I’m an unashamed, 100 per cent copper-bottomed Londoner. It’s the greatest city on the planet and I’m happy to fight anyone who disagrees. In fact, if there’s such a thing as reincarnation, I would like to come back as an Oyster card (well that, or Taron Egerton’s bath towel). Let others suck on their country pleasures, I have found my joy amid the skyscrapers.
Knowing how magnificent it is here, I’ve been shocked over the past couple of years to see friends leave this grimy paradise to “begin again” in the countryside. Now I’m not including everyone who ditched London for the muddy places.
I’ve got some pals who were always basically countryside sorts — yes, they visited London for a few decades, but their hearts were always buried in a field somewhere. Eventually they went back to find them and it’s been wonderful to observe (like my gorgeous friend Katie, now living her best life in Somerset).
Nor do I mean those shiny plutocrats who buy cheeky little palaces an hour away from Mayfair by helicopter (btw, if that’s any of you, please get in touch — I’d love to come visit). No, I mean the ones who looked at London over lockdown and just chose to “have a go” at the countryside instead. Presumably they also discovered that a tiny London flat would get them something with a dozen fireplaces deep in the greeny bits and thought it made sense to swap.
They should have known better. Because what they forgot was “lockdown London” wouldn’t last forever. It was a unique and terrible town, created by necessity and quite different from the city we love. It existed for two years and now, fingers crossed, it has gone for good. But they’re still stuck out there. Yes, I know they might be able to see stars (overrated), and breathe air that isn’t equal parts smog and pigeon — but at what price?
Five hour round-trips to school, food deliveries thrown at them once a fortnight, gourmet pubs they can’t get into, and a two-week wait for a Bella Pasta or an overpriced Rick Stein hate crime. They have also got silage, whatever that is.
For this, they left behind a city where you can go to a dozen nightclubs before breakfast, swing by 20 different galleries by teatime, then take in a couple of operas before bed. Incredibly, even now that we’re out of the lockdown, some of them have doubled down — and even tried to tempt me to sell up and join them in their rural silliness. “Come commune with the trees,” they chant. “Come gaze upon the meadows.”
No thanks. If I want something green and fresh, I’ll just go to one of London’s billions of mind-blowing restaurants, and order myself a side salad.
In other news...
There’s an old joke I love. The first Jewish President is elected and — good boy that he is — he sits his mother in the front row for the inauguration. Half way through the ceremony she turns to the person beside her, points over at the new President and says: “You see my son up there?” The person nods back. “Well,” says the mother, “his brother is a doctor.”
I actually got a doctorate myself last week from the wonderful Southampton Solent University (yes, my mum was sitting in the audience) — so now it’s Doctor Rinder to one and all. It’s also given me a chance to have my photo in this column twice: one with the byline and one in my academic regalia (I’ll be wearing my robes around town from now on ...). It was a stunning day and an honour to speak to the new graduates. “Joy and purpose will come and grow from investing in work that replenishes you, that you feel authentically invested in,” I told them. “Some might say, by doing the work that you love.” Facing eye-watering debt and entering an ever-changing working world, I know this’ll be harder for them to achieve than ever before, but we’ve all got to support them as much as we can — doctor’s orders.
