T here is sadness for the eminent physicist Professor Stephen Hawking.
Troubled and bothered by many anxieties lately — not least a public family schism over allegations, which he denies, that he has suffered physical abuse — he has decided to give up hot air ballooning for good. An announcement on Prof. Hawking's website, www.hawking.org.uk, seeks wheelchair-bound would-be balloonists (presumably) to take his specially adapted balloon basket off his hands. 'Professor Hawking is currently interested in selling his hot air balloon basket, especially designed by experts for wheelchair access,' he says. 'This very special item is in excellent condition and ready to use.' A set of photographs confirm said wicker sky-chariot to be a handsome piece of kit indeed. The basket — a birthday present from Mrs Hawking, interestingly — has been used only once, and is on offer at £5,000, half its original cost.
To that agreeable Cotswold greasy spoon. 1 Le Manoir Aux Quat' Saisons, for a bite to eat with Raymond Blanc and guests. M. Blanc is hosting a conference, as it happens, on the American Food Revolution, and has invited all manner of high-powered hamburger-flippers to join us. The odd interesting snippet emerges. One bigshot Las Vegas restaurateur, for example, recalls organising a party for the boxer Lennox Lewis. 'Does he have a palate?' he's asked. 'Yeah. He likes his food. And drink. I've only ever seen him drink Cristal. At one party in Vegas he and his guests drank $65,000 of Cristal in about an hour and a half.' Interlocutor (very American, this): 165,000 of Cristal? He tip good on that?'
Also, a plea on behalf of the charming superstar pastry chef Gale Gand. When living in England many years ago, Ms Gand brought back to the States with her a red Patterdale terrier puppy which she named `Rooty*, after root beer, the American food she most craved. Now she runs her own root beer company, and Rooty's image adorns the labels on the bottles. But Rooty is getting on a bit, and Ms Gand is seeking a replacement. If any readers have a litter of Patterdale puppies, I'd be glad to help put them in touch.
The Prime Minister became a hero to his children, if not to his valet, by appearing on The Sirnpsons. So why no appearance, so far, by a yellow threefingered George Bush? The show's co
executive producer, Tim Long, explains it thus: 'With Clinton, you had the realestate scam, and the [vulgar term referring to the sex scandal]. He was a gift from the comedy gods. With Bush, the atmosphere is much more serious. And he's this cleanliving guy. Some people love him and some hate him, but it's hard to get a comedic toehold on him, coming after the greatest comedy president in the last 100 years.'
What do you mean you're sick to death of Posh 'n' Becks? Poppycock. Look at those luvverly photographs this week, showing the world's most famous adulterer festooned with necklaces of . . blow me . . . they're rosary beads! Very fashionable. A Roman Catholic friend, in faint irritation, reminds me of a joke once told by Alice Thomas Ellis, this week's diarist. Man walks into jeweller, asks: 'Have you got any crosses?' Jeweller: 'Sure. How about this
one?' Man: Nah. That's not quite right. Got any others?' Jeweller obliges. Man hums and haws. Jeweller tries again. `Nah. Sony. Not quite my style, know what I mean?' the man concludes. 'Haven't you got one of them ones with. y'know, a little bloke stuck to it?'
Wonderful news for Europe! Michael Moorcock, the brilliant anarchosyndicalist science-fiction writer, is planning his escape from Bastrop, Texas, where he has lived for the past ten years. 'A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do,' he informs this rodent. It's not that I dislike Texans. Texans are great. Even the Mexicans in Texas are turning against George Bush.' But there are aspects of the state that persuade him that the US is not always a nice place for human beings. 'Not long ago the local drunk tried to throw a brick through the window of a general store to get at a bottle of whiskey inside. He didn't break the window, but fell asleep outside the store. He was arrested — and sent down for 15 years because it was his third offence.' Mr Moorcock, former lyricist with Hawkwind and creator of Jerry Cornelius and Col. Pyat, seeks something kinder and gentler. 'I spend most of my time these days reading chicklit,' he says. 'On the plane over I watched Under A Tuscan Sun.' In the autumn, he hopes to settle in Paris or Rome.
Blimey, meanwhile. Despite facing the possibility of a good long time in chokey if convicted on child-abuse charges, the curiously-nosed pop singer Michael Jackson hasn't lost his sense of humour. On the officially approved website wvv-w.mjforum.com, there appears a new interactive game based on the old whacka-rat principle. `Bash A Bashir' is a gentle rebuke to Martin Bashir, whose profile of Jackson was considered hostile by fans of the moonwalking friend of children. It encourages participants — in a virtual way, mind — to stave in the cranium of Mr Bashir with a tall-peen hammer'.
Some readers will remember with amusement the recent decision by the makers of Jaguar motorcars to recall 68,000 of their super-flashy Xi models on the grounds that they had discovered a fault which could cause the cars to go unexpectedly into reverse while travelling at top speed down a motorway. Did thoughts of this story not pass through your head while watching the Prime Minister — a man who once announced he has `no reverse gear' — explaining to Parliament why he has decided he does want a referendum on the European Constitution after all? The standard ministerial limo, as any fule kno, is a Jaguar.
And, speaking of which, in this week's Unfortunate Timing department, there plops on to the plashy doormat a leaflet from the Huntingdon Conservatives entitled. imaginatively, 'In Europe Not Run By Europe.' 'Did you know,' it asks, 'Conservatives have been fighting for a referendum in Britain on the "European Constitution"? Labour refuses to let the public have a vote on this major change in our lives.'
El inally, after a delightful year or so
peddling my nonsense here at the 'bleeding edge' of The Spectator's pagination scheme, this elderly rodent is due to take a quieter berth — reinventing himself, in the more cloistered environment of the books pages, as a vole of letters. I'll be back fortnightly. Vale atque ave. Ave atque vole.
Previous page
