Alexander Larman

There are certain names of puddings that, if whispered to an Englishman of a certain age, will bring back near-Proustian reveries about their childhood. Rhubarb crumble. Bakewell tart. Sticky toffee pudding. The most naughty-sounding of them all, spotted dick. These, and many more, are often dismissed with the sobriquet ‘nursery food’, but in fact only the most well-heeled of dessert-munchers would ever have enjoyed such fare in their nursery. In fact, they were mostly likely to have been encountered at various fee-paying institutions, firstly as a staple of the boarding school lunch or supper.

It has been one of the hallmarks of King Charles’s reign so far that, when he makes a commemorative or ceremonial address, especially when he is remembering Britain’s wartime victories, he usually manages to hit the correct note. He has become very adept at persuading even the most dyed-in-the-wool republicans that he is the right man at the right time. Therefore, when it was announced that he would address the nation in commemoration of the 80th anniversary of VJ Day – the grimmer, less obviously triumphal cousin of VE Day – expectations were high that the King would once again deliver. What was less expected was how personal the speech would be.

It is important for any self-respecting writer to admit when they get it wrong. So it is with an element of contrition that I must report that, despite my confident belief that the dynamic duo themselves, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, would not have their lucrative Netflix deal renewed, such an event has, indeed, come to pass. Amidst what must surely be the raucous sound of organic kombucha bottles being opened in Montecito in celebration, it has been announced that Netflix and Hal & Megs will be in business for another five years, giving the haters and naysayers ample reason to weep and gnash their teeth.

If you want one indication of the decline of Britain in 2025, it is the image that Tesco put out of their new, repellent ‘birthday cake’ sandwich, crowned with a single lonely candle. If you really despised someone, buying them one of these new sandwiches, which is essentially a Victoria sponge cake but in portable form, and offering it to them as a gift would be an effective way of indicating your disdain. However, for the rest of us, this unlovely marketing gimmick is yet another indication of how the honourable English sandwich, the office worker’s traditional lunchtime snack, has been debased and made ‘fun’. It is another reminder that the old adage that you should not play with your food is as relevant today as it has ever been.

Up until yesterday, I was beginning to feel cautiously optimistic about the new James Bond film. After a long hiatus in which the franchise’s new owners Amazon and the previous Bond producers, Barbara Broccoli and Michael G Wilson, seemed unable to compromise, the matter was settled. Broccoli and Wilson were paid a Jeff Bezos-sized ransom, and others took artistic control of the series. The producers – America’s Amy Pascal and Britain’s David Heyman – were good choices, and the decision to hire Dune’s Denis Villeneuve to direct was inspired, to say the least. But the news that Peaky Blinders creator Steven Knight will be writing the script has sent my confidence that the picture will be any good spiraling right down.

Last year, the National Theatre staged The Importance of Being Earnest in a new production by Max Webster. It attracted mixed reviews from critics and audiences alike, who applauded its determination to do something new – to re-queer Wilde for a younger audience, if you like – but also dared to suggest that Ncuti Gatwa, who played Algernon Moncrieff, was not the most comfortable casting for Wilde’s protagonist. Still, Gatwa is a big name and pulled in the crowds, and so it was little surprise that, for the play’s inevitable West End transfer, similarly starry names had to be produced.

Imagine, for a moment, that a respected middle-aged British male character actor – Jason Isaacs, let’s say – had been cast in the lead role of a sex therapist in a popular, Gen Z-focused Netflix series, called something like Love Lessons. Then imagine that Isaacs had become seemingly so obsessed with blurring the lines between himself and his character that he had not only edited a book about men’s sexual fantasies, anonymously including one of his own in there, too, but had begun a secondary career appearing on podcasts in which he encouraged men to freely discuss their peccadilloes and penchants, however taboo they might seem. Why is Gillian Anderson so difficult to warm to? It would, of course, never happen – not even for a man as likeable as Isaacs.