairytales and our spellbinding adventures around the globe, the Fable is a dynamic all-day bar and restaurant,’ it babbles. Really?