Trump may have dumped Farage, and Musk has lost $100bn off Tesla’s share price but can’t I even enjoy the schadenfreude
My mum died last week. She went to bed as usual last Tuesday, the care home staff got her up to help her to the bathroom in the night and then early in the morning heard she was having breathing difficulties. She died not long after. There can’t be many 101-year-olds whose deaths are described as unexpected by the doctors.
To the last, she took us all by surprise. Rosemary was one of the last of her generation. She served as a Wren in the war and was strafed by a German fighter plane in Portsmouth during an air raid while walking home. She could vividly describe the sound of the bullets hitting the tarmac and the houses as she tried to dive for cover. After the war, against her parents’ wishes, she took herself off to music college in London to study piano before marrying my dad, a naval officer who had also fought in the war. They had three children, Veronica and Sue, my two elder sisters, and me. They were ridiculously proud of us all and stood by me even when nearly everyone else had given up. In the early 60s, Rosemary wasn’t wholly delighted to find herself in the role of vicar’s wife after my dad switched career and went on to become a marriage guidance counsellor and supervisor. She also, along with my dad, became a founder member of the Social Democratic party.
Her last eight years were painful as she suffered from Alzheimer’s. It was hard to know which was worse, the brief moments of lucidity when she was clearly terrified of the person she had become, or the longer moments of confusion when her memory failed her. It felt as if what made Rosemary Rosemary had already died and I feel bad that I couldn’t have been a better son to her in her final years. The staff at the home and my sisters were nothing short of heroic. My mum couldn’t have got better care and she insisted on carrying her Guardian around in her bag even though she no longer looked at the paper. It was her routine. She once mistook me for an MP; something that horrified me as much as it would them. Now we’ve lost her again. Her body has caught up with her mind. I thought I was ready for her death but I’ve been blindsided. I’m glad her suffering is over but I feel guilty about the conversations we never had. The conversations we couldn’t have. I love you, Mum.
Whisper it softly, but there may just have been a mutual falling out between Donald Trump and Nigel Farage. Assuming they were close in the first place. It seems to be The Donald who began the conscious uncoupling. In the past, Nige had always been keen to talk up his proximity to the US president – at one time he was even suggesting himself as the next ambassador to the US – but of late he’s gone quiet. Not even posting a photograph of the two of them together. Presumably because no such photos exist. Nige didn’t even get an invitation to the inauguration. Now Trump is in the White House, he’s got more important people to hang out with. Poor Nigel. All he gets to do is be a useful idiot on the fundraiser circuit. Or maybe not. Farage may be counting his blessings that he isn’t on such good terms. Trump’s fondness for Vladimir Putin isn’t exactly a vote winner.
Still, being dumped clearly still rankles. You could tell by his reaction to questions at a Reform press conference in central London this week. Farage got visibly tetchy when asked about Elon Musk’s suggestion that he was past it and that Rupert Lowe would make a better party leader. “Boring”, “Good”, he snapped, talking over the female journalist. There is only room for one prima donna in Reform and that’s Nigel. Which is why Lowe has had the whip suspended for alleged bullying behaviour. The press conference was also notable for Farage complaining that the media had not done more to investigate the behaviour of Reform supporters who he said had made Islamophobic and racist remarks about the party chair, Zia Yusuf. This must be the first time Nigel has admitted his party has a problem with racism. Perhaps he has forgotten that the Reform MP Lee Anderson was suspended from the Tory party for refusing to apologise for remarks about Sadiq Khan which the London mayor described as “Islamophobic, anti-Muslim and racist”.
Things get worse. We also found out this week that our much loved dog, Herbert Hound, has prostate cancer. We first noticed something was wrong at Christmas when he started peeing blood. But he responded well to antibiotics so we hoped it was just a urinary infection. Then, a couple of weeks ago, we saw that he appeared to be in pain and had trouble walking. This time, we hoped it might either be a recurrence of his cruciate ligament problems that healed themselves or that he had twisted his spine when jumping down from the sofa. But an ultrasound scan on Monday revealed the cancer. The treatment is now palliative. We believe his life to be measured in months, not years.
But we live in hope. He has responded so well to the antibiotics, anti-inflammatories and painkillers that sometimes he seems almost like his old self. Nagging to be taken out for walks, thrilled to see us and wolfing down his food. Today he even managed to jump up on the bed for the first time in ages. So perhaps we are being too pessimistic.
Herbie is 13 and a half years old and I like to think he chose us every bit as much as we chose him. When we went to visit the litter of cockapoo puppies in Essex all those years ago, he raced up to me, rolled over on to his back and demanded to have his tummy rubbed. He was irresistible then and he still is now. He has also led a full life. There aren’t many dogs that have had a book written about them – Taking the Lead – and he has just about forgiven me for trivialising his vital work in government over the past 10 years. But far more important than advising various prime ministers has been Herbie’s ability to give and receive love. The world is a far better place for him having been in it. We will continue to do whatever it takes to keep him comfortable and happy for as long as possible. May he die as well as he has lived.
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An email arrives informing me it is World Happiness Day. Forgive me for not feeling the joy. On top of everything going on at home we have a war going on in Ukraine, and Israel has resumed its bombardment of Gaza. Trump has discovered that ending hostilities isn’t quite as simple as concluding a business deal. Global diplomacy seemingly has its limits. Nor is there much happiness to be found in football. A Newcastle supporting friend who was on her way down to London for the Carabao Cup final last Sunday found herself behind the Spurs team bus on the M1. That explains a lot. Spurs were nowhere to be seen at Craven Cottage where they were supposed to be playing Fulham on the same day. We’ve given up trying in the Premier league and I’m committed to at least four more home games on my season ticket. Nor can I even get much pleasure from schadenfreude these days. It’s tempting to try to enjoy Elon Musk losing $100bn off the Tesla share price, except it’s clear he doesn’t care. He’s still got far more than he can possibly spend in a dozen life times and all he wants is attention. Which he gets in abundance.
Talking of having it all, the former Vanity Fair business feature writer Bryan Burrough has written a review of Graydon Carter’s memoir of his time editing the magazine in the Yale Review. In it, he describes just what it was like working for Vanity Fair. Burrough got paid $498,000 for six months’ work a year, writing just three 10,000-word articles. If his pieces got optioned for the movies, he collected the advance. Better still, he could put any catered dinner parties on expenses, as well as being given a present on his birthday. When travelling to London he was put up in a suite at Claridge’s. In Sydney, he had a view of the Opera House from his room in the Four Seasons. Understandably, Burrough says it is hard to be motivated to write for other magazines now he – and Carter – have left Vanity Fair. Now that’s a lifestyle I might be able to get behind.
During my recent holiday, I was invited to Adelaide in Australia to talk at their annual writers’ week. As you might have expected, it was a wonderful experience. Apart from the flights, which were brutal. But the chance to meet so many great writers, public intellectuals and politicians was unforgettable and the hospitality was out of this world. Great food and kindness everywhere. My only regret was that I never left the central business district as I had events every day. If I ever get the opportunity to return I will make sure I stay on for another few days – or longer – to explore beyond the city.
What made the festival more special was that almost every event was free. All the audience had to do was stroll down to the botanical gardens and show up. Because the weather is so nice, all events take place outside and there are no real constraints on numbers. Even though I’m hardly well known in Australia, I still got large crowds. Also, as well as having private commercial sponsors, the Adelaide festival gets substantial financial support from the state government. South Australia recognises there is huge value in its citizens taking part in an exchange of ideas and cultures. It wants people to go along regardless of their ability to pay. As far as I am aware, there is nothing like this on the UK circuit. Book festivals try to keep ticket prices as low as possible to encourage as many people as possible to come, but almost nothing is free. Talking of which, I am doing a sold-out show in Henley tonight. But there are still tickets for my events in Hedge End and Stowmarket next weekend, and at the Bloomsbury Theatre in London next month. Please do come.
Digested week: Mum has died and my dog has cancer. I skipped World Happiness Day | John Crace – The Guardian
