Secretly, I was hoping for some water-cannon action. There is something really funny about the sight of an angry young woman being hosed into the gutter by a tank. If Jimmy Savile could be coaxed out of retirement, this would be top of my Fix It hit list: the chance to propel a vegetarian into the middle of next week.
I was also hoping that at some point I could sneak off and lob a brick through Pringle’s window on Regent Street. Just because.
But London was as quiet as the grave. All morning we cruised the streets and all we saw was a man in a kaftan posing for photographers at Marble Arch. And, like every other shop in town, Pringle had boarded-up windows.
Eventually we found the mob and I would like to bet that if I gave you 2,000 guesses, you’d never guess where they were. What symbol of capitalism had drawn them to its portals: Nike Town, McDonald’s, the American Embassy? Nope. They were outside New Zealand House.
Except they weren’t. I counted 17 television crews, well over 100 reporters and photographers, 75 policemen and… 14 protesters.
Disappointed, I went for lunch at the lvy hoping that something would kick off in the afternoon. But it didn’t. I heard on the radio that Regent Street was closed and so, keen to see if Pringle was under attack, I hurried over there to find 2,000 policemen dressed up as navy seals surrounding two women who were so angry about something or other that they had decided to sit down in the middle of the road.
Unbelievable. The police had rented every van in Europe, there was a helicopter chewing fuel in the sky and why? Because two women were cross about men, or student loans, or East Timor or whatever it is that angers women at university these days.
So what’s the problem here? How come every other city in the world staged a pretty good riot and all we got was a brace of lesbians – and I quote from radio reports – ‘throwing paper at the police’?
To understand why the British are so hopeless at getting off their backsides, we need to go back to the summer of 1381 and the so-called Peasants’ Revolt. A mob, seeking equality for all, had sacked London. They had burnt the houses of the rich, beheaded anyone dressed in velvet, opened prisons, drunk John of Gaunt’s wine and scattered financial records to the four winds. These guys were on a roll. The army had fled, the king, Richard II, was just fourteen years old and his bodyguards were so scared they had gone into hiding. Then the mayor of London compounded the problem by sticking his dagger into the neck of the protesters’ leader, Wat Tyler.
Now you would think, wouldn’t you, that this would inflame the situation somewhat. (If Ken Livingstone had stabbed one of the lesbians, the other would have become incandescent with rage.) But no. Ten days later, the rebels confronted the king who told them: ‘You wretches, detestable on land and sea; you who seek equality with lords are unworthy to live.’ So they all went home.
How come? What was it that extinguished the fire in their bellies? Well, I have no proof of this because nobody was keeping meteorological records in the fourteenth century but I’d like to bet that it started to rain.
A lot of people with vast foreheads have, over the years, wondered why Britain has never had a successful uprising. Some say it’s because the monarchy was too powerful. Others argue that you can’t have a revolution if you have a strong and contented middle class.
Pah. I say it’s because of the drizzle. Last year’s May Day riot was a success because it was dry and quite warm. This one was a washout because it rained and we are brought up on a diet of party invitations that always say ‘If wet, in the village hall’. And you can’t change the fabric of society from a venue that’s also used for parish council meetings and line dancing.
There is some evidence to back up this theory. The night of 11 April 1981 was dry and unseasonably warm. I know this because it was my twenty-first birthday. It was also the night of the Brixton riots. Then there was Toxteth and it wasn’t raining on the television coverage of that, either.
Aha, you might say, but what about the Russian Revolution? They also have rubbish weather so how did they get it together? Well, look at the dates. It began in early spring and it was all over by October. And when did the French storm the Bastille? It was 14 July.
Here’s a thought: the only reason why the Arabs and Jews have managed to keep their nasty little war going for 50 years is because it never bloody rains. If the post-war powers had put Israel in Manchester, there’d have been no bloodshed at all.
Sunday 6 May 2001
Being a Millionaire is Just One Step from being Skint
So, the other night, I was sitting around after dinner playing the board game of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? with Hans and Eva Rausing.
At first, I was slightly bothered that they didn’t seem terribly interested in getting the questions right but then, of course, it struck me. As builders of the TetraPak fortune, becoming a millionaire means taking a significant step backwards.
It made me laugh. And then it made me think. Even if we leave billionaires out of the equation, who does want to be a millionaire these days? I mean, £1 million is just enough to ensure that you lose all your friends but not quite enough to buy anything worthwhile.
You see those poor souls with Chris Tarrant, shuffling up to the centre of the stage with their shirts not tucked in and their dreadful shoes, saying that, if they won the big prize, they’d buy an island and move there with Meg Ryan. No you wouldn’t.A million doesn’t even get you a decent flat in Manchester these days and, even if it did, you’re not going to pull Meg Ryan with it.
The simple facts of the matter are these. Fifty new millionaires are created in this country every day. When American Express launched its plutocratic black card, the initial print run of 10,000 was snapped up in days.
According to the Inland Revenue, more than 3,000 people earned more than £1 million last year, which means there are now 100,000 people across the country who have a million or more in liquid assets.
But if you include people whose houses or shares in companies are worth more than seven figures, then you arrive at an alarming conclusion. There are probably half a million millionaires in Britain.
So why, then, can you hear yourself think this morning? Why is the sky not full to overflowing with Learjets and helicopters? How come your dog is not cowering under the table in case someone tries to turn it into a coat? Why isn’t everyone married to Meg Ryan? Why does Pizza Express not offer a panda-ear and tiger-tail topping?
These days, to live what we still perceive to be a millionaire lifestyle, you need to have a damn sight more than £1 million.
How much more, though, that’s the question. Back in 1961 Viv Nicholson won £152,000 on the pools and promptly embarked on a pink and furry spending spree, commensurate with what in today’s money would be £3 million. And it lasted precisely fifteen years before she went broke.
A recent report said that, to live the super-rich lifestyle today, with a personal stylist to do your hair and a fast, convertible car to mess it up again, you actually need£5 million, but I’m not sure that this is going to keep you in pointy shoes and Prada.
I mean, Mr Blair is going to help himself to 40 percent, leaving you with£3 million, which becomes£2.5 million once you’ve set aside a little something for school fees.
You then buy the big house in the country, and that leaves you with liquid assets of£1 million, which sounds great. But hang on a minute: you’re part of the so-called super-rich now, so you can forget about holidaying at CenterParcs. You’re going to be taking the family and the nanny, in the front of the aeroplane, to the Caribbean every year.
Lovely, but do that for twenty years at £50,000 a pop and you’ll get home one day to find a letter from the bank manager saying he is ‘disappointed to note that you have no money left’.
All you’ll have to show for your£5 million is a suntan, a terraced house and surly children who would rather have gone to the local comp.
I suspect that to live a boat-filled, choppery existence off Venice one minute and St
Kitts the next, you actually need £10 million. But then, if you have this much, if your bank balance is bigger than your account number, you’re going to spend every night for the rest of your life at charity auctions being expected to stick your hand up and buy the big lot: the signed Frankie Dettori underpants.
Every day you’ll be approached by people who either need backing for their new publishing venture in Azerbaijan or an operation for their not-very-ill six-yearold niece.
Oh sure, other very rich people will ask you to come and stay at their Tuscan villas but, when you get there, you’ll have to share a breakfast table with a man who runs guns for the Iranians, a woman with an Argentine accent who’s permanently bored and a gaggle of airheads who throw you in the pool.
You’ll ricochet from pillar to post, a one-man social-services department until, one day, your wife shacks up with the under-gardener and you end up alone in the Savoy, knowing that all the friends you used to have are sharing a bottle of Bulgarian plonk in a Chiswick pizza joint, laughing a lot and carefully splitting the bill afterwards.
I therefore have a new idea for a television game show. It’s called Who Doesn’t Want to be a Millionaire Any More? All the contestants are super-rich and the idea is to give away as much money as possible in the shortest time.
The trouble is, of course, that nobody would phone the hotline. They’d all be at home with their lovely wife Meg, admiring their signed Frankie pants.
Sunday 13 May 2001
What Does It Take to Get a Decent Meal Round Here?
At this time of year Country Life magazine swells as its property pages fill to overflowing with six-bedroom manor houses, each of which can be bought for the price of a stamp.
You may be tempted by the notion of a crunchy gravel drive and a selection of stone mushrooms, but before taking the plunge look carefully at the photograph of the ‘far-reaching view’. There’s nothing in it, is there? Just fields, foxes and a millstone grit outcrop on the far horizon.
It may appear to be pleasant and tranquil but it’s going to be a big problem when you’re looking for a restaurant. You see, fields do not eat out. Millstone grit outcrops are not to be found demanding a glass of Sauternes to wash down the pudding. Foxes don’t like cappuccino.
On Tuesday my wife and I were celebrating eight years of perfect wedded bliss and thought it would be fun to toast the moment with a simple but expensive dinner somewhere posh.
Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons is not too far away but frankly it may as well be on the moon because we’re not going again. Why? The last time we went it was hosting a convention for photocopying engineers who spoilt the evening somewhat by making me pose for photographs with their cars.
No matter. There used to be a great restaurant in Oxford called the Lemon Tree, but now it has new owners who said that if we wished to smoke, we would have to sit in a special raised area. This sounded a bit like a naughty chair. So that was out.
The Petit Blanc was crossed off the list next because, oddly, it only allows smoking at weekends. Owner Ray White should be advised that people who smoke do so because they have to. It’s not like fishing. Tell someone they can’t go to the canal until Saturday and they’ll be fine, whereas smokers won’t. They’ll start eating your tablecloths, and if you object, you’ll be on the receiving end of what I now believe is known as ‘a Prescott’.
After an hour on the phone it looked like we’d have to give up and eat in a pub which, as I’m sure you know, is slightly less appealing than eating the pub itself. The only thing I can say about ‘pub grub’ is that it tastes like I cooked it. And I am the only person in the world who can make cauliflower taste like the back of a fridge freezer.
Eventually, we found a rather nice smoker-friendly fish restaurant called Dexters in Deddington, which is a local place for local people, all of whom were not celebrating their wedding anniversaries, or indeed anything. That’s why they were at home and we were the only people in there.
So, one has to presume, it will eventually close or ban smoking and then that’ll be it. We’ll have to start eating the millstone grit outcrops.
I’m not kidding. I live in the Cotswolds, one of the most affluent, sought-after areas in the whole country – a six-bedroom manor house round here costs more than a whole book of stamps – and yet there is only one worthwhile restaurant within a half-hour’s drive. One. And it’s empty.
However, before everyone in London splits in half with mirth I should point out that the three worst meals I’ve ever eaten were all at well-known restaurants in Notting Hill. Last week.
In one we were told by a waiter, who looked like his house had just burnt down, that the chef had messed up the food and that most of it was off. We never saw the wine we ordered, my crab starter was covered in wallpaper paste and after two hours the main course still hadn’t turned up at all.
And I’m not alone. Everyone I’ve talked to recently is saying that their favourite restaurant is starting to deliver what tastes like hamster droppings to table 9 at 10 p.m., when it should have gone to table 14 at 7 p.m.
But this was inevitable because while the countryside has no restaurants at all, London has far too many. Take West End Lane in Hampstead. It used to be a shopping street but all they can offer now, apart from a haircut and a bijou flat for the price of Gloucestershire, is a plate of spaghetti that should have gone to table 8 last week.
A year ago the situation was so bad that restaurateurs were reduced to trawling Paris for waiting staff. Some reports suggested that as many as 10,000 surly, off-hand Pierres had migrated to London. And that was then.
Now, with more and more new restaurants opening every day, I’m surprised Marco Pierre White isn’t to be found at the traffic lights offering jobs to passing motorists. Hell, I’m surprised he isn’t offering them to the Albanian window washers.
You see, it’s all very well employing the best chef in the world, but what’s the point if you can’t find someone to take it from the kitchen to the dining room? Well, someone with a sense of direction and a basic grasp of English anyway.
I was disappointed the other day when my six-yearold daughter said she wanted to be a waitress when she grew up. The way things are going she could get a job now. Unfortunately though, there aren’t any openings round here. Indeed, the only place where you can get a decent steak is called a pyre.
Sunday 20 May 2001
Cutting Lawns is the Last Word in Civilisation
Having seen Emmanuelle in Bangkok, I thought I knew what a massage would be like. Well it isn’t.
The first disappointment comes when you find that there will only be one masseuse, and the second when you discover that his name is Bill.
Then things really start to go pear-shaped. After asking you to undress and lie face-down on the bed, he’ll tell you that you’re tense. And you’ll want to reply that this is not surprising because you were not expecting someone who learnt all about body pressure points while serving as a Spetsnaz assassin. But all you’ll manage is a muffled ‘Aaaaaaaargh’.
Be assured, a proper massage gives you some idea of what it would be like to fall down a mountain while locked in a fridge freezer. It would be more relaxing to have your fingernails torn out while being force-fed with used engine oil.
I have discovered that the best way of soothing away the stresses and strains of the working week is to mow the lawn. Sitting there, with the sun on your back, concentrating on nothing but going in a straight line and not running over the flowers, you can actually feel your muscles turning to jelly and your teeth unclenching.
And then, when you’ve finished, you can stand back with your hands on your hips and admire the sheer geometric perfection of that verdant test card, that subtle blend of absolute straightness in a curved and wild world. You have taken on nature and, with nothing more than a Honda Lawnmaster, brought civilisation and order to the unruly forces of nature. Well done. You are now a lawn bore.
You will start shouting at your children
if they ride their bicycles on your immaculate conception. You will tut when you find discarded cigarette butts. You will stand for hours in the garden centre eying up trowels, and you will talk about Roundup with your friends in the pub.
I am now such a lawn bore that when I discovered a thistle that had dared to show its hideous, ugly face in my perfect turf I shot it.
And while I like having a fighter plane in the garden – it’s better than a water feature because the children can’t drown in it – I was inconsolable when I saw the damage that had been done while it was being towed into position. There were three grooves, each a foot deep, stretching all the way from the broken electric gates to my dead yew hedge.
This, you see, is my problem. I want to be a gardener. I want a potting shed and some secateurs. I want Homes & Gardens magazine to profile my work, but all I can do is cut grass. Everything else turns to disaster.
Two years ago the field across the road was planted with saplings and I bought precisely the same stuff for a patch of land next to my paddock. Today, his trees are 12–14 feet tall. Mine have been eaten by hares.
I filled the grooves in the lawn with ten tons of the finest topsoil money can buy and then, to speed the repair along, mixed some grass seed with the most expensive organic compost in the world and sprinkled it all on top. And the result? Three long and unsightly strips of mushrooms.
I was assured that my yew trees would grow at the rate of a foot every twelve months but they did nothing of the sort. For the first two years they just sat there and then they decided to die. So they did.
So I was intrigued last week by the fierce debate that appeared to have been raging at the Chelsea Flower Show.
There are those who like gardens to be traditional, a Technicolor riot of flora and fauna harmonised to create a little piece of harmonised chaos. These people are called gardeners.
The World According to Clarkson Page 5