I am pretty good with crowds, although a super-spreading event would currently not be welcome. The only exception was when walking once to Stamford Bridge as a young teenager to see Chelsea, and being carried along with my feet barely touching the ground - slightly alarming.
There were crowds yesterday at Pride. For the first view I was on Charing Cross Road outside Wyndham's, waiting for a matinee performance of Life of Pi; further views came from the first floor window of the Circle Bar. If the gathering had been for an impending football match, the scene would have been of chaps, some with their tops off, standing outside pubs and chorusing gentle English folk songs. For Pride, it is all about parading, a joyous passeggiata up and down the streets before the concert that followed.
My vocabulary is not good enough to convey the exoticism of the costumes, but the attire IMHO is secondary to the atmosphere, with a bunch of people of all gender orientations celebrating the LGBT plus community, and apparently in record numbers given the disruptions of the last couple of years. Not even the flimsiest snowflake could be alarmed by the mass of bodies - I am not being soppy, but it was peace and harmony all round. And perhaps there was a mischievous thought that the most alpha of alpha males might have been freaked out by the scene - what fun, if that were so.
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Sadly there is a twist. Reports came through of factionalism within the LGBT community on how the Pride event was being run. But maybe that is just life.
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I am steering clear of party politics despite the interesting times this month. However, I cannot ignore the report of Nadine Dorries having submitted a Letter of No Intelligence. As far as is concerned the former Leader, I have written seriously about him before on this site, but suffice to say he would be much more fun, and far less dangerous, out of a position of political authority. For the moment, HIGNFY beckons?
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'Hello blue mask my old friend,
You've come to cover me again.
Because the virus has come creeping,
And reckless people might be caught sleeping,
So the vision that I recall in my brain,
Still remains,
Within the threat of Covid.'
Goodness, that is depressing. And it is still Covid 'low season'.
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The Women's Euros: It depends on how you like your football. For the sceptic there was something described as an England shot that looked like a firm back pass. But then there was the Norway game. Bags of ability, and perhaps we should all just get used to not seeing a 35 metre screamer into the back of the net. Anyway, as someone said did they not, it's a game of two halves my son, so far too early in the month for mature comment on the performance of the Lionesses.
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We were all getting excited about once again putting social and cultural commitments into our diaries. Now we have a new, or renewed depending on how old you are, species of entry, strike days.
Sadly it's 'renewed' for me. There was one years ago where all of London Underground went out. I walked from home in Crouch End to my office in Stratton Street near Green Park. One hour thirty minutes. In summer. In suit and tie, with inappropriate footwear of leather brogues. I am probably in better physical shape now than I was then. By the time I arrived I was near shaking and needed to sit down. But (more plucky Brit stuff) it was a case of don't let the b------s get you down.
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Next set of the Tory leadership contest, Tugenhardt to serve. Play. (Hope not Delphic)
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I am not averse to a touch of vocabulary diversity, but try to stay - unsuccessfully you might say - on the right side of pretentious moi. For the other side I offer you Will Self, who in an article I have just read produces for us 'tatterdemalion', meaning tattered, as in the clothes of a rough sleeper (or it could be done in noun form). As I stroll down to Kentish Town I must remember to exclaim to the chap you see most mornings sitting on a bench with his decanted bottle of Special Brew: 'I say my good man, you are looking exceptionally tatterdemalion this morning'. I'm sure he would be impressed.
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The Rolling Stones documentary is proving good fun, but I am certain that separated from birth are Keith Richard and Harold Bennett (who played Young Mr Grace in Are You Being Served and Mr Bluitt in Dad's Army). Mind you, I doubt if Mr Bennett could have riffed like Richard.
Having said that, I was saddened to see Michael Fish rolled out on Newsnight to talk about climate change and our heatwave (no mention of the 1987 storm). Mr Fish is the same age as Mick Jagger. Seriously.
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On this Euros business, I am vowing not to edit earlier text. So first of all, England v Spain = proper football match. And secondly England's winner might not have been quite from 35 yards, but it was a pretty good effort for a screamer.
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There is a cost of living crisis. But never fear. As respite from hearing about this, the Spectator Wine Club is offering four Winemaker lunches. Each is £110 per person, except for 'Hungarian feast at Boisdale of Belgravia', priced at a cheeky £150 per person. For the latter, in addition to the 'magnums of dry Firmint' (sounds like a descaler job) you get a live Hungarian gypsy band. And you get to eat in the presence of the Hungarian ambassador. Ooh er.
And you will be presented with a free copy of that day's Mail, Express and Telegraph in order to assist you in deciding whether to vote for Liz or Rishi - ok, I made that up.
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And before you ask whether I have done my bit on said crisis, why not join me and bung some money to the Food Bank Aid Summer School Holiday Appeal?
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Small postcard from Cheshire
A weekend away visiting friends. The village atmosphere: as a local you walk down the street or into a restaurant, and people say hello. Lovely.
And a walk, a four mile low tide trek out to and back from Hilbre Islands. This is not one for the agoraphobics. You march over an expanse of archipelago sand that stretches between the Mersey and Dee estuaries. Three successive islands. The furthest, and largest, contains a bird observatory. Looking across the Dee estuary you can pick out a seal colony . Enthusiastic volunteers give you the opportunity to view the seals through a telescope. You can pop some cash in a tin to help their work. Except no one carries cash now. Card machine? Well, no, and anyway the chance of a signal out here? The volunteers graciously said no problem on no contribution.
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Small postcard from Derbyshire
A mini-road trip, staying near the Chatsworth Estate. At Chatsworth House, two superb exhibitions for the price of one: 'Living with the Art We Love', and "Radical Perspectives, The Art of Burning Man'. Google for more information. I've always enjoyed the 'Pemberley' vista. In the sculpture court I asked what had happened to Mr d'Arcy's bust. I was told sniffily that it is now in the Gift Shop. Could not find it. Mr d'Arcy has been cancelled.
High standard of service in our hotel, and a dining room manager who graduated from the school of hyperbolic hospitality. Boundless enthusiasm, and everything you say responded to with a 'Thank you so much!'. This even extended to thanking an elderly guest so much for allowing his zimmer frame to be relocated from where it was blocking a route past tables. Hitting his stride, our chap exclaimed 'fantabuloso' when we agreed to look at the dessert menu.
But the apotheosis came when our friend declared that an unwelcome visitor (a fly) had landed in my companion's glass of wine. A new 175ml. glass of wine was produced. There was less than 175ml. in the previous glass. Result! (Oh the joy of little victories).
To be clear, Mr Hyperbole charmed us, and was dead efficient.
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England v Sweden. Goal 1 superb; Goal 4 pretty good (Swedish goalie could have dun better); Goals 2 and 3 - well, the goalkeeper could have dun something. Like moving. For Goal 2 a downward header poodled past players and nestled gently in the corner of the net. Ok, goalie was partially unsighted, but no excuse for being cemented to the ground. Goal 3 was indeed a cheeky backheel, but what I have understood from my armchair is that when the ball is in the box the goalie should be on stratospherically heightened alert and that nothing can be written off.
Is it coming home?
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Apparently the final of Love Island is imminent. Really.
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It was the underpaid Gary Lineker who coined the phrase:
'Football is a simple game. Twenty-two men chase a ball for 90 minutes, and at the end the Germans win.'
That may have applied to the men, but cannot now be applied to England's women. Strangely I enjoyed the Final as much for the competitiveness (aka tackles) as for the skill, and there was plenty of the latter,
When my daughters went to a girls only secondary school, team sports were limited to old faithfuls such as netball and hockey. My girls got their more serious exercise outside, notably with ice-skating. Any parent of a daughter will or should know the good feeling today of greater profile about to be given to football for girls.
And as to the Lionesses, there will be one cadre of advisers who amongst several will see the fee-earning opportunities coming up. Yep, it's the lawyers.....
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The author is a writer, speaker, historian, occasional tour guide, and former Managing Partner of a City law firm.