Bruce Anderson is The Spectator's drink critic, and was the magazine's political editor
Two ‘c’s come easily to Boris: charm and cheerfulness. He has always believed that he can charm his way out of trouble and to be fair to him, he often has. He is also a naturally cheerful cove. He is never happier than when dispensing good news, even if it has been necessary to invent
Death and disruption breed anger. A lot of people are now looking for someone to blame for the pandemic and China is an obvious target. It has a leadership which is authoritarian at home and menacing abroad. Its human rights record is deplorable. Western memories still encompass the invasion of Tibet. Today, its wet markets
The woodpecker jinked across the lawn like an especially cunning partridge. Its goal was a skilfully constructed bird table with wire surrounds, to provide safe feeding for finches, tits, woodpeckers and other small birds, while denying access to corvids, grey squirrels and raptors. A sparrow hawk regularly sweeps across the garden. The ‘sparrow’ element is
In the grand scheme of things, it is easy to overestimate the importance of Parliamentary performances. But they do influence the troops’ morale. Over the past week or so, there have been widespread sighs of relief in Tory circles. BoJo seems to have regained his mojo. Could this be the beginning of a fight-back? Six
The virus is in retreat, the lock-down is crumbling, the sherbet dispensaries will shortly reopen and there is a second spike of summer. Every prospect pleases, and only demonstrating man is vile. In London, we have been subjected to the most ridiculous public protests since the Gordon riots or the agitation in favour of Queen
More than two months: who would have thought it possible? Before the great closure, I had been trying to decide between a foray to the West Country over Easter or a trip to Brittany. Suddenly everything had to be cancelled, with the hope that life would have returned to normal by the early May bank
It is enough to drive a man to drink. The most glorious weather, so suitable for white Burgundy on a picnic in a meadow-full of wild flowers, for rosé almost anywhere: above all, for beer. A few weeks ago, I wrote longingly about the thought of a pint of beer. Time has passed; the craving
We should always avoid misusing history to underpin exaggeration. Covid 19 is not Nazi Germany. However many qualities Boris has, he is not Winston Churchill. But this virus will pass. British politics will then enter a new phase. Oddly enough, there are parallels between likely developments during that future phase and the course of events
Be careful what you wish for. Over the past few years, a fair number of thoughtful Tories have included a strange item in their letters to Santa Claus. They wanted an effective Leader of the Opposition, who could keep ministers under pressure and force them to raise their game, which would lead to better government.
I was once invited to the Cheltenham races and found the experience underwhelming. Everything was too respectable: not nearly Hibernian enough. I had expected to see Blazes Boylan, Flurry Knox, the Joxer and Christy Mahon, propping each other up in a determined attempt to drink the west of England out of Guinness. The reality was
This April was indeed the cruellest month, at least for those of us banged up in cities. From the country came reports of overflowing asparagus beds, the elfin splendour of the bluebell woods, precocious roses: the drinking of rosé, in England, at Easter. Now that we have the prospect of an end to the most
I cannot remember a prettier Easter, or a more frustrating one. This was no time to be in town. But there is a way of strangling self-pity at birth: military history. That brings a sense of perspective. Better to be locked-down in a London flat than charging across a D-Day beach. Bulletins from those lucky
Spring sense, caressing sunshine: last week, London enjoyed village cricket weather. Even in normal circumstances, the season would not have begun; the anticipation would. Soon, one would be watching the run-stealers flicker to and fro, a pint of beer at hand. ‘A pint of beer’, four simple words, but in these times my tastebuds were
We live in a world where yesterday’s inconceivable becomes today’s commonplace, but even so. I never thought that the day would come when I took a political problem less seriously than Boris Johnson. The PM is having a good pandemic: the tone just right. Yet as the streets of London empty faster than the supermarket
It is time to begin with an apology, and hope. In the course of these columns, I have already admitted to a deplorable ignorance of Spanish wine, including sherry. The finest sherries are subtle, complex, powerful — and excellent value. The same is increasingly true of other Spanish wines and there again, I am lament-ably
Peaty water ought to be classed as a luxury. You have spent a day on the hill, a’chasing the deer. This means coping with the rigours of topography, the cunning of the quarry and the vindictiveness of the elements, though that has its compensations. Rain keeps away the midges. You arrive back damp and knackered,
In the mid-18th century, London was awash with gin. Socially-conscious members of the bourgeoisie believed that this was the root of all evil, contributing to crime and depravity. Fielding and Hogarth combined to denounce gin as responsible for ‘the reigning vices peculiar to the lower classes of the people’. Both of them hoped to persuade
To paraphrase Shakespeare, the whirligig of time brings in… more whirligigs. Four years ago, few people thought that Donald Trump had a real prospect of becoming President of the United States. There were suggestions that Mr Trump himself did not take his chances too seriously. He might have seen the campaign as a way of
An open letter to Boris Johnson: People, even including your opponents, are getting used to the idea that you are not only the Prime Minister, but likely to remain so for some time to come. Yet before we settle down under the new regime, we should remember just how incredible this would have seemed, well
In clubs and other admirable locations throughout the civilised world, glasses have been raised and toasts proposed. But this was not a prelude to drinking-song conviviality. Voices were sombre, eyes misty. Thousands of friends were in stricken mourning, lamenting the passing of a great man: a friend to many, a prophet to many more. Roger
