Monday
I’m struggling to be shocked by David Beckham’s leaked emails, as it had never occurred to me that celebrities could be entirely motivated by altruism when they worked for charities. What I find more surprising is that so many celebs seem to be obsessed with who is getting what honour. Imagine being in a world where somebody getting an OBE or a knighthood before you was a cause of serious angst. If someone was idiotic enough to nominate me for an award, I’d feel duty bound to refuse. Partly because the honours system is outdated, but mainly because who wants to be confused with someone who might have donated large amounts of cash to a political party? Or has just been on TV a lot? Not that I can’t be bought. It’s just that I have a different price. I’ve always longed for a university to award me an honorary doctorate. Remarkably, no offers have so far been forthcoming.
Tuesday
Much more disturbing than Becks is the sight of Barack Obama swanning around on holiday with Richard Branson. A little piece of me died when I saw those photos of a man I had admired for his liberal values kitesurfing off Necker Island. Though it does fit into my worldview that sometimes in the celebrity world contacts can be carefully mediated to the advantage of both parties. Someone I once vaguely knew never had a single girlfriend until he acquired some low-level celebrity status. By coincidence, his very first girlfriend had an almost identical low level of celebrity status. They were such a perfect match it made me wonder if there wasn’t a special dating agency for celebs where you were given introductions commensurate with your fame. “C-lister meet C-lister.” Only after both sets of agents have vetted the deal are the couple free to go out on a date.
Wednesday
If you’ve missed Melissa McCarthy’s takedown of Donald Trump’s communications director, Sean Spicer, then I’d advise you to look out for it on YouTube. It’s very funny. I may have a vested interest here, but I do feel that at times like these we need satire more than ever. Come back, Spitting Image. One of the main problems, though, is that it’s becoming hard to distinguish between reality and satire. At times it can feel like my daily parliamentary sketch is no more than a transcription service; only this week Theresa May accused Jeremy Corbyn of alternative facts in prime minister’s questions when he presented her with the undoubtedly real facts of the text messages sent by the leader of Surrey county council. Nor is the Labour leader’s life beyond imitating satire. Private Eye ran a story claiming that Corbyn likes to take a day off in lieu whenever he appears on the Andrew Marr show on a Sunday morning. Given that Marr is over by 10am this seems a very liberal interpretation of a full working day. Whenever I have to sketch the Marr show I don’t get a whole day off in lieu. Nor do my colleagues who have to report on it. And we’re not finished till lunchtime.
Thursday
Despite trying to remember to walk with my shoulders tucked back – along with the usual therapy and gym visits – my anxiety and depression have remained fairly constant. Though, thankfully, are still some way off – as far as I can tell – danger levels. At its worst a few years ago, not only was I suffering a mixture of frequent panic attacks and near catatonia, I also became so depersonalised and dissociated that I became distrustful of my own surroundings. It reached the stage where I couldn’t sit down without firmly grabbing a chair first because I couldn’t be certain it was where I thought it was. For this reason I have become particularly concerned about Michael Gove’s wellbeing, as it appears to have completely slipped his mind that Rupert Murdoch had sat in on his interview with Trump. You would think he might have mentioned it. While I like to think I’d remember if my boss had joined me in the golden lifts of Trump Tower, it’s possible I might have forgotten had I been in the same delusional state as I was when I was on the psychiatric ward. And it can’t have helped Mikey’s less-than-perfect recall that all the photographs appear to have omitted Rupert. Either he was hiding under the Donald’s desk or he really is a vampire who doesn’t show up on film.
Friday
The main thing I’ve learnt from working in Westminster for three years is that I don’t have what it takes to be a politician. Leaving aside the problems of having to defend decisions you know to be wrong and vote for policies in which you don’t believe, I couldn’t take the constant scrutiny. YouGov has just published a list of personalised ratings and it makes fairly dismal reading. Boris Johnson comes off best with 46% of respondents thinking he’s useless compared with 40% who think he’s doing a good job. Then comes David Davis with 28% useless, 19% favourable – along with a staggering 53% who either don’t know who he is or don’t care one way or the other. Philip Hammond comes off even worse with a score of 33% to 18%. But all these figures look comparatively rosy compared with Jeremy Corbyn, who weighs in with a staggering 62% to 22%; worse still for the Labour leader, he comes off badly in every age group, social class, region and gender. Even those who voted Labour apparently think he’s hopeless. With my fragile psyche, I’d rather not read these sort of ratings on my job competency every week. Sometimes it’s better not to know.
Digested week: Unkinder transport.
