Kick-starting the day the Telegraph way

I'm one of those people who finds it hard to start the day without coming across something that raises my blood-pressure. It is why I read the Daily Telegraph. The FT has plenty of informative articles but it doesn't stir the blood anything like the Telegraph.

Most newspapers are designed to feed the prejudices of their readers. The Telegraph, long known as the Torygraph, concentrates its news coverage on items that will stir the interest of its middle class home counties bedrock. I am middle class and live in the home counties. Yet I must confess that much of the newspaper's coverage makes me heartily sick. It's not the anti-government, anti-Labour stories that get me going , it's the right-wing spin that's applied to every one of them.

Perhaps it has something to do with my northern working class roots, but I have tried hard all my life to adhere to a socialist, liberal ideal (so why are most of my friends Tories? One of life's oddities, I guess). It explains why I objected to a reader's letter yesterday, praising a news story that referred to "firemen" rather than the politically correct (always used in a disparaging sense in Telegraph stories) "firefighters."

I would like to see that reader arguing his point one day as he is hauled out of his burning house by a fire fighting woman who has undergone the same training and passed the same rigorous physical tests as a man. For sure, there are not many of them, but they do exist and for that reason alone, the collective term, firemen, can no longer apply if it is used assumptively.

I understand the reader and I know dozens of people who would nod their heads in agreement with his letter. But that does not mean that they are right.

In today's newspaper I noticed that the story about the nine-year-old girl, Shannon Matthews, missing from her home in Dewsbury, the town I come from, was down to a paragraph on an inside page.

Contrast this with the acres of news coverage on Madeleine McCann. The difference is that the chattering classes who write the columns (all home counties, middle class) in our broadsheets cannot begin to relate to Shannon's council estate upbringing in Dewsbury. Whereas every one of them will have a view on whether it is right to leave sleeping children alone on the kind of holiday that is probably beyond Shannon's dreams.

So why don't I drop the Telegraph and get the Guardian? You must be joking. I don't want a newspaper that treats anglers and shooters like war criminals. The Independent? Too sterile. The Times? I don't like Rupert Murdoch (although he does fish, mostly big game).

The Daily Mail? Apart from the Keith Waterhouse column I wouldn't give it house room. The Daily Express? No redeeming features. The Sun? The Daily Mirror? They serve their readerships but I can't agree with the way they go about finding - or "creating" - news. The Daily Star? Does it still exist?

I am a fan of the Metro because it's free and my children read it. I would always buy an Evening Standard over a handout because it just lasts the journey home from London.

But please don't ask me to change my Telegraph. I hate it and love it in the same breath. I appreciate the way it stands up to big government whatever its hue (although I wish the UK had signed up to the Euro). I love Boris Johnson's deliciously prejudiced and wonderfully written drivel, much of which I support although he would never get my vote. Its sports coverage is superb, although a bit overdone and its quirky blend of eccentricity and Englishness defines the breed for me. I suppose that's it. The Telegraph represents John Major's unchanging England of "warm beer and cricket" and there's something I like about that.

If you find any of this difficult to understand let me invite you to examine your attitudes to the BBC. The Telegraph readers love and loathe the BBC, but from a right-wing perspective. They love the institution and the quality of its output, but they loathe trendy liberals (are there untrendy liberals? Can I be one?) who, as the aforementioned reader stated, would insist on referring to a fireman as a firefighter. We all have our differences. It's what makes the world go round.

Common sense - the ultimate oxymoron

The letters page of the Daily Telegraph earlier this week carried several contributions from people sending examples of oxymorons – terms that contain an inherent contradiction.

Among those offered by readers were: mankind, friendly fire, open prison, care home, public servant, pleasant flight and Australian culture. None of them, surprisingly, offered “common sense.” Yet this must be the ultimate oxymoron.

Indeed good sense is so uncommon that the government should create a Ministry of Common Sense to oversee ideas and proposals from all other ministries. The proposal to create super casinos, for example, could have been saved from ever seeing the light of day.

This is the problem with a Ministry of Common Sense, however. Much of its work would be to strangle at birth some of the sillier proposals of government. This would make it extremely unpopular with the media that relies on daft ideas for much of its coverage.

There is another problem with such a ministry. Who could be found to run it? Common sense suggests that there is a dearth of suitable candidates within the existing administration or among the aspirants. Sadly there will never be a ministry for common sense. For that we must blame another oxymoron: good government.

France v England - tour report

What kind of idiot thinks that a 9 pm start for a rugby match is a good idea? The French invented the guillotine for those who forgot the needs of ordinary people. It’s probably the only pre-match entertainment (with the scheduler hauled out as victim, ideally screaming for mercy) that could have relieved the hiatus in what otherwise had been an excellent two-and-a-half day tour.

Instead we settled for the slow strangulation of the French which did nothing to enliven the apres match atmosphere as the bars were thinning out at midnight.

Peaking too early in Paris before the six nations match at Stade de France, was always going to be an issue. The tour planning was going to take skill, balance and judgement, all of which were in short supply among our six-man party. The secret is to limit your time in the bars. The limits were more than generous. So that was all right.

We like to mix our drinking with the cultural experience of a big city so I had bought a useful little book called Authentic Bistros of Paris. The first one we found, La Petite Porte, was staffed by an authentic New Zealand bar maid (just like London then) called Sabine. Sabine - who it turns out was no ordinary barmaid - was going on to yoga class after her stint and she had found a few potential recruits. We had to drag ourselves out of that place but it was only 5pm.

Blurred vision

Art next, so we hit the metro, had a little singsong on the train, then rolled in to the Orangerie to look at Monet’s lily pond paintings in the oval rooms. The great thing about these paintings for the semi-inebriated is that blurred vision is no handicap.

Had we thought about it we might have shortened our subsequent trek to the Rue Mouffetard with a train ride. We might too have avoided an interlude in another bar. By the time we had found our chosen bistro, Le Verre a Pied, the manager was putting up the shutters. She pointed out another place just further on so the evening ended well.

The Saturday was always going to be tough, so Stuart (whose wife, Delia had cooked us some lovely oggies for the train journey), had suggested one of Peter and Oriel Caine’s Paris Walks. For two hours Oriel guided us around the Marais district, showing us places and telling us stories that we would never have heard or found otherwise.

Port-a-loo

One of these stories referred to the 17th century preacher, Louis Bordaloue, whose sermons at the Saint Paul-Saint Louis Church were so popular that the wealthier ladies in the neighbourhood would send round servants to save them a place.

Once in situ, the ladies were expected to endure a three hour sermon so they would take along their silver potties (called Bourdaloues, naturally)and pop them under their flouncy dresses whenever the need arose. They peed where they prayed. It gives a whole new meaning to the silver collection.

Too much Mucha

After a long lunch in one of the Marais bistros the options were extended televised rugby in a nearby Scottish bar or more culture. I can just about handle Irish bars in big cities, but the idea that anyone should want to import the Scottish drinking experience, complete with 80 Shillings beer at 7 euros a pint, is laughable. I went instead with Stuart to the nearby Carnavalet museum, the former home of Madame de Sevigne where you can find the superb preserved interior and facade of Fouquet's jewel shop, designed by Alphonse Mucha. More about him here.

We probably overdosed on the culture and neglected the drinking too much but I thought we had settled on the wrong type of bar (not authentic French) with the wrong beer at the wrong price and with far too much TV*; otherwise it was fine.

On the way in to the ground I was disappointed to hear a group of English supporters singing the National Anthem just as they do at football matches. They should stick to Jerusalem and learn the words, leaving the anthem for the official singing just before the match.

Oikish chanting

Even worse, inside the ground, after the English had scored their first try I heard some supporters chanting "you're not singing anymore" to the French. This is crass bad manners. Oikish chanting at rugby matches should be discouraged before it is allowed to take hold.

Perhaps it's the fitness ideal and obsession with winning that has killed the drinking and singing traditions in some rugby clubs. I hope not.

There was a long wait the next day for the train home so we took a trip on the Seinne and found another bistro from the little book. This was called La Tartine in Rue du Rivoli. A three hour lunch with cheese before the pudding - the French way - was just what we needed and there was even enough time to visit another bar before heading for the terminal.

A good weekend all round that would have been even better had the game's administrators thought a little bit more about the travelling fans. But maybe I'm just an old fart who hasn't moved with the times.

*Postscript: the BBC has apologised for showing almost 12 hours of continuous sport on BBC1 last Saturday (mostly six nations rugby matches - three games broadcast live). It plans to do so again next week.

Reading room

We have a real book problem at home - hundreds of them cluttering up the house. I like books but have a problem throwing any away although I have found that the University of Surrey is happy to accept donations of discarded review copies of management books.

Wall space can be scarce when there are radiators in the way so I thought this idea looked like a great way of creating book shelving from something that also provides another function, i.e. stairs.

We don't have the right kind of house for this arrangement but it would be a great way to organise a two-storey apartment.

Token gestures for playing Monopoly

So when you're playing Monopoly, the board game, which token do you choose and why? I have a theory that the choice of token says something about people.

It was something I was discussing with a friend, Jerry Harrison, over lunch today in Le Beaujolais, a cozy little wine bar in Litchfield Street just up the road from the Ivy. Jerry once taught me how to break a walnut with my forehead, a rarely used but welcome skill.

Girlie iron

Serendipitously we were sitting next to Reg Starkey, another friend, who had first introduced me to Le Beaujolais. I'm not sure why, but we got to talking about Monopoly tokens and it was soon clear that we all had firm opinions. I can't remember Jerry's choice, I think it was the battleship, but he very pointedly said he would never choose the flat iron because it was too "girlie."

Reg said his choice was always the top hat, reflecting, perhaps, an identification with the bourgeoisie which is very un-Reg. My choice is always the boot. I like the boot because it reminds me of my working class roots.

"What, just one boot?" says Jerry.

"Yes, we didn't have much in those days," says I.

I asked another friend, Caroline Hole-Jones, about her choice and she said it was always the top hat "because it feels smooth and nice to touch with round rather than sharp edges. If the hat has gone then it's the dog because I love dogs."

Little handle

Later, back at home, I asked Gill which one she preferred and she said it was the iron "because it's flat, has a little handle, and I quite like moving it around."

I am so used to the six pieces: The top hat, the racing car, the battleship, the flat iron, the boot and the dog, that I was shocked when I consulted a book about Parker Brothers, the US makers of Monopoly and found that in the original set there were two more pieces: a thimble and a handbag, but no dog.

Apparently when Charles Brace Darrow, the inventor of the Monopoly game, put together the various components he suggested that tokens could be made from little items that might be found around the house, such as thimbles and buttons or the charms from charm bracelets. It was these charms that inspired the iconic metal counters.

Second choice

Do you have a favourite token? The most interesting thing about this exercise is that everyone I have canvassed so far does seem to have a favourite and everyone can articulate the reason behind their choice.

I'm quite unhappy if I don't get the boot but if someone else has grabbed it first I go for the racing car because, in my mind, at least, I imagine it racing around the board.

Waiting for Godot

The iron just doesn't do it for me, nor does the dog and nor does the top hat because that smacks of elitism and I hate any kind of elitism. The battleship too is an unpleasant reminder of gunboat diplomacy, colonialism and empire. I like the humble boot. You can do a lot with the boot. For a start it's made for walking. You can also use it to kick other tokens and you can stamp about with it. It reminds me of Samuel Beckett and that scene in Waiting for Godot where Estrogen is struggling with his boots. Yes it has to be the boot.

The psychology of the Monopoly token. Try it around the table the next time you have a dinner party. It's amazingly revealing.

Watching telly at the palace

I couldn’t help wondering while walking past Buckingham Place yesterday evening what ’er indoors was up to. They must rattle around a bit in there. It’s getting tatty in the hallway, quite noticeable when you go through the front door although it would be rude to mention it. But I think I read somewhere that they are going to spend a bit of money doing the place up. It’s high time. It’s got a bit fusty over the years.

You get used to a place though don’t you, and it’s so disruptive having the decorators in. I went there a few years back for a dinner. The Duke of Edinburgh was host. He appeared from behind a screen. Apparently this is the usual form of Royal entrance when they ask you round for a bite to eat. They leave the same way quite deftly before you know what’s happened. There’s no waving you off on the doorstep.

I could imagine the Queen with her feet up watching Coronation Street in another room, giving the thumbs up to her old man as he went to do the night shift.

“Ta’ra luv, don’t be too late.”

“I won’t be luv, I’m fair blethered me’self. See you in a bit.”

I wonder if she wears curlers. I expect she has to if she wants to maintain that classic hairdo. So she’d be sitting there in her curlers with her glass of port and lemon and a copy of the Racing Post on a side table, feet encased in sheepskin-trimmed slippers, a dorgi on her lap.

At least she won’t have to entertain the condescending remarks that many people her age have to deal with if they find themselves in an old folks’ home.

In a home I expect the helpers would want to be on first name terms like they are with the others. “Hello Betty love, how are we today? All right are we? I’ve just brought your tablets. Can I get you a cup o’ tea? My, that’s a nice frock you’re wearing. How about a piece of Battenberg? No love, Battenberg, not Saxe-Coberg.”

As the Queen, however, she doesn’t have to suffer the usual old folk treatment, and because she doesn’t, she can get on with being head of state uninterrupted by those who presume a degree of senility in the elderly.

But then 80-something isn’t so elderly any more. Even 100 wasn’t seen as much in the Queen Mother who went on tottering in her high heeled shoes right up to the end.

I like to think that out of the spotlight, the Queen and Prince Philip “knock along” together quite amiably. All I know of their domestic arrangement is that they keep their corn flakes in a Tupperware box. This deliciously ordinary detail was revealed a few years back by a Daily Mirror journalist posing as a footman. “Shock horror exclusive, Queen has cornflakes in Tupperware,” said the headline, or something like that.

There was something endearing about that. It strikes me that anyone who keeps their cornflakes in a Tupperware box cannot have been too intoxicated by power and affluence. Like a hallway, Tupperwear gets a bit tatty with age. But I bet they would go on using the same old box forever, just as we hang on to the same old tea caddy year after year.

I tell a lie. In fact we threw out a faithful tea caddy of long standing just a little while back. It was a Queen’s Silver Jubilee souvenir tea caddy. I’m not suggesting there was anything symbolic about this. It was just old.

We have a Prince of Wales tea caddy now; nothing subliminally symbolic about that either. It’s just what we have. It will never be the stuff of headlines. Not like the marmalade on the Royal slice of bread.

Archbishop rings alarm bells

I wonder how many of those engaged in pillorying Dr Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury for his remarks on sharia law in Britain have actually listened to his speech or read the text?

His argument is so dense and diffuse that it was bound to be interpreted in simple headlines as "Archbishop wants sharia law in the UK". The problem with such headlines is that for most people in the UK sharia law carries with it one meaning: a draconian system that advocates extreme punishments such as the stoning of women for adultery and the cutting off of the hands of thieves.

Extreme naivety

If Dr Williams is guilty of anything it is extreme naivety if he believed that his speech would create the conditions for a balanced debate on Islamic law in the UK. The visible changes wrought by Islam on so many British communities are creating real anxieties within those communities. Dr Williams should visit towns such as Dewsbury in Yorkshire, or Blackburn and Burnley in Lancashire, where multicultural policies have done little to unite cultures that are as divided as ever a full half century since Asians began settling in the UK.

If he thinks the imams within some of the more radical mosques are debating the merits of religious unity in their communities he is mistaken. There is a war going on and part of that war is being fought in our own backyard.

Two-systems, one country

The vast majority of British muslims want nothing to do with the kind of terrorism promoted by Al Qa'eda. On the other hand there is much broader sympathy for creating a community within a community which might operate to a different set of rules, principles and beliefs on more of a Hong Kong-style, one country, two-systems basis.

Those who have extended Islamic practices in the UK have taken advantage of British tolerance, underpinned by a strong vein of liberalism, that has overshadowed an equally embedded conservatism. Islamic conservatism - dominant in many of the former northern textile towns - however, has shown scant interest in assimilation.

Christian society

I can sympathise with those among Dr Williams' critics, who believe that creating further inroads for sharia law within the UK is the thin end of an increasingly divisive wedge in our society. Britain remains essentially a Christian Society even for those of us who have adopted more secular beliefs.

No I don't go to Church anymore but I feel comfortable with the sound of church bells in my parish. They help define the country I know and love. I want an Archbishop who is less in the thrall of the muezzin and keen to keep those church bells ringing.

Super Tuesday in Epsom

Super Tuesday, they called it in the US. Well it was pretty good over here too, finishing my fishing column just in time for a few pancakes before we drove over to Epsom to see Michael McIntyre at the playhouse.

I love pancake Tuesday. For a great recipe read this. Pancake eating is quite a social arrangement with people leaving the table in relays to prepare the next pancake. George was in charge last night. His style is to flip the pancake while I'm more of a tosser. That's what my friends tell me anyway.

You may have seen McIntyre on TV last year when he appeared Live at the Appollo - the full performance is spread over three clips. If you haven't caught any of his stage performances so far you might try to get a ticket for one of the shows in his new tour. I think he's one the most talented young comedians in the UK - the south's answer to Peter Kay.

His best known routine (featured in the Youtube clips) is where he demonstrates a more efficient way of walking, skipping from A to B with synchronised arms. But it wasn't part of last night's show until he asked for questions from the audience at the end. "Do the skipping" shouted one bloke. So McIntyre obliged and it was only then that I realised his act was unknown to most of those there.

He's southern and talks with a posh accent - not the usual ingredients for gritty live comedy - but his humour is sharply framed from observations of daily life such as rail commuting and motorway driving. They're not just observations of human behaviour either. He puts our unspoken but recognisable thoughts in to words.

He's a genuinely funny man who knows how to work an audience and whose performance is as yet uncluterred by the intrusions of stardom. If he can maintain that common touch he's going to be a big name. Too much TV exposure, of course, can drain the creativity in this kind of work, condemning talent to a future of well-paid panel games such as QI and Have I got News For You.

Perhaps this is the pattern of comedy success - come up the hard way, playing the halls, before enjoying the easier pickings of TV where your talent, in time, begins to go in odd directions (a sure sign when you start doing travel programmes)and you must make way for the next hungry young thing. Either that, or you can be Ken Dodd.

Rugby, Pride and a prelude to Lent

A big breakfast today ahead of the England v Wales game at Twickenham and the gallons of London Pride that must be consumed before and afterwards.

The ritual is generally the same - down to the pub for noon, a few pints then off to catch the bus in Richmond that takes us to the ground.

But today is different because the match does not start until 4.30 pm and this plays havoc with the pre-match drinking. Peak too early and you're watching the game in a daze.

Ticket cock-up

So we're starting at the pub at noon as usual but - and this is the new bit - we are going have lunch in an Italian restaurant and that may mean wine.

I'm hoping that the catastrophic ticket cock-up has been resolved. We source our tickets collectively through various reliable avenues but this year the northern supply was a bit thin. Still the southern end was holding up, but there was a misunderstanding between the poles and one of the core group of regulars looks as if he might miss out and that's very bad indeed.

It has happened before in away matches but I can't recall such an oversight at a home match.

Another brick...

If we get to the ground early enough we shall be able to see "the brick". The brick was sponsored by Simon, aka The Philanderer and has been inscribed by various nicknames. On this occasion, for obvious reasons mine is "Scoop." It's part of some wall they've built and this our small bid for imortallity (until they knock down the ground).

This will be my last drinking session before the start of Lent next week. But I can't give up drinking for Lent because of other intervening rugby internationals. So I'm trying to think of a suitable sacrifice. I might give up milk instead. Should be doable.

Postscript: In the end we were deluged with tickets, enough for me to take two sons, Rob and George (and subsidise them). The restaurant booking was a disaster since we all turned up 20 minutes late and, understandably, they had given away the table, so it was back to the pub. A 4.30 pm kick off was far too late. It meant that by the time the game has usually ended England were well in the lead. This might explain their eventual loss - their body clocks were all thrown and they forgot about the second half. Luckily after the match we managed to find a pub. Later, that same instinct that guides homing pigeons back to their lofts brought us home. Just two weeks to recover and it's over to Paris: bring on the French.