Frances Wilson: Electric Spark – The Enigma of Muriel Spark
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Helen Garner praises Dua Lipa as ‘serious and sensitive' after musician adds Australian author to her book club
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Is Trump playing the same game as Nero?
Last week, in his jovial Spectator piece about Donald Trump's golf diplomacy, Patrick Kidd drew a comparison with the Roman emperor Nero, who adored chariot racing and was always deemed to have 'won', whether he crashed or not. He also raced a chariot drawn by four camels, but that was just the half of it. He was passionate about music, took lyre and singing lessons and kept his weight down with enemas and emetics. No one was allowed to leave while he performed. Women gave birth during his recitals, we are told, and people climbed out over the rear wall or shammed dead in order to be carried out. Whenever he performed, his claqueurs made sure the applause went on and on. The historian Tacitus tells us that people from out-of-town or the provinces, 'shocked at the outrageous spectacle, found that their unpractised hands were not up to the degrading task' and consequently disrupted the professional applauders. But the heavies moved in, and they were soon clapping away again. He made his singing debut in Naples, where he disregarded an earthquake to complete the performance (the theatre collapsed soon afterwards). In another competition, he performed the whole of the opera Niobe. This went on until nearly dusk and left no time for anyone else to compete. But feeling that Romans did not really appreciate his skills, he took himself off to Greece, where he was given a rapturous welcome wherever he went. He was sent in advance every prize they could lay their hands on (1,808 in all) which convinced him Greeks really understood about culture. So he relieved Greece of all taxes. All this made him wildly popular with the plebs at home and abroad, but despised by the elites, who were, of course, the ones who wrote up his life. Which brings us back to the Donald. His game, golf, rarely whips up crowds to meteoric emotional heights, but as the world-ruler (for that is the meaning of his name, from the Gaelic Domhnall) he does not seem to be especially good at it. Plenty of scope there for future historians to describe pros desperate not to play with him, or crowds to watch.
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How not to behave at a London gentleman's club
After a 5 a.m. start, I arrived at the departure gate in Nice airport to discover there was an air traffic control strike and my flight had been delayed by two hours. Annoyance gave way to relief when the board turned red and all later flights were cancelled. This was the week of the Spectator summer party and, because of work commitments and for reasons of economy, I was flying back at 5 p.m. the following day. I was packing a lot into those hours: on arrival a late lunch in Pimlico, where I was staying in a flat belonging to a friend, Kate, who was away; the party; a hungover breakfast with Will, The Spectator's features editor, the following morning; a solitary wander round the National Gallery and lunch with Martin Vander Weyer, before a dash back to the airport. But an hour before the party my return flight the following afternoon was cancelled. The first available seat on any airline was three days later. What was I going to do? No laptop, no notebook, no sketchpad, no money, no book even. No clothes either. All I'd brought was a change of outfit for the party: my poshest frock and daft pointy kitten-heeled shoes. For travelling I was wearing a long black Uniqlo dress and a lime-green Brora linen utility jacket. On my feet, a pair of silver-striped Adidas Sambas. I'd forgotten to wear or bring socks. At home in Provence during the summer I live in flip-flops or Teva sandals, but I'd read flip-flops are verboten in the city and didn't take any. London was tropical. With the new flight booked and with only minutes to spare, I rushed to get ready for the party and headed out. I was supposed to be meeting Wild Life columnist Aidan Hartley and his girlfriend in the pub for pre-drinks but missed them. Apart from the anxiety and shame of having, I think, inadvertently offended a Lord, the evening was a blast. I woke early next morning to a text: 'Where did you get to?' After I explained, Aidan told me he was having lunch at the Savile Club and would be lounging around smoking all afternoon and asked if I'd like to join him, adding that he'd buy me a cigar. I'd never been in a proper London club before. How could I refuse? But would they let me, a trainer-wearing, lower-middle-class former nurse with no university education, in? To save money I walked everywhere. It was hotter than Provence. On the way from Pimlico to breakfast in Old Queen Street, and then again en route to lunch after the National Gallery, I had to buy plasters. My youngest daughter said to me recently: 'Mum, you should stop reading the fashion pages of the Times, you know it only makes you miserable.' How right she was. I yearned for flip-flops. By mid-afternoon when I reached the club and rang the bell, my feet were bleeding. I smiled at the woman behind the reception desk, willing her not to notice my footwear, and, seeing Aidan with a book in the room beyond, scurried towards him. 'Come and see the portraits,' he said, taking me into a fine room, the walls of which were covered in sketches of past members. Old friends Rudyard Kipling, Thomas Hardy and W.B. Yeats were there; Robert Louis Stevenson too. I was overcome with an indescribable emotion – just the kind of thing which would be unwelcome in a gentleman's club. I declined the offer of a cigar but accepted a large gin and tonic. Outside on the shaded terrace groups of men sat drinking and smoking. I don't know what I expected but the ambience, well-dressed, flamboyant, conservative, and atmosphere of welcoming geniality surprised me. Everyone I met was genuinely charming and interesting. An older man in a beautiful pale-lemon linen jacket spoke to me in quiet kindly tones. The conversation turned to books. Both of the younger men I met had read a favourite of mine, The Rock Pool by Cyril Connolly. Too soon, and many drinks later, Aidan had to leave for a dinner. I said I'd leave too – I'd been out for 12 hours already – but the group urged me to stay and swept me into dinner. Afterwards my young host took me to see the ballroom and, pointing, told me he'd seen a photograph of his mother in that fireplace, where she'd fallen asleep smoking a cigar. It was midnight by the time I got back. The following day was a write-off; the fear, that awful feeling of dread, compounded by headache and nausea. Blisters prevented me from putting shoes on. Instead of visiting the Tate, I lay in bed reading a book I found on a shelf: A.N. Wilson's The Sweets of Pimlico, a dark comic tale of intergenerational love, homosexuality, consensual incest, an IRA bomb and a large inheritance. It preserved my sanity. Lovely books. I left the flat for the airport at four the next morning. The Uber driver asked what I did. 'What do you package your paintings in?' he said. 'If needed, paper bubble wrap and an old cardboard box. Or maybe a towel.' 'No, no. You must buy luxury top-end packaging. I make art on my computer and sell special prints to billionaires. My boxes cost £5,000 each.' London was fabulous, but suddenly I was glad to be going home to the cave.
