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New Statesman
a day ago
- Entertainment
- New Statesman
Rosés to share in the sun, CabFranc on the go, and a Malbec not to be wasted on a stag do
Illustration by Charlotte Trounce I f you walk down Hatton Garden in central London, you will encounter a slew of jewellery shops, a Pret, one Dickensian pub down an alleyway. You might also witness the occasional brawl, the semi-regular police horse appearance, and the offshoots of the hectic food market one road over. If you are lucky you will also spot some bookish types scuttling along the pavement, almost certainly on their way to work in the NS offices. It was a rare treat, in recent weeks, to have some great wine to share with the aforementioned bookish types. First, thank you to the jauntily named Yapp Brothers for sending over six bottles for us to try. In a feat of modesty and temperance, the case sustained the NS for the best part of two weeks. One languid Friday and the atmosphere on Hatton Garden was like a Tennyson play – stifling, on edge, soporific. It felt only right to decant the 2024 house rosé into tumblers and hand them out in the office. It had been chilling since the morning and was a nice colour, not exactly pale but thankfully not lurid Ribena either – a fairly standard Grenache and Merlot blend. Rosé, more than its red and white counterparts, is a context-dependent beast. Just how fish and chips are best enjoyed in view of the sea (rather than under a bridge on the M25, say), rosé should be enjoyed as an aperitif sur la terrasse along the Mediterranean. Well, how about in a fluorescently lit office in Farringdon with an NS associate editor, commissioning editor and business editor? No match for the romance afforded by the vesperal light of the French Riviera… but we thought it worked great: light, unobtrusive, red fruits with an ever-so-barely-there touch of minerality. Keeping rosé on ice on a sunny Friday isn't standard procedure here. But maybe it should be. Later, we found ourselves on the Central Line on our way to east London for drinks in a colleague's garden (how collegiate!). Stuffed in one bag was the Domaine des Oullières 'Harmonie' Blanc 2024, a Provence white enjoyed as we perched on garden furniture in the sun (a fate unfortunately denied to the rosé). This is a Vermentino heavy blend (Sauvignon Blanc makes up the rest). It's good, not particularly light but fragrant and… was that fennel? The real heads will tell you something like this is best served with seafood. I found it just as successful with takeaway pizza. High, low, and all that. Also stowed in our bags was the 2021 Château Fouquet from Saumur, pure Cabernet Franc and – as the merchants recommend – better enjoyed CHARLOTTE TROUNCE with a bit of age. Cab Franc has a tendency towards the vegetal. But no such problems here. Meanwhile, we had packed another NS staffer off to a stag do in Brighton that evening, screw-top Malbec in hand (touch of class…). It came with good reviews, in the only way a Malbec like that can come with good reviews: jammy, uncomplicated, probably good for a stag do. Fast-forward a few days and I received a wonderful text from the arts desk at 7pm on a Tuesday. 'Is there wine here and can we have it,' they wrote to me, before promptly following up with a simple: 'It's urgent.' I have good news for you, arts desk: yes… and yes! They picked out a 2021 Côtes du Rhône and sent me the tasting notes over WhatsApp: peppery, woody, spicy. This is just as you might expect from a wine with this spec. And they told me it was delicious, just as you might expect from a wine with this spec. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe At some point in 2023 – bear with me – something strange happened: a sweet, pale green leafy vegetable by the name of hispi cabbage took over every menu in town. And almost out of nowhere, hispi was general all over London. I contend that viniculture's hispi counterpart is Picpoul de Pinet: it burst on the scene and asserted itself on the wine lists of London's middlebrow restaurants with great, almost admirable, force. It's ubiquitous: few can explain why. But what I can tell you is that the Picpoul in this case is a very good example of the form: citrussy, saline, easy going. And so, there is the New Statesman's editorial staff's whistlestop tour through this selection. Good for parties in the garden, urgent office emergencies, slow and hot Fridays on Hatton Garden, stag dos in Brighton. I think the word for that is versatile. By Finn McRedmond Take advantage of offers on these wines and more, exclusively available to New Statesman readers, by ordering online today. Related
New Statesman
6 days ago
- Business
- New Statesman
What cash effectively gives us is the freedom to lose money
Illustration by Charlotte Trounce On a quiet high street in Devon, outside a boarded-up M&S, I stopped to speak to two men who had obviously spent some time going down certain digital rabbit-holes. One was stood in front of a hand-made flag that declared: 'CO2 is the gas of life, stop net zero.' The other was stood in front of a bigger, printed banner from which a huge pair of reptilian eyes, surrounded by ones and zeroes, peered out. 'Cash is freedom,' declared this banner. The man in front of it informed me that he was there to warn the public about the dangers of central-bank digital currencies. Both men were to a great extent right. Carbon dioxide is the gas of life, if you're a plant or an animal that relies on plants, which we all do. If net zero was a plan to remove all CO2 from the atmosphere, that would be terrible, but it isn't. My attempt to explain this immediately marked me out as an agent of the Deep State, so I turned quickly to the other banner. I also agreed with this one. Central-bank digital currencies – the idea of a digital 'Britcoin'– are not a great idea, in my opinion. And it is true that cash is freedom, in that one of the more important things to do with your personal finances is to hold a cash buffer. The ONS says that 29 per cent of UK adults would not be able to meet an unexpected expense of £850, which means nearly a third of adults are one piece of bad luck away from going into potentially problematic debt. A savings account with enough to cover three months of bills could make a huge difference if you need it. If you haven't done this already, one of the best places to start is in a 'regular savings' account. High-street banks offer these as a kind of bribe: take out a current account and you can also pay up to £400 a month into an account that will pay out six or seven per cent interest at the end of the year (so you might get about £150 in interest). There are strong incentives to save: the fact that you can only pay in a certain amount every month, as well as the high interest rate for what you build up. Beyond the emergency pot, however, cash costs you money. In April, British savers paid into cash ISAs at the highest rate on record, collectively saving £14bn in a single month. But this is not as prudent as it seems. Duncan Lamont, head of strategic research at Schroders, recently calculated the money that British savers have lost by putting their funds into cash ISAs rather than making investments we might think of as having more risk, such as company shares. His conclusion is brutal. Between 2013 and 2023, British people put £436bn into cash ISAs. Earning the average interest rate on an instant-access cash ISA, that pile would now have grown to £479bn. Invested in an index of company shares from around the world, it would have grown to more than £1trn. Lamont estimates UK savers may have missed out on as much as £541bn in returns over a ten-year period. That would have produced higher spending, more investment in British companies, more jobs, more growth. This is a risk we don't talk about enough with regard to money – the risk of doing nothing. Many people save into an ISA because it's 'tax free', which sounds great, but the tax on your savings income is not as important as the income itself. For many ISA holders, especially younger people with small amounts of money built up, there is no tax benefit at all (the first £1,000 of saving interest is already tax free if you're a basic-rate taxpayer). Rachel Reeves has said that while she wants to keep the £20,000-a-year allowance for the amount people can save in an ISA, she wants to push people towards stocks and shares ISAs rather than holding cash. There is a good chance she will make this part of her autumn Budget, and the potential rewards are significant. But cash has become a culture-war issue. There is no guarantee that a sensible policy will be enough to convince the banner blokes. [See also: Can John Healey really afford to go to war?] Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe Related This article appears in the 04 Jun 2025 issue of the New Statesman, The Housing Trap
New Statesman
6 days ago
- Entertainment
- New Statesman
The Premier League season is over. Who's up, who's down and who had the best haircut?
Illustration by Charlotte Trounce With no Premier League football cluttering up the back pages, the papers can now devote themselves entirely to tennis, cricket and, if necessary, backgammon. But the season isn't truly over, of course, until we've looked back on its highlights, surprises and oddities… Well done to Chelsea for waking up at the end of the season and wining a Euro pot, or whatever it was. High fives to Spurs for finishing a magnificent 17th in the Prem, one place above the drop. And also winning a Euro pot. I am currently living on an 1898 Dutch barge on the Isle of Wight and my wi-fi is rubbish, but I did manage to see most of their incredible victory in the European Milk Trophy. I was immediately dancing on the deck. The whole team should get knighthoods in the summer honours and the manager be made a lord. Hold on, are there any Brits among them? Well, that saves in paperwork and medals. Hard cheese to Cole Palmer on a poor season. Bound to happen, after all the plaudits last year. But my heart mostly goes out to Garnacho of Man United. Everything seemed to have gone wrong, the manager stopped picking him, so he wants to get away. Poor lad. I know what it is like not to be wanted. It was early this season I was dropped by the Sunday Times Money pages after 25 years at the coalface. Rotters. Friends said you have had a good run, getting away with it all these years, and I said piss off: I wanted to carry on. But breaking news. Have just had two new books commissioned. So come on Alejandro. Chin up. Something good is round the corner. Perhaps all-conquering, totally fab Spurs will want to sign you. Also sympathies for Kevin De Bruyne, let go before he was ready to let go. He has done brilliantly at Man City all these years, and yet Pep has said thanks and goodbye. What is happening there? Phil Foden is also in the doldrums and Grealish is beginning to look hang-dog. Is Pep taking it out on them because by his standards he has had a poor season? Oh, it's hard being a top footballer at a top team. You have further to fall. Best crowd chants. Definitely the Bournemouth fans calling Man City 'The Dirty Northern Bastards'. Having been brought up in Carlisle, I see Manchester as the Deep South. Are 'Dirty, Northern and Bastards' terms of abuse these days? I did also laugh when the Arsenal fans, watching their team stuffing Real Madrid 3-0, sang, 'Are you Tottenham in disguise?' Fave commentator. Still the wonderful Ally McCoist. He really is, he really is, what I will say, what I will say, he really is my fave, tell you what though, that was a smashing comment, that really was, I have to say… Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe Farewell then, Gary Lineker. You did good. Though having Alan Shearer beside you must have helped make you look more human. Shearer is so obvious and laborious and humourless with the personality of a speak-your-weight machine. So yes, Gary, I will miss you. Change of mind. I now like Fernandes of Man United. For so long I disliked his bad temper, playing for free kicks, his relentless complaining, all that waving and pointing his finger. Now I realise he is by far Man United's best player, holding them together. They, like Spurs, have had a rubbish season, but at least Man United have a captain figure, who leads the lads. Spurs have no captain figure, now that Son is fading, alas. Best hair. Who can it be? The razor marks have rather disappeared, long hair gone, no skinheads – what do they now do in the afternoons after training? Come on, get a grip, by which I mean a kirby grip. Remember them? So the best hair award goes to Garnacho. He has kept his bleached, beach-boy blond hair, regardless of all the annoyances in his life. Next up: the Club World Cup in the US featuring the world's top 32 clubs, all of them knackered, having played too many games. Will the greed of Fifa and Uefa eventually kill the golden goose? And then… It is the Women's Euros this summer. Mary Earps has retired and Millie Bright has pulled out, but come on, Lionesses, cheer us all up… [See also: Is Labour's football regulator already falling apart?] Related This article appears in the 04 Jun 2025 issue of the New Statesman, The Housing Trap
New Statesman
22-05-2025
- Health
- New Statesman
Life at home is a delicate balance
Illustration by Charlotte Trounce Infirmity is a great test of love. I don't want to go on and on about my bad back – which is thankfully now on the mend after some intensive physio – but God the last few weeks have been hard. And not just on me. It's a reminder of how quickly the dynamic of a relationship can change; how delicate is the balancing act which keeps things smooth or rocky. Like many households, we have a division of labour, and it suits both of us. Ben's the driver, I'm the cook. He does the bills, I do the garden. We both share the bins. While I've been out of action Ben has had to take over everything, sometimes with me in a supervising role. I think in many ways it's the supervising that brings the most stress. Hovering over someone's shoulder while they try to cook something you've cooked a million times is not the ideal way to spend an evening. That's not to say it hasn't sometimes been funny; for instance, this weekend when we decided to liven up the garden. We ordered some new plants online, but the flowerbeds had to be cleared. Unable to bend over, I stood, rigid and upright, wielding a long bamboo cane, pointing regally at individual plants and declaring 'weed' or 'not a weed'. Ben accordingly pulled things out. But then I went and sat indoors, feeling useless and disconsolate. It's one of the hardest things about being the patient – the lack of independence and agency. Days are very long when you can't move enough to fill the time. I'm someone who enjoys reading and writing and watching films, but I'm also used to looking after myself, to getting things done. I've been lucky to have Ben looking after me, and can't imagine how I would have coped on my own. But needing help in the shower, and being unable to put shoes on, or make a cup of tea – it's astonishing how quickly you can feel old and helpless. And very lonely. I was reminded of the lockdown isolation, and how it wasn't so much the absence of close friends and family – all of whom were available on the phone or a Zoom call – but the casual everyday contacts we barely notice, which made life so hard. The waiter in my local café, and the man in the bakery, and that lady with the dog I pass every day on my walk – I don't know any of their names, but I've really missed them. Anyway, I'm hoping that by the time this goes to print I will have seen them all again. Far later than I should have done, I went to see a physio. After an hour on his table I could have married him. In many ways it was a gruelling hour, as his hands sought out the exact tender places around my spine, pressing hard just where it hurt. But it was that kind of pain that is suffused with relief and the knowledge that it is helping. I left his room – strapped up with rock tape like I was about to step out to the Wimbledon final – feeling better than I had in weeks. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe Back at home I said to Ben that he was fine to go out that evening, as he had tickets for a gig. I'm sure he was very relieved to escape. It is draining having to do everything, while also worrying about someone. We've both tried to remain stoical, but there have been snappy moments with each other. And sometimes I've felt that I couldn't possibly ask for any more to be done for me, it would be too much. I can see how you start to feel like a drag, wearing the other person down. The unexpected side effect of all this is that Ben seems to have fallen in love with gardening. As I sit and write this, I can hear him out there sweeping up after planting yet more pots, all of his own volition. He has drawn a plan of the garden and is learning what everything is called. This might be the start of something, who knows. [See also: Not in my name] Related This article appears in the 21 May 2025 issue of the New Statesman, Britain's Child Poverty Epidemic
New Statesman
14-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New Statesman
Why I'm falling for East 17
Illustration by Charlotte Trounce We seem to have chosen just the right moment to move to Walthamstow. The week before we got the keys to our new flat at the end of August last year, the area's only cinema – closed since the previous summer – reopened under new ownership. Next, in March, the Times named E17 the best place to live in London. Getting 'Stay Another Day' stuck in my head every time I write my postcode seems a fair price to pay for such heights. Then, last Friday, the new outpost of Soho Theatre, the confusingly named Soho Theatre Walthamstow, opened. It's not often that a PR invite lands in my inbox that I actually want to say yes to, but a long-anticipated opening night a ten-minute walk from my flat? It was an easy yes. The site has been a cultural landmark since 1887, when a Victorian music hall opened there. The building that now exists opened in 1929 as a cinema, and was often frequented by Alfred Hitchcock, who was born in the borough (though too late, sadly, for William Morris, our other famous alumnus). Later, it operated as a music venue, hosting the Beatles, the Who, the Rolling Stones and Buddy Holly. In 2003 the building was bought by the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God, but they were unable to get planning permission, and it fell into disrepair. Various groups campaigned for it to be restored and reopened as an arts venue, and in 2018 the council acquired it and announced that Soho Theatre would operate it. We missed all these years of hard work by local activists, swanning in at the last-minute for the rewarding part. But still, seeing the buzz on the street on opening night, I felt pride for my little corner of London. For our first six months of living in the area, the theatre was boarded up and, save for the odd glimpse through a door left open by a workman, we had no idea what lay behind. As it turns out, what lay behind was an opulent baroque theatre, which, at 1,000 seats, proffers a new sort of comedy venue for the capital: far bigger than Soho Theatre's Dean Street home, but far smaller the Hammersmith Apollo. The opening-night show, Weer by the LA comedian Natalie Palamides, is a piss-take of Nineties comedies, in which Palamides plays both on-off lovers over the course of their three-year relationship. When her right-hand side faces the audience she is Mark, with a plaid shirt and a brooooooo-ish drawl; her left is Christina, in alarmingly low-rise jeans and a G-string pulled up to her waist. It's an extraordinary feat of physical comedy; Palamides, at various points, runs into herself, snogs herself, tries to revive herself after a car crash. It's clownish, explicit, and fearless. There are a lot of in-jokes – knowing nods to the duality of the performance; references to Notting Hill and The Notebook – and some truly hilarious audience participation (though perhaps I'd feel differently had I been called upon to pretend to dance in a club on stage). Those roped in are generally good sports, though Palamides has to petition three audience members before one will deliver the traditional 'discovering he's cheating' voicemail. I am all ready to go, should the mic be pointed in my direction: 'Hey baby, I had so much fun last night. You left your pants behind…' There's also a lot of nakedness; I keep waiting to get used to the fact that Palamides has her boobs out for a considerable chunk of the show, but the moment never comes. After a high-energy 80 or so minutes, Palamides gives an emotional thank you and the whole room stands to applaud, and I find myself moved that this space could mean so much to so many, as I often am by collective demonstrations of emotion. I never really wanted to move to Walthamstow – leaving Islington was a financial necessity more than anything. But I'm getting to know it, growing to love it, more each day. Here's hoping those drawn out to the end of the Victoria Line by our very own Soho Theatre don't feel the same, because house prices are bad enough as it is. [See also: The solitary life of bees] Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe Related
