Monday
A recent YouGov poll found that just 15% of the population are enthusiastic about the coronation, with more than 50% not interested. I am somewhere in between: I’m a republican at heart but as this may be the only coronation I get to see in my lifetime, it would be a shame to miss it. So I’ve put myself on “coronation watch” for the next few weeks to pick out all the trivia you don’t need to enjoy the occasion. It could be right up there with Prince Edward’s royal It’s a Knockout.
Obviously, Meghan’s decision not to go has caused a bit of a dampener for many tabloid pundits, who were hoping to blame her for anything that might go wrong on the day. All eyes will now be on Prince Harry. If the cameras catch him looking anything less than totally engaged and brimming with devotion for his father, he can expect to get it in the neck. Otherwise, much of the buildup has been about those who haven’t got an invitation. Fergie has been photographed looking glum. Desolate that she is NFI’d. Though this seems unlikely. Why should the long since ex-wife of a brother who is more trouble than he’s worth make it on to the list? Much more likely Fergie was just having a bad day.
Various dukes have been moaning that they, too, have not made the cut. Even though they’ve had nothing to do with the king, they seem to think it won’t be a proper coronation without them. As do those cabinet ministers who are outraged they aren’t allowed to bring a “plus one”. Maybe if they feel that strongly about spending a couple of hours without their partners they should just not go. They won’t be missed.
Then there is the excitement of the coronation concert. Or not. It’s hard to imagine a blander, more middle-of-the road lineup than Take That, Lionel Richie and Katy Perry. Imagine if Glastonbury announced them as their headline acts. People would be begging for their money back. It’s a concert for those who don’t like music. At the very least, they could have had Queen. They turn out for every royal gig. Or Cliff Richard. Though I suppose Elton John was out of the question, as he played Princess Diana’s funeral. Such things do not get forgotten.
Tuesday
We are often told we live in an instant gratification society, where people can no longer tolerate waiting for anything. I’d suggest the experience of most football fans rather proves that deferred gratification still has its place. Unless you are a Manchester City supporter, then waiting for success is the norm. Or rather, fans have to learn to fool themselves by recalibrating what success means. Getting into the Champions League. Avoiding relegation. Finishing higher than a rival team. These are the benchmarks I’ve used as a Spurs fan for more than 50 years.
Other fans will have their own ways of marking success. But right now, it feels harder than ever to kid myself that all is well in my football psyche. I find myself almost hoping that Spurs completely implode for the rest of the season. At least that way, no one can gloss over just how dismal the football has become in the past few years and maybe, just maybe, something will change. As it is, we have a team that is clueless and rudderless, and a board that just doesn’t seem that bothered so long as the money keeps coming in.
Two weeks ago, I received an email inviting me to renew my season ticket. The club moaned of rising costs but said on balance it wouldn’t be raising prices. Now was not a good time for Spurs to encourage fans if they were getting value for money. Normally I may dither a bit about renewing, but the decision is never really in doubt. But this year I had serious thoughts about letting my season ticket go. Would I really miss yet another season of drab football, losing to lower-ranked teams who were prepared to work harder than us? Would I miss the grumpy mile and a half walk back down the Tottenham High Road to Seven Sisters tube station?
Apparently I would. Because this weekend I did renew. Almost as if I were fearful that if I left it any longer then I may not. I am a creature of habit after all. “It could be different next year,” my friend and fellow season ticket holder Matthew reminded me. He’s right. It could be even worse. Which, in a bleak way, may be more fun.
Wednesday
Rishi Sunak marked the end of the two-week Easter recess with a trip to north London to announce a new maths initiative. It was an odd choice of topic. All governments eventually get round to saying they are going to do something about maths education – spoiler: nothing ever gets done – but they usually wait until everything else is quiet. You may have expected the prime minister to have broken his silence on public sector strikes, high inflation, small boats or low productivity.
Still, even if Sunak has not thought through the solution – the sticking point isn’t that pupils are not studying maths until they are 18: it’s that a third of students fail GCSE maths and there aren’t enough specialist teachers to go round. Most people with a maths degree would rather earn big bucks elsewhere than go back to the classroom to teach. He is right to want to tackle the issue – because the UK does have a problem with maths.
Twenty-five years ago, I was a feature writer on this paper’s education section and was sent to a school to interview a teacher about why maths attainment levels were so low. I jokingly began our conversation by saying I had scraped an O-level in maths in the 1970s and wasn’t much good at the subject. He picked me up on this. Why was I so happy to be thought crap at maths? I wouldn’t have boasted to an English teacher that I could barely read.
That resonated with me and ever since I’ve been irritated by the gaps in my maths education. Almost ashamed. I mean, I can get by. I understand percentages and have – more or less – a decent enough understanding of statistics to know when someone is talking bullshit, but I would like to know more. Which is why I have decided that when I retire, I plan to see if I can manage to pass a maths A-level. I want to find out if I’m genuinely a bit crap at maths or if I was badly taught. I suspect this project may involve me having to start by retaking my maths GCSE as I don’t know what I have forgotten or never knew, and I have long since forgotten how to solve simultaneous equations, use logarithms or work out friction. Wish me luck.
Thursday
With its own background involvement in the history of the Reformation, Southwark Cathedral was the perfect venue for the celebration of the life of Hilary Mantel, who died too early last year. But what a send-off she was given. We got a glimpse of what we have lost with a reading from the unfinished novel she had been writing at the time of her death. Like all her books, Provocation grabbed you by the throat and wouldn’t let you go. It’s a Jane Austen mashup, written through the eyes of Mary, one of the less celebrated Bennet sisters. Safe to say that in the extract we heard, Mr Darcy did not emerge well. He was commended for his “gentlemanly stupidity”. Harsh but fair.
In other readings and reminiscences, we learned much of her early life from her oldest friend, Anne Preston, and of her talent, humour, and fascination with the supernatural. Life as an unquiet shadow, novels as the ghosts of books the author wanted to write, and writing as the quest for the otherness of things. Nicholas Pearson, who, as her editor for more than 20 years, probably knew her as well as most, spoke tenderly of her love of journalism. Especially the clergy appointments.
In her last Spectator film review in the 80s, she thanked readers for their letters. The compliments had slightly outweighed the abuse, she observed. It was a moving, yet somehow joyous occasion. Most of us will soon be forgotten by almost everyone once we die. Hilary will have a long afterlife.
As, I hope, will Jeremy Clarke. For those who haven’t heard of him, he writes the Low Life column in the Spectator. For years, Clarke has had prostate cancer and is now near death. His writing is unsparing, unsentimental but so, so human. Unbearable pain is found in the same sentence as unbearable beauty. A lesson in both how to live and how to die. A gift from a man hovering close to the other side. Read him while you can.
Friday
It is becoming increasingly difficult to know where the Murdochs end and the fictional Roys of Succession begin. Just a few weeks ago we learned from a Vanity Fair article that Rupert Murdoch chose to end his marriage to Jerry Hall by email. How do you imagine that went? “Dear Jerry, It’s not me, it’s you. You’re just too old for me now.” Rupert also went on to insist as part of the divorce settlement that Jerry didn’t give any storylines to the Succession writing team.
Possibly a bit late for that. This week, Murdoch’s Fox News settled for $787m (£635m) in a defamation libel case with Dominion Voting Systems just as the case was about to begin in court. Presumably, Murdoch decided this was the cheaper, less embarrassing option than exposing in front of a jury, and the media, the lies his news organisation had told about the 2020 presidential election. Perhaps also, Rupert would pay anything not to have to give evidence in person. He had tried to excuse himself from court by suggesting he was just a doddery 92-year-old who didn’t really know what he was doing. The judge was unimpressed. After all, Murdoch had just ended one marriage and at the time was planning to start another. But he didn’t. Perhaps he needed to save money for the Dominion settlement. But then, the mega-rich are another country.
Also this week, we learned that Bernard Arnault, the chair of the luxury goods giant LMVH worth £385bn, plots his succession by inviting his five children to lunch each month and asking them to compete with one another over ideas for the future of the company. And they all just go along with it, because they are greedy and don’t have the self-worth to say no. I’d like to think that if he were my dad, I’d tell him to sod off. I value my relationships with my siblings too much. But I guess that much money corrupts the soul.
• This article was amended on 23 April 2023. An earlier version incorrectly referred to the Price and Prejudice character Mr Darcy as “Mark Darcy”.
