I suffered one day of hangover and three of illness following my debauchery at the New Statesman election party. I more or less behaved myself; at no point over the next few days did I cower under my duvet, groaning, as I remembered some outrage performed by myself. I might have been a little indiscreet in my anecdotes, especially about the friend who turned up with a “VOTE CORBYN” sticker on her handbag, but then she had it coming. I chatted with slight awkwardness to Quentin Letts, recalling that two days before, I had tweeted: “The only funny thing about Quentin Letts is that he thinks he is funny”; I told him I had known his uncle, which seemed to soothe him. The editor of this magazine mentioned me in his opening speech, but I was five minutes late to the kick-off and missed it. I remember thinking that these things never start on time. As it turned out, the timing was of military precision that day, which bodes well, I suppose; none of that Tory chaos any more.
The Mail Online published an “experts” guide for those seeking to flee the Starmer administration, suggesting countries it believes are suitable for emigration, the majority of which are in Europe. I wonder if they are doing this on purpose, much in the same way that many wondered if the ineptitude of the Tory campaign was, for some reason, deliberate. But then one of the right’s most characteristic failings these days has been an almost surreal lack of self-awareness.
I do regret missing my mention, though; the evening also included speeches by David Lammy and Sadiq Khan, so it was like having a seat at the side-table of history. I imagine the pair of them, when my name came up, furrowing their brows and going, “Who?” I think I gushed a bit over Tracey Thorn, but then she’s a pop star, she’s used to it. The rest of the evening was spent waiting on forlorn platforms at Blackfriars and Three Bridges; many rail workers had decided to stay up to watch Liz Truss and Jacob Rees-Mogg lose their seats. I can hardly blame them, but they could have warned us. In the end, I didn’t get back into the Hove-l until after 3am. The platforms were damp and there was a chill in the air; maybe this was why I got sick.
During my illness I had my first Keir Starmer dream. During their tenures, my sleeping mind was invaded by those two bloated monsters of the id, Donald Trump and Boris Johnson. I would wake from sleep unrefreshed and full of loathing. My Starmer dream was much nicer; I was now part of his team, and my chief purpose seemed to be to make him laugh and do some cooking for him. You will be pleased to hear that in my subconscious at least, Starmer is much less buttoned-up than he is in front of the cameras, though my cooking was not entirely successful. Sir Keir gave me some advice which I was too polite to say I had worked out for myself already; the dish was unsalvageable, although it would have been tasty enough. I woke up feeling far better in spirit, if not in body, than after my evening with the Bloated Ones.
And so now to London, once I have finished writing this. It will not have escaped my editor’s notice that I am, for the second time in three weeks, filing a day early; I hope he is sitting down. I am leaving Brighton on Tuesday so I can stay at my brother’s and get to Lord’s in time for what – depending on the toss and the weather, will be James Anderson’s final opening spell as an England Test bowler. I cannot tell you how emotional this is for me, and for many thousands of others. Lord’s does not do emotion – until it does. The Pavilion exploded with rage after Jonny Bairstow’s stumping in the Ashes last year; a member smashed the glass on the case containing WG Grace’s bat and ran amok, knocking out the Australian wicketkeeper’s front teeth. I have completely made this up. But it was close; damned close. This time the emotion will be strong, but bittersweet; the crowd’s lagers and champagnes will be salted with their tears. (Incidentally, I recall that last week I ended with the suggestion that there had been some strain between my late father and myself; nothing could be further from the truth. He put me and my brother down for MCC membership at birth, and this is one of many things I will always love him for.)
But before I go to London, I have to stop off at Gatwick, to deliver more cash to my friend B—, now in his second week of being stuck at the arrivals lounge of the airport. Having paid my brother back the money I owe him, I am no longer in funds, and so will hand over the crowd-funded cash to him over the train ticket barrier, so I don’t have to buy an extra ticket. It amazes me that someone can be so mistreated by fortune, and by society. I hope very much that by the time you read this, he has found some temporary accommodation at least. The arrivals lounge at Gatwick is a seatless, unlovely space, designed to make people uncomfortable. As for housing, it is too early for Sir Keir to fix it, but I am pretty sure his team, even without my help, is working on it.
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This article appears in the 17 Jul 2024 issue of the New Statesman, The American Berserk