Writing in today’s Guardian about 1976, supposedly the greatest year ever for Britain. Certainly the hottest summer ever. A great year for the country, perhaps. But not for three-year-old me… The only good thing that happened that summer was my engagement to George (pictured above). Read more here.
How much can I say this: I love War and Peace. It’s compelling, exciting, beautiful and – perhaps most surprisingly of all – (intentionally) funny. So if you’re hating War and Peace in any way at all, my (somewhat gushing, I’m afraid) reviews are not the reviews for you. Most people, however, are loving this six-part drama, concluding Sunday 7 Feb. I calculate that precisely 4.9% of viewers *are* not enjoying it. These people claim that it’s just not faithful enough to the original. I also calculate that approximately 99% of these people are only pretending to have read the book. In the main the comments are positive and jubilant. It has certainly made large numbers of people want to read the original (whether again or for that first time), which for a 540,000 word book is an amazing feat in itself. And don’t get me started on Dolokhov and his amazing feats (and feets and hands and general physiognomy).
Writing this piece for the Guardian on all the things I’ve inherited from my grandparents was cathartic but also difficult. I hoped it would help me to give away (throw away?) some of their stuff. But it just made things worse: it made me want to keep it all the more…. Still waiting for the phone call from Britain’s Biggest Hoarders. Some great advice in the comments and this issue sparks an interesting divide: half of the comments say “Get rid of it all — you will feel better”, the other half say “How could you ever let this treasure go?” I’m still torn.
This was great fun to write. Highlights for me? Lionel Richie at Glastonbury (“When he was not reinventing himself as the “commodore of love” (“We [the Commodores] decided: we’re gonna make love to every girl in the world. That was our mission statement”), the 66-year-old Ritchie was celebrating selling 100m records.”), Suranne Jones in Dr Foster (“Was there anything on TV more deliciously entertaining and brilliantly captured than Jones as the GP Gemma Foster”) and Catastrophe (“Is there anything funnier than two hopeless but likeable people having a baby together? Apparently not.”).
And so the Downton era comes to a close! I have been blogging on Downton for the Guardian since September 2010 when I wrote this piece: “Maggie Smith and Hugh Bonneville in a Julian Fellowes period drama? I may have died and gone to Sunday night TV heaven.” Ah, how the folly of our youth returns to haunt us… What I wrote during series one (and the comments underneath, suggesting what a surprising success this is for ITV) contrasts horrifically with what was to come. By 2014, I was writing that it was“one of Britain’s most toxic exports.”
Downton was a lovely surprise (for one series) that outstayed its welcome. It should have been cut off at series two or three (or ideally, actually, series one). It had enough meat to sustain one perfect outing (just like Gosford Park) but it never became a proper soap opera. Good soap opera is meticulously planned and calibrated. This always felt as if it had too many plots and too many characters and was just throwing anything at the (beautifully papered) wall to see if it would stick. Fortunately the gloss and style of the thing camouflaged this expertly and turned it into a cash cow the likes of which ITV must only have dreamed.
Tonight’s Christmas episode yielded no surprises (warning: spoilers) with Uncle Julian tying up the ends he could be bothered to tie up (sometimes rather too tightly) but leaving may things dangling. This is the Downton way. I will miss it, strangely. And I will also dream of Mr Pamuk and the Lost-in-Germany Newspaper Man.
Loved being part of the team covering the election “hangover” coverage the day after. (Pictured above with Jenni Murray and polling experts Sarah Childs and Michelle Harris.) Listen Again here. It was a strange experience in some ways as a lot of the results had not quite been finalised when we went on air. Nick Clegg, Nigel Farage and Ed Miliband had yet to resign. And yet the writing was already on the wall. I was reporting on the tone and the content of the TV coverage overnight and, unsurprisingly for Woman’s Hour, there was a lot of focus on the fact that women were very poorly represented amongst the political pundits and reporters. Where’s the female Dimbleby? Come on! The best bit, though, is Jenni Murray giving me a slap down for saying that my highlight of the entire night was a woman’s hair style. OK, that was a bit shallow. But the coverage was extremely boring. And Bridget Philipson MP — in Sunderland, one of the first results called — does have phenomenal hair. I won’t mention it again BUT LOOK AT HER HAIR. (Picture: Sunderland Echo)
Writing in today’s Observer Food Magazine about something that has been bugging me for a while: nut allergies, gluten “sensitivity” and coeliac disease. What’s the difference between a real (sometimes life-threatening) food allergy and a lifestyle choice? And is all this making us more anxious around food? Susie Orbach says yes. I am with her. This piece was inspired by this missive in the four-year-old’s lunchbox (above). My bad.
I cooked brownies, rock cakes and lemon drizzle cake for Mary Berry for Sainsbury’s magazine, May issue.
This is what happened:
“Everyone knows that Mary Berry is kind and generous and lovely. She is also honest. And she has tasted thousands, possibly millions, of cakes in her lifetime. So what’s her verdict on mine? My lemon drizzle: “Almost perfect. But could have done with another three minutes in the oven.” I knew it! But I didn’t want to risk it burning. I have fallen into the most obvious trap, the one I have seen hundreds of time on Bake Off. What an idiot.
Mary points to the top of the slice which is not quite the same consistency as the sponge at the bottom of the slice. Busted. My brownies: “A lovely sheen on top. Brownies are a personal taste. I would have taken these out sooner. Not enough squidge.” Again. I knew it! The brownies are reasonably dry. It’s how my kids like them. Well, that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.
The rock cakes? They were made – like all my cakes – the day before meeting Mary. I’m not sure how well they’ve survived the overnight storage. They were pretty tough yesterday. I don’t want to be taking out one of Mary Berry’s crowns. She takes a dainty nibble. “They need to be eaten on the same day,” she says diplomatically. “So for next day they’re not bad.” There is a barely perceptible wrinkling of the nose. “Very nice for a child’s lunchbox.” Ouch.”
I reviewed two fantastically readable new biographies about Alexander McQueen and John Galliano for the Telegraph. One, Alexander McQueen: Blood Beneath the Skin by Andrew Wilson, looks at the truth behind all the myth-making around McQueen. And the other, Gods and Kings by Dana Thomas, contrasts their two lives — and credits them both with establishing (and then killing off) an influential era for fashion. Two great reads — equal to something I reviewed a few months ago on McQueen, Marc Jacobs and Kate Moss: Champagne Supernovas. Also worth a look.