Monday
An extremely charming email arrives from Lib Dem head office thanking me for going to its spring party conference in York. Say what you like about the Lib Dems, you can’t fault them for their manners. No other political party indulges in such after-conference care – especially to those who didn’t bother to go. Like almost every other member of the Westminster lobby, I chose to stay at home, as there isn’t much the Lib Dems could say on any topic that would be worth reporting. What a difference a general election can make. By far the most interesting bit of David Laws’ new book on the coalition is the section where he writes that George Osborne offered a deal for the 2015 election in which the Conservatives would agree not to field candidates in Lib Dem marginal seats if the Lib Dems did the same in Tory marginals. The Lib Dems turned it down on the grounds their supporters would think they had sold out. Closing the stable door …
Tuesday
There are many years of my life for which – thankfully – there is no photographic evidence and even now that it has become the norm to record every mundane detail of one’s existence, I still find there are almost no situations which would be improved by taking pictures of myself. And if I was to find a moment to start taking selfies, then I’m fairly sure that posing with a bloke who was threatening to blow me and an aircraft up wouldn’t be the time to start. But then nothing about the EgyptAir hijacking was exactly normal. Forget the British passenger’s selfie with the world’s most laid-back terrorist, the person who impressed me most was the bloke who managed to sleep through the entire incident. What could have been a PR disaster for EgyptAir has turned into PR triumph. Expect the airlines to resume flights to Sharm el-Sheikh in a few weeks.
Wednesday
Some have expressed concern that neither Downton Abbey nor Poldark is featured in the Bafta nominations, but to the best of my recollection there isn’t a “best drama that is two series past its best and all the lead characters are sleepwalking through their parts” award, nor is there one for “best supporting torso”. More puzzling is that Ben Whishaw has been nominated for best actor in London Spy, which was quite the most ridiculous and over-hyped thriller on TV last year. Even he looked as though he hadn’t a clue what was going on by the middle of the second episode. I stuck with it for the first four episodes, willing it to get better but halfway through the last episode, I decided to cut my losses and switch over. No denouement, however implausible, was worth the extra half hour. Presumably all the other best actor nominees are only listed to make up the numbers as Mark Rylance is certain to win, but if there was an award for “best actor in a show that everyone wanted to like but didn’t” then Whishaw would get my vote.
Thursday
The government’s uncanny knack of being unable to spot trouble ahead even when given ample warning continues. Only last week the Labour MP Stephen Kinnock pointed out to David Cameron during PMQs that he would be attending a critical board meeting of Tata in India on the following Monday at which the future of British steel might be decided and asked if the government might lend a hand. “Obviously I will do everything I can,” replied Dave, “but you must remember that the situation is extremely tricky and I will be away on holiday next week.” So, as Tata announced it was to close all its steel operations in Britain, Dave was on the beach in Lanzarote, Sajid Javid, the business secretary, was at a black-tie event in China and George Osborne was missing in action – nursing his wounds over the black holes in his budget. Sometimes, I think, I couldn’t do any worse.
Friday
There’s no accounting for taste. Having hired Sting, Enrique Iglesias and Jennifer Lopez to sing at the Moscow leg of his son’s wedding, Russian oligarch Mikhail Gutseriev is rumoured to have hired Elton John and Beyoncé for the return bunfight in London. I’d guess there will be a major squabble over who gets top billing, though things might be immeasurably improved by having both perform at the same time.
If I was a Russian billionaire I’d buy in Leonard Cohen instead. As it was, when I got married I had to settle for the village organist murdering Che Farò from Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice. The best that could be said for it was that it delayed the best man’s speech by 10 minutes. Having spent a long time eulogising my wife for what she had given me, he went on to say the only thing he could remember me giving her was a nasty rash. Surprisingly, we’re still friends.
Digested week digested
“Where’s Georgie?”
