Mary Wakefield is commissioning editor of The Spectator.
Mary Wakefield meets the successful pop duo the Pet Shop Boys, and finds them eloquent critics of New Labour, staunch defenders of civil liberties — and fans of Vince Cable Through the woods, the trees And further on the sea We lived in the shadow of the war Sand in the sandwiches Wasps in the
The news that abortion clinics are to be allowed, for the first time, to advertise on TV and radio strikes me as utterly grim: a bad idea and a deeply sad one to boot. The Broadcast Committee of Advertising Practise say they’re responding to Government calls to combat rising teenage pregnancy but if so they’re
Mary Wakefield takes a postwar tour through Gaza and surveys a psychological landscape warped by conflict and suffering — and hear whispers of a further Israeli incursion The border control at Erez, separating Israel from Gaza, was built in a happier age. It looks more like an airport than a checkpoint, a vast glass hangar
Mary Wakefield meets Niamh Cusack and finds an actress full of contradictions It’s oddly exciting, upstairs at the Old Vic: there are actresses rushing to rehearsal; the burble of PR ladies schmoozing the press; the sense of a curtain about to rise. A bright new play. I smile, look around hopefully for my interviewee-to-be, the
It’s a little awkward, standing nose to nose with strangers. Here, inside a lift the size of a train loo, are two young actresses, a PR man, one actor on the brink of proper stardom (Rory Kinnear) and me, all inching down through the body of the bustling, gossipy National Theatre. We’ve been silent for
Cameron’s little talk to Demos today (to launch their Progressive Conservatism Project) was full of pleasant abstract stuff about de-centralisation as a means to fairness. But what was most interesting was how dangerous the Tory schools policy suddenly seemed. Why? Because when education came up during the Q and A (after an hour of generalised
Alice looks down from her perch on top of the rocking horse, bright-eyed behind big specs, says: ‘Catch me!’ then propels herself into the air. I catch, hug, then prop her back up again, ready for another go. ‘Ooh, she likes you,’ says Iris, director of the 999 Club and uncrowned queen of Deptford. ‘She
Mary Wakefield talks to a courageous woman who blew the whistle on the deep systemic failures in the foster care service — and whose only reward was to be hounded and vilified I spotted Sarah immediately, though I’d never seen her before and she was tucked in among the commuter crowds ebbing and flowing through
Should Debbie Purdy’s husband be allowed to kill her? I’m keen to know what you think, because – for me – both instinct and reason say: no. Absolutely not. Debbie, who has a particularly nasty form of MS, is considering going to the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland to be killed, but wants to be sure
Because I spoke to him on the phone, not in person, you’ll have to share my mental picture of William P. Young. There he is in a hotel room in Texas: 53, balding, with bright eyes and a greying goatee. He’s ironing as he talks (he says so), his sleeves rolled up (I reckon), with
When David Miliband’s team get together this afternoon to talk through his performance on the Jeremy Vine show, I hope they realise they’ve got to do something about his voice. There’s the embarrassing ‘mockney’ accent (not shared by brother Ed). And worse — his recent attempt to widen his appeal and stop dropping his t’s:
The one fact that screams out of the proposed murder law shake-up, is that it’s great news for girls. Reform is overdue — there hasn’t been any change in the law for 50 years — but the picture that emerges from all the crunchy details is especially cheering for chicks. That centuries-old defence of ‘provocation’
Gore Vidal tells Mary Wakefield that America has forgotten its constitutional roots, and explains why Bobby Kennedy was ‘the biggest son of a bitch in politics’ To kill time, as I wait for Gore Vidal by the reception desk in Claridge’s, I leaf through the pages of his memoirs, looking at the photographs. One in
This morning as I cycled through Covent Garden, Melanie Phillips nearly killed me. Here’s how: I often jump red lights in London on my bike. I quite see how irritating it is, but it just feels safer to be in front of the buses. This time though, as I was about to sidle through a
Ken or Boris: it’s still anyone’s guess. But whoever wins, (and I do hope Pete and Fraser are right to be optimistic) the question remains: what will they do without each other? One of the funniest elements of this mayoral contest has been that, whilst their supporters are animated by ferocious hatred of the other side,
Mary Wakefield talks to the RSC’s Michael Boyd and learns how he scared the Establishment Halfway through our interview, in the middle of a discussion about the future of the RSC, a tired Michael Boyd rubs his face with his hands, looks up at me through the gaps between his fingers and says, ‘Well, my
Mary Wakefield meets Dom Hugh Gilbert, the Benedictine Abbot of Pluscarden — said to be the Pope’s ‘dark horse’ candidate to succeed Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O’Connor What is holiness? How do you spot it? I’ve come to Worth Abbey in Sussex to meet a monk often described as ‘holy’ — Dom Hugh Gilbert, OSB, Abbot of
So Dave has let cameras into his house, to show that ‘the anxieties of parenting are universal’. And what cosy fun the clip is too, and how lovely Sam looks first thing, (what about a fulltime SamCam?). But though the trials of parenting are universal, the cost of soft furnishings are not. So let’s all
Who else reckons that Mr Darling’s plodding budget could have used a lively soundtrack? Well, here’s my recommendation: Goody Two Shoes by Adam and the Ants. The lyrics pretty much sum up the whole sorry affair! “Put on a little makeup makeup Make sure they get your good side good side If the words unspoken
Mary Wakefield talks to Eileen Atkins about acting as an out-of-body experience. Eileen Atkins opens in The Sea at the Theatre Royal Haymarket on 23 January. The Eileen Atkins experience — the word ‘interview’ doesn’t even begin to describe it — starts for me at about 3.30 on a brilliant, sunny afternoon in December. There