We’ve travel this way quite a bit. In the summer of 2023 our friends, Nick and Jane, put us up in their homes in the port of Marblehead near Boston, MA and in the mountains of New Hampshire. Angela took us in at her home in the woods in Connecticut. The same in New Zealand with Michael Fitzpatrick and Julie in 2017. And in Singapore with David and Jane Mayo in 2007, 2013 and 2017. The inside knowledge you get with locals is great and we always get to see so much more this way. What are friends for? Travel, it seems.

La Línea de la Concepción

La Linea is a nowhere place; not pretty pretty, just normal – wanting to be left alone to get on with life without having to get dolled up for visitors or cultivating an alien service culture to satisfy foreigners’ demands. If you visit this town, it’s you that has to fit in with them, not the other way around. The shops are not boutiques peddling dream catchers and kaftans or touristic tat – they are work-a-day: phone shops, toyshops, farmacia, shoe shops, bakery, supermercados. The restaurants and bars cater for the townsfolk, with corresponding prices. They are the canvas on which everyday life takes place. Any English that is spoken is halting and often resentfully used. La Linea is a sole Spanish garrison surrounded by armies of tourists.

A brandy, a pastry, a cafe con leche or cafe solo inside the Okay or at the old school cervazia on Calle Real. Work takes place in the morning before the heat is too intense. The older town members gather to watch the live football games of La Liga in the evening and the well to do gather for morning coffee and a chat. Nobody is in a rush, including the waiters, who dash, slowly, in and out of the air conditioned interior with silver trays borne aloft and loaded with coffees, aniseed pastis, carafes of water, tinto de verano – all manner of libations – to points various at the tables.

We sit. Our presence is clocked but we are ignored. There is a way of doing this; it requires patience. We bide our time. Eventually, an unsmiling waiter arrives ready to take our order. He makes no eye contact, just stands with his pad, staring into the middle distance, waiting. For him, this is not service Americane; this is their place, their rules.

Siesta kicks in at 4pm when the heat makes the streets lonely. Nothing happens until around 7pm when small groups venture out for a drink and a chat with neighbours over an aperitivo. This is the time many locals desert the beach after a day on the sand in this hottest summer month; it is when we venture out for a swim. Two beaches flank the town: the smaller one overlooks Gibraltar docks. The longer beach, at the other end of town, stretches several kilometres perpendicular to Gibraltar and has finer sand and better waves. Both have water that makes you feel dirty getting into it. It is not clean but it is welcomingly cool.

Andalusian senior people at night time. Lovingly holding hands, flirting, playing, wining and dining – enjoying life and each other. Looking at those couples at night you see flamenco – the story of love, joy and suffering – the story of life. Here’s to them!

Raising a glass to Spanish people and to coming here again in our 80s, wearing high heels and bright colours. But most importantly – holding hands and looking at each other with Spanish passion and tenderness.

Tanya Khandurova, Facebook

Dinner is a family affair: little children, parents, grand parents all together – the children running around the square playing. Elderly couples hold hands and seem to have learnt the knack of keeping each other entertained even after forty years of marriage. They laugh and touch – the spark has not dimmed. It is encouraging. Maybe this little life, far removed from wars and famine and the travails of more self-important countries, creates more contented citizens?

Tanya Khandurova is with Steven Kean and David Kean.

Spanish life. Afternoon heat. Night feasts. Colours. Lights. Celebrations. Endless celebrations of life.

Life here takes place in the shade. Slow. Sociable. Serene by day, raucous by night.

The town has one main street and three squares. One square has a church. Our friends have made this place home for themselves and their three children. Their apartment is twice the size of ours and half the price. It has two large outdoor terraces. Living is cheap. The town is welcoming. The scenery stunning. You can see the appeal. They are clearly more acclimatised to the heat as they have not installed air conditioning nor do they possess a fan of any kind. Breeze is at a premium here. Sometimes it is even necessary to open the fridge just to enjoy the sensation of coldness on your skin.

After two days in the town I am getting itchy feet. I am not a ‘somewhere’ person – I need to move about. We rent a car and drive to Tarifa. I smile pretty much the whole way; it feels like we are on the road, my favourite place to be. I have been to Tarifa three times and we will visit it again on this trip. I enjoy the vibe – though it is a bit self-conscious, a bit Saint Tropez – and want to spend a bit of time here, in Malaga, Seville and Cadiz. Tarifa is so busy it’s impossible to park anywhere but the top of the town, near the main road. We walk through the Jerez gate, the only one of the original four Moorish gates left and down the white house flanked narrow streets. It’s siesta time. Many restaurants are closed but we get a table at the ‘best pizza restaurant in Spain 2024’. I discover a couple of boutique hotels which I mentally log for future journeys when it’s just Tanya and me. We explore and on a subsequent trip we have lunch and a drink after a whale watching – which yields a few dolphins and some pilot whales, but no orcas. Being on the sea is always mesmeric. We cross the Strait, dodging the tankers that ply this channel and can see the white buildings of Tangier about four kilometres away. Africa. This really is a special place. You can see why the ancients thought it was the end of the world – that beyond the Pillars of Hercules was the void.

Except it wasn’t. Around the corner is Baelo Claudia, a Roman settlement from the first century AD. It must have felt a million miles from Rome. Here the trade was tuna. Up the coast was Gādēs – Cadiz – one of the oldest cities in the world. All along this coast they traded and when the tuna ran in April, as they still do, it must have been quite a sight. We visit this place early to avoid the crowds, who arrive by the coachload as we are readying to leave. So we have the place to ourselves, pretty much. It is well done. The museum building is beautiful – white, wood and metal. Simple. Minimalist. With a vast open window on which overlooks the whole archaeological site and frames the land, the ruins, hills and sea. Except. All that design and thought and beauty put into this place by the architect is unpicked by the careless placement of a red and white ribbon of plastic safety tape which cordons off (quite unnecessarily) a part of the grand staircase to separate those coming up from those coming down. (Because people clearly can’t work that out for themselves.) The tape ruins the aesthetic. The architect would weep. Minor functionaries massacre sites like this all over the world. They can’t seem to keep their hands off and delight in health and safety protocols which render the entire effort of the design redundant. I have to manipulate the angles of my photos to edit out the offensive tape.

Tarifa and Bolonia

The Costa del Sol

The name conjures up package holidays, charter flights, thousands of families, acres of pasty English flesh burnt red on over-crowded beaches and lush, watered golf courses up and down this strip of arid land. Villas complexes and large hotels cheek by jowl, separated from one another by no more than a man’s chest width, packed in the boundary between motorway and sea. Palm trees. Familiar names: Marbella, Estapona, Sotogrande, Valderama. I know fifty something, first generation money business folk who make the pilgimage to southern Spain every year; some even have homes here. When they return to work for the final, autumnal push for profit as September kicks in, they wear white polo shirts or dresses until their tans fade or their skin stops peeling. This is a British playground where people return year after year. It is a Spain increasingly under siege from Airbnb where locals are priced out of the housing market.

A bit of touristy Andalusia. It’s fun, but I prefer places where they don’t have English menus.

Tanya Khandurova

It is a Spain I have enjoyed, staying at the San Roque Club in 2001 with Sam and Josh, when we lounged by the pool and strayed from the hotel compound occasionally – in search of something different, which we found in Tarifa. But that is another lifetime ago.

Now, the pueblos blancos and wild swimming are our chosen destinations. Whilst the children might be happy with a pool at a villa or hotel, we cannot lie on sun beds and so our time is spent searching out shady mountain streams and quiet mountain villages. There seem to be enough of either scattered up the snaking passes of the hills here. As always, the rewards for making the effort to escape the glitz of the touristy meccas are plentiful.

Breathtaking Andalusia. Just half an hour away from the yachts, cocktail bars and other “delights” of Costa del Sol there are unforgettable landscapes: beautiful mountains, quiet white villages, ancient fortresses, wild swimming places.

Tanya Khandurova in Jimena de la Frontera

Genalguicil and Jimena de la Frontera – white village renowned for works of art scattered amongst the houses and the second for Moorish castle and views across the plain.

Secret wild swimming in a village at the bottom of a precipitous cinder track miles from anywhere

Cape Trafalgar

Cape Trafalgar is a lighthouse and a small plaque on a roundabout which you walk to along a pedestrian road about a kilometre long. For the Spanish, less keen than the British to commemorate one of the most ignominious naval defeats of their history at the hands of Nelson, the place is known by its resort name of Los Caños de Meca. Only history buffs would visit to imagine the battle 21 miles out to sea to the northwest of the Cape; everyone else comes for the aquamarine water, the Atlantic breakers and the beach party vibe. Our first visit was a homage to have a look; our second, to swim in the glorious surf (Emily says she made friends with the sea here – I hope it’s a love affair that lasts a lifetime) and the third, on the Monday before we left – it was worth the 90 minute drive to find clean water and proper waves. And on the third outing, Emily caught a wave which gave her her first body surf. We have a lot to be thankful about at Trafalgar.

Malaga

It is north of 37 degrees. Emerging from the cool of our car to the scalding street level heat which bounces off the pavement makes me laugh in awe at the furnace ferocity of the city. I am at my happiest in the sun.

Malaga looks intriguing but it is another hot spot where locals are up in arms about living in a city that has become unliveable in. Rents are too high and little remains that isn’t catering for the hordes of foreign visitors; inhabitants have become estranged in their own town. The star attraction is the Picasso museum but it isn’t much to write home about; it is filled with the dregs of his work. You cannot blame the town of Pablo’s birth from trying to cash in on its most famous citizen although by doing so, they have added to the number of visitors and so exacerbated the town’s plight.

Done with the art, we skirt around the cathedral, sticking to the shady side of the streets like vampires, terrified that we will be immolated if even a sliver of skin is exposed to direct sunlight. At this hour of the day, it is like living under a magnifying glass which focuses the light to a white hot point. For the first and last time on this trip, we stumble into an Italian restaurant – all the Spanish ones are closed until 9pm – and sit at a table outside directly under the fans. In this heat, the fans merely douse you with molten air. Tanya gets redder. If she was fitted with a pressure gauge and a warning klaxon, they would be clearing the area.

We survive and, fed, feel more content. (We have a silly habit of going too long without having anything to eat – we don’t pack anything and nowhere is open between 4 and 8pm.) After an enticing amble back to the car – enticing because I have spied an interesting looking shady sherry bar and a few nice looking streets which imply Malaga has much to offer – we depart. Exploration deferred until next time. In the winter.

Provisions

Tanya has long since abdicated responsibility for choosing where we eat to me. It is not worth it, she says, to get it wrong and if I am miserable, I will make sure everyone else is, too. True. Bad provisions and a vibe I am not enjoying make me scratchy. So this is a wise policy. I have struggled in vain to educate Steven that the first place you see does not automatically mean you go there; for those who regard food as mere fuel and an irrelevance, the first place is as good as any. I can see that. I am not one of those people. For fuel to work for me, it needs to be high grade. Luckily – and, in contrast to Somerset Maugham’s assertion that Spanish food is awful in his book chronicling his travels in Spain, Don Fernando – Spain is one of the world’s great cuisines. It is true, some of the dishes are not done justice; but that’s the execution, not the notion. In La Linea, we hit gold. On our doorstep is Bodebar. A slick operation in the kitchen, immaculate front of house, a good wine list, inventive dishes. Mixing tapas with mains, we ate there a lot. It is my happy place. Bao buns with octopus, tomato and asparagus salad with orange vinagrette, salted grilled asparagus, paella at the weekends, grilled octopus. All cooked to perfection. Heaven every time. Good food helps conversation and whilst Emily disappeared to play in the square with all the other children, we had some lovely discussions with Steven about philosophy, politics, science and history. Food enables life’s nicer moments.

We had mango daiquiris in Estepona, grilled squid in Tarifa, the best, crispy black pudding in Sevilla, we visited traditional old school tapas bars in Cadiz and near the Alcazar. We were always guaranteed a table because we came out slightly earlier than the business crowd and were usually the first customers in as they open up for food. There is merit in being unfashionably early – an hour later and they’re queuing at the door.

Colours of Andalusia

Colours of Andalusia. When you come to this place you feel that you lived in monochrome and watercolour back home.

Tanya Khandurova

Vivid blues, cremnitz white walls and windmills, rich ocre, terracotta, parched grass, black trees burnt in fierce forest fires, dark green cypress, flowing light green water in fountains and mountain streams, the stone crags of Gibraltar and Africa facing off across the Strait and the deep blue sea of 1600 fathoms in between. This is a rich palette.

Moorish

Design in Andalusia is heavily Moorish. Use of shade and running water, geometric pattern in marble, paint and on fabric, studded door panels, coloured glass lanterns, mosaics, ceramic tiles, iron castings, arches and cool spaces. Cadiz, Tarifa, Seville. The dark heaviness of Castilian architecture is always levened by the Islamic gift of light and colour.

The suit of Light

Whilst we were in Spain, I read Hemingway’s The sun also rises. The passages about bullfighting are sublime. Hemingway’s understanding – his aficion – permeates those chapters. And his enthusiasm and admiration for the art is infectious. Bullfighting is still big in Andalusia. Where it has been banned in Catalonia, to the north, and whilst there are voices raised against it in the south, the Suit of Light still illuminates the Andalusian soul. I am glad. And I want to see a fight. I know. You’re horrified. But remember that the reverence for the animal is real, as is the threat of harm to the matador and his entourage. Yes, death is a forgone conclusion for the bull. And I know all the arguments (for which I have some sympathy). But. Hemingway captures the honour and the drama, the science and the art in the raising of the bulls, the ritual, the atmosphere, the hazard and the sleight of body that makes some matadors sublime and others conmen.

Nobody lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters.

The sun also rises, Ernest Hemingway

An interior landscape

Gibraltar

I do not like Gibraltar. Not modern Gibraltar, at any rate. It seems grasping and venal. When I came to visit here first in 1974, it was still a naval base. The Royal Dockyard closed in 1983 and the British Army left in 1991. When we stayed at The Rock Hotel, you could see the naval ships in port and the white uniforms were plentiful. The Royal Marine band was also to be heard. It was a better Gibraltar than the touristic version today. I remember the sun only emerged from the other side of the rock at about 10am, so the pool was too cool until then. This visit we returned to the hotel and although it’s still a grand dame and owned by the same family since 1953, the clientelle has deteriorated.

I booked afternoon tea on the terrace on our last Monday for Tanya and I. We ditched the booking in favour of going for a last swim at Cape Trafalgar en famille. I fear the tea experience would have been too depressing. Like most things which attempt to recreate something, it would have lacked authenticity. Tea was a ritual, a daily commonplace all over the Empire, with people discussing every subject but the tea. This ersatz parody would be about the tea experience itself. Which is sad and defeats the point. Having Singapore Slings in the Long Bar at Raffles at least had a point: to mark the successful completion of a job – business mixed with pleasure. Tea for tea’s sake, for the event, as a nod to a more glorious era would have been a disappointment. A microcosm of a Gibraltar which is a pale copy of it’s less venal glory days.

Gibraltar has its own weather system. It has history-a-plenty. It has apes and caves and simply spectacular views (depending on the weather system – see earlier). It has a Botanical Garden which is probably the nicest thing on it. It has a sweet airport that flies only to Britain, impressive feats of engineering in the famous siege tunnels and it even has its own language – Llanito. But it has no class. Everything has been turned into a day trip Disneyland designed to maximise revenue and extract money from the pockets of visitors in the sure knowledge that they will only visit once. It is a large duty free shop bereft of charm where everyone is on the make. Like a large, craggy con trick.

If you want to experience a little bit of the old school British patriotism you may find it in the tunnels of Gibraltar. The Siege tunnels are particularly heavy on depicting the glory of the British Army. Old marches and patriotic hymns play inside the tunnel non-stop. After 5 minutes they sounded for me like a torture designed to get me out before I figure out all the secret corners of the tunnels. David, on the other hand, plunged in a bit of nostalgia recognising every tune. Emily was delighted to march and dance to the music she has never heard before and, God help her to never hear again. All of us were happy that it is just history now.

Tanya Khandurova

Seville

Tanya Khandurova is with Steven Kean and David Kean at Sevilla,Spain.

Seville is an exceptionally beautiful place. First time we came here several years ago just for a couple of hours and immediately decided we should come back for a couple of days. Now we think we should come again for a couple of months. There are so many things to experience here.

The main road to Seville from La Linea is bordered by flat topped trees which shield the countryside from view. The central reservation is white and pink bougainvillea. The road surface is smooth. It is an altogether nicer drive than British motorways. I am excited to have a proper amount of time in two of the places I remember most keenly on our 2018 trip down the Atlantic coast of Europe: Seville and Cadiz.

Tanya, Steven and Emily want to rest in the Alcazar hotel, which is just outside the walls across a thin strip of park with the tall monument to Ferdinand and Isabella I remember from our first visit here. But last time we only scratched the surface and we somehow skirted only the street where Carmen waited for Escamillo and ended up in the lovely Alcazar gardens. This time, I am left alone to discover the streets of the old city and I relish the freedom to explore. It is as magical as I hoped it would be. In an hour I have taken loads of photos of the architecture, the streets and people and waited, patiently, to get the shot I wants in several places where you have to wait for all the people to walk out of frame. It is infuriating when a couple wander neither left not right but carry on needlessly in a straight line and then stop, one of them walking out of frame to check out the direction of where they need to go…and then walk back into frame to tell the other one. They stand still, talking. “Fucking move”, I breathe, conscious that this couple could easily move off stage right only to overlap as another troublesome body enters stage left. Eventually, if I wait, they eventually go and I get the shot.

The city is incredibly photogenic. The awnings are fitted with water sprays which create mist every minute or so for a few seconds to cool down the air. I sit outside at a bar overlooking the cathedral and order a beer. Just one. The street is touristy but it doesn’t matter – it is beautiful. On the way back to the hotel I wander deliberately up side streets to seek out interesting buildings and find a hostel, an hotel, a dazzling colonaded roof and a wooden studded door. In an hour the heat will be less intense and we will come out for dinner. I have in mind the Bodega Santa Cruz in the old Jewish quarter.

The Alacazar palace courtyards and gardens are a pleasure. The best thing is to lose yourself in them and we do. There are echoes, unsurprisingly, of the Topkapi in Istanbul and of the Alhambra in Grenada – around every corner are little Instagramable photo ops. Which is the problem. Most people seem to focus on themselves in their selfie “I was here” way; there seems to be no interest in the place other than as a backdrop to ‘me’. They pout and pose. It reminds me of Stewart Lee’s finale in his ‘Content provider’ tour where he imposes himself as the contemporary wanderer in Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer above a sea of fog but facing the camera instead of the view – to take a selfie. Selfie’s are artless and disrespectful to the setting.

Our first night we eat dinner on a roof terrace above the street where I had my solitary beer that afternoon. The Bodega Santa Cruz is too crammed. The second night we are first in to the bar area of a traditional tapas place recommended by Lonely Planet. It is my second choice – my first choice, El Rinconcillo (opened in 1670 and the oldest tapas bar in Spain) is not open tonight. Sod’s law. It gets rave reviews:

This is one of Seville’s classic tapas bar, dating from around 1670. We have visited it on several previous trips to the city and it a little challenging to find, as it’s located behind a church in the narrow side street Gerona to the north of the historical centre of the city. The characterful bar consists to 2 adjoining rooms on the ground floor and separate “comedors” upstairs for more formal dining.

Visitor

Instead, we eat at Bar Casa Morales. It fits the bill but I mis-order to start with and have to point at dishes being presented at the table behind us to get the food I meant to order. The gazpachio is sublime. I have a Tio Pepe and a beer. As we leave, only forty five minutes after entering, the place is already full and buzzing. Locals come in for a dish or two and a drink. The room next door – behind the bar – has sherry tanks and is also heaving. It’s 9pm and the night is in full swing. Earlier in the day we walked to the Plaza d’Espana, an anachronistic monument to the Spanish Empire and colonies which looks old but was built in the 1920s. Redundant and out of date from the day it was built, it is an Ozymandian folly – a place tourist buses visit and whose sole purpose now seems to be as a backdrop for selfies. It is grand but has none of the life of Madrid’s Plaza Real; there are no restaurants or bars or cafes or shops to give it life. It just is – big, pompous, self-important, useless. No. It had one use: I watched the new series on Netflix called KAOS, starring Jeff Goldblum as Zeus. The Plaza’d’Espana was the main set for a modern day Crete where the cult of the Olympian Gods still prevailed. So not useless; but as meaningful and as substantive as a Hollywood studio set.

Seville feels civilised. Civilised enough to want to know more. It feels like it would be a very good place to live a little. But that will have to wait for next time.

Cadiz and Jerez de la Frontera

Approaching Cadiz, driving over the salt marshes towards the iconic steel suspension bridge, we spotted flamingos off to the left of us. Cadiz is special; it is very self contained, on a peninsular.

Just forty minutes east is sherry country. I remember the bone white soil from a work trip I had to visit the Gonzalez-Byass estates when we were pitching for Tio Pepe. Sherry is a magnificent drink. The English have a strong connection in these parts, as they do in Oporto in Portugal. We like a fortified wine. Some of the names of the exporters and wine merchants in Jerez sound as English as treacle pudding, and as rich. The town of Jerez is made up of a very long drive through dullness to a tiny old quarter. Just as I am prepared to drive on through and head out for Cadiz, we get to the cathedral and Alcazar. Not as famous or spectacular as their Seville namesakes, they are nonetheless pretty. Lying in their shadow is the bodega of Tio Pepe – a sprawl of many whitewashed buildings set up for tours and tastings. But not today. It is closed. We amble around the area and take all that Jerez has to offer architecturally; we do not sample the wares of what the town is most famous for. I make up for that over the next few weeks.

Cadiz. We park in Plaza San Antonio and walk to Plaza San Francisco. The narrow streets feel familiar and once we have checked in, I eat a tuna stew for lunch at a place in the square, opposite our hotel. The kids rest in the room. Tanya and I explore, walking to the more touristy end of town where the catherdral is. Inside the cathedral is unremarkable. There are supposed to be three Goyas but I am always appalled by the extravagent displays of silver and gold and the macabre fascination the catholics have with suffering and over ornamentation. Seville cathedral – third biggest in the world after St. Peter’s in Rome and St. Paul’s in London – was deliberately designed to be “so big, they will think we were mad”. Now, I bow to no one when it comes to making such bold statements – ambition on this scale is to be applauded, always – but it’s what they put in the cathedrals that’s so vulgar. Like the Albert Memorial in London, gaudy, gold, over decorated. Every chapel is festooned with ornate silver and gold; fat cherubs cavorting, severe looking priests made of wood, in brown hassocks but with golden crowns and halos, picture after picture of that poor pin-cushioned Saint Sebastian; stone saints, bloodied and be-thorned Christ figures, oozing pain and suffering; vast silver chalices and Ark of the Covenant-sized gilt boxes, relics, confessionals – all the paraphernalia of idolatry. It raises my deeply buried protestant heckles.

I cannot get out of Cadiz cathedral fast enough; it is too hot in there – is it my soul burning with heretical thoughts? We wander back and in the evening we stroll through the Parque Genovés. Emily hangs upside down from a tree and ducks behind the waterfalls. We see a group of woman practising flamenco in a bandstand in the park, accompanied by two men on guitars. Then we hurry on to eat in Calle Zorrilla – the street with the best tapas in town.

Time to say goodbye. It’s probably one of the most civilised and cosy airports. It took us just 7 minutes on foot to the borders from the home of our friends in La Linea where we stayed. Then 2 more minutes to the airport. No queues at security. Most passengers are enjoying their drinks at the balcony overlooking Gibraltar and the runway. We will miss Andalusia, very warm Spanish nights and Spanish people. There’s so much to miss. I hope we’ll be back one day. It’s so great to come back to places you love.

Tanya Khandurova is with Steven Kean and David Kean at Gibraltar International Airport

Doctor Salvatore Galia worked at the University. Eighteen years – the escape to Napoli for two years was a failed attempt. Even that city couldn’t quite match the culture of his native Palermo, and he had never quite adapted or fitted in. The academics there, so frowned upon by their northern colleagues, had never accepted his – to their minds parochial – island mentality. They were proud, conquering Neopolitans. He was a product of a thousand years of invasion and sublimation. A survivor. A gene pool so mixed of bloods that it was indiscernible where his chin matched his forehead and his tongue spoke with dialects drawn from all over the ancient world. Today was his penultimate day. Ahead lay bucolic rest, an archeological lecture tour on Aegean Cruise Lines every winter and sun rest. He cricked his neck out of unconscious habit. One day remaining. A drinks reception tonight that had to be endured and the biannual meeting with his appropriately named angelic nephew, Gabrielle. He sipped the sweet Moscato. The day was tolerable.

The man on the top deck of the Clapham Omnibus is me.

Since starting my own business in 2006, I have enjoyed myself. Sure, there are work gigs which are a slog – back to back programmes teaching bankers how to behave can pall – but the foreign trips, that’s where the fun is. I have never been one to jet in, whirl around in meetings and jet out again; that’s for the birds as far as I’m concerned. No. Much superior is to bolt a day or two on the beginning and the end. To add time to enjoy, acclimatise beforehand, relax afterwards. And, if ever possible, to enjoy during as well.

Long haul is a speciality. It affords you time. There’s the flight itself, which is an indulgence and very much part of the experience. If the cost of doing business with you is a business class return ticket, well, there are airline business lounges to frequent. It is a golden rule for me that when I travel anywhere – plane, train, automobile – I always arrive earlier than is efficient or strictly necessary. It is an article of faith that I never run for any of the aforementioned modes of transport. My walk to the departure gate is always unhurried, never the frantic run of those who arrive late, don’t plan, get stuck in queues at security and consequently have to rush everywhere in a sweat of exertion. Slow. Casual. Unhurried. Relaxed. That’s my credo.

Which all means there’s time to smell the flowers in the airport lounge. Well, if your carrier has gone to the bother of creating a calming environment and filling it with nice things to eat and drink, it’d be bad manners to miss the opportunity to indulge. So a Bloody Mary mixed by the barman at Air Canada’s Heathrow lounge is the best breakfast for a mid morning flight to Toronto. And a large scotch aids sleep on the return leg overnight flight. American Airlines doesn’t have the best facilities and the cabin crew are all Saga pinups rather than the youthful types at Virgin Atlantic, but they mother you well and turn every request for a G&T into a double, gratis.

The trip is off to a promising start. At the other end, there’s the hand held name board and chauffeur driven limo to whisk you to the hotel, which usually doubles as the venue. Of late, post pandemic, as budgets are reigned in , the selection of hotel has become more conventional for conventions. In the heyday of the ’00s and the ’10s, you could score big here. The Ciragan Palace in Istanbul setting the standard for a pair of gigs in 2009 and 2010. Nowadays, it’s far more prosaic. The Westin in Long Beach. The Paradox in Clarke Quay, Singapore. So evasive action has to be taken. It is perfectly possible to swap hotels. Having booked a full week at the Westin and, upon arrival, instantly spotting that it is a depressingly awful hotel, I quit it immediately upon finishing my work and got a ride up to the far more salubrious Viceroy in Santa Monica. Where I hooked up with an old friend and godfather to my son for dinner and enjoyed a sensational cheese omelette, a good lunch at the Blue Plate and a visit to the Getty Villa. We sandwiched the gig in Singapore between two stays in Langkawi – the first at the Datai. Compensation can always be found and, of course, so can daiquiris.

After the trials of a three day programme delivered in Johannesburg – where I did manage to hook up with my old school mate who took me on a tour of Soweto – my partner in crime and I jetted the three hours down to Cape Town for a little r and r dining at Camps Bay, climbing the Lion’s Head, penguin watching on the Indian Ocean, visiting Robben Island and, of course, sipping daiquiris at the shady end of the rooftop pool at our hotel. All on expenses, of course. Which was justified because we did get invited back to repeat the three day workshop in Cape Town. A trip I took my son on who got two weeks work experience there as a result.

There have been long trips to China and Japan and India and Cambodia where it has been wondrous to explore in my days outside of work. Om Beach in Goa in the monsoon season is spectacular if not ideal for swimming – great crashing waves of North Sea brown pound the sand ferociously, but it is humid. The French Quarter in Shanghai is pretty. The gardens at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo are ideal for escaping the crowds. Angkor Wat in the early morning before it gets too hot is intimidatingly imposing. An extra day or two is vital to prevent the sin of letting these experiences pass you by. An old boss of mine, weary from so much business travel, always wanted his secretary to book the most efficient itinerary so he could do his thing and then jet back home. His wife left him anyway. He might as well have taken his ease, admired the view and enjoyed a daiquiri – or his choice of poison – after all.

My friend and former client, Simon, spent more time up in the air on business trips than is strictly good for you. He once explained how much he now enjoys the view from 30,000 feet because, when he worked for Nissan, his secretary scheduled every moment on board with papers to read and presentations to write. He was frazzled. When he got out of the industry, he became a traveller. He was a changed man. Now he sips his coffee and enjoys the moment. And I am glad. He is excellent company.

Taking time out from doing business is the only way to enjoy the scenery and make the air miles count. When I have finished a work gig, I always have three dry martinis and raise each glass to, in order, the client (for giving me the paid work), my family (who I love) and myself (for a job well done). And then, I go to bed. The next day, invariably, I can be found at the shady end of the pool, daiquiri in hand. And that, my friend, is how it should be.

At Goa airport I was, as promised and as usual, met by a driver. This time, however, the driver took me to a Fiat Panda, one of the smallest cars I have ever had the misfortune to travel in. I presumed that the hotel would be a short ride away. ‘Three hours’ my driver corrected me when I asked how long we would be cooped up on this journey, my knees in my face.

Everything proceeded and I contented myself with looking out of the window as India passed by the tiny window. Cows lay by the side of and in the middle of the road, undisturbed because they are sacred. A factory belching black smoke dominated the landscape for a long while and made me wonder if it was another Bhopal waiting to happen. And then one of those terrifying moments. An hour and a half in, the driver suddenly stopped the car and instructed me to

“GET OUT!”

He seemed to be shouting. We were in the middle of nowhere. We had pulled over to the side of the road, under a tree.

“GET OUT!” he repeated.

“Why?”, I enquired.

This was it, I told myself. This was where I become another orange jumpsuit wearing western captive of an extreme terrorist group or where I would be adducted and robbed and wake up in an ice bath with a note telling me that one of my kidneys had been harvested. Reluctantly, and full of trepidation, I emerged from my Fiat cocoon.

“GO!” he shouted.

“Go where exactly” I replied indignantly. Surely her wasn’t just going to abandon me here?

“My brother”. He indicated an identical, white Fiat Panda a hundred yards up the road.

The brother emerged from the other car and beckoned.

“We swap. You go with him now”.

The two brothers did a shuttle run, it appeared. One from the airport to the half way point, the other from this be-knighted location on to the hotel. Very sensible, really. But very frightening when communicated so abruptly and without warning.

Eventually, we arrived at the hotel. I was greeted with a bow, the hands in prayer, and garlanded with a mala, the flower necklace.

“Is there anything we can get you, sir, anything at all?”

“I’d love a beer please!”, I replied.

“I am sorry, sir, this is a yogic hotel. No beer.”

Although covid has blighted our health at exactly the wrong moment, we have still enjoyed a warm and traditional time together. The flat is cosy and the tree has had to last longer than other trees because of the extended celebratory period. It has been a shame that we were too ill to go and see the performance of A Christmas Carol in Brighton Pavilion’s music room, but we did go to the beautiful Glow Wild son et lumiere at Wakehurst Place and to the Royal Albert Hall for our annual pilgrimage to see The Nutcracker. Emily has Tchaikovsky’s score playing on Alexa on repeat and she delights in dancing to it all over the sitting room – as we delight in watching her.

Apart from the lovely rituals of Christmas – the stockings hung by the fireplace, the Christmas Eve offering of a mince pie, a small cup of whisky and a carrot left out for Father Christmas and his reindeer, the family Nativity service at St. Nicholas’s church in Brighton – the decoration of the tree, the ordering of the turkey from Canham’s the butcher and the stocking for and preparation of all the food, Christmas is the best excuse to replay all the sentimental films that have been such a fixture of my life.

No Christmas is complete without playing a series of films which, for me – and now for Emily – are forever associated with the festive season. Of course, these are mainly musicals. As a British Russian family, there are new films to enjoy and which also play their role in our collective memory. The three big ones are the Russian version of Mary Poppins, the New Year’s Eve staple The irony of fate (which I really enjoy) and the fairytale The Snow Queen.

Although this year we ran out of time to include the classic It’s a wonderful life and although some films that other families love (Elf, the Muppets A Christmas Carol, The Grinch etc.) our selection is still glorious – even after multiple, multiple viewings. But this year, it was Emily’s first time where she could understand and enjoy these films. And that is what makes them magic all over again.

Some of these films are, to me at least, genius. They invariably make me cry at various points and Christmas just isn’t Christmas without enjoying their flight of fancy. I love the wit of the lyrics (Mary Poppins’s The life I lead, Gigi’s I remember it well and Thank heaven for little girls, High Society’s Now you has jazz and Who wants to be a millionaire, My Fair Lady’s Why can’t a woman be more like a man) or the brilliance of the story (A Christmas Carol, My fair lady, A Matter of Life and Death, North by North West). Or just the joyousness of the whole thing: The Sound of music and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. To see Emily laughing and mimicking the Doll on a music box scene has been an utter joy (even though she couldn’t bare to watch the child catcher).

So, just for the record, and as a purely sentimental exercise in recording my love of these films and times for posterity, here are my faves, my selection for entertainment at Christmas. Long may they play a part in my family’s communal experience of enjoying Christmas together – or, at least, with me.

The Life I Lead

Mr.Banks:
I feel a surge of deep satisfaction
Much as a king astride his noble steed
When I return from daily strife to heart and wife
How pleasant is the life I lead!Mrs. Banks:
[Spoken]
Dear, it’s about the children…Mr. Banks:
Yes, yes, yes!I run my home precisely on schedule
At 6:01, I march through my door
My slippers, sherry, and pipe are due at 6:02
Consistent is the life I lead!It’s grand to be an Englishman in 1910
King Edward’s on the throne;
It’s the age of men
I’m the lord of my castle
The sov’reign, the liege!
I treat my subjects: servants, children, wife
With a firm but gentle hand
Noblesse oblige!It’s 6:03 and the heirs to my dominion
Are scrubbed and tubbed and adequately fed
And so I’ll pat them on the head
And send them off to bed
Ah! Lordly is the life I lead!A British nanny must be a gen’ral!
The future empire lies within her hands
And so the person that we need to mold the breed
Is a nanny who can give commands!A British bank is run with precision
A British home requires nothing less!
Tradition, discipline, and rules must be the tools
Without them – disorder!
Catastrophe! Anarchy! –
In short, we have a ghastly mess!

Who Wants To Be A Millionaire

Who Has An Itch
To Be Filthy Rich?
Who Gives A Hoot
For A Lot Of Loot?
Who Longs To Live
A Life Of Perfect Ease?
And Be Swamped By Necessary Luxuries?
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
I Don’t.
Have Flashy Flunkeys Ev’rywhere?
I Don’t.
Who Wants The Bother Of A Country Estate?
A Country Estate Is Something I’d Hate!
Who Wants To Wallow In Champagne?
I Don’t.
Who Wants A Supersonic Plane?
I Don’t.
Who Wants A Marble Swimming Pool Too?
I Don’t.
And I Don’t
‘Cause All I Want Is You.

Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
I Don’t.
And Have Uranium To Spare?
I Don’t.
Who Wants To Journey On A Gigantic Yacht?
Do I Want A Yacht?
Oh, How I Do Not!
Who Wants A Fancy Foreign Car?
I Don’t.
Who Wants To Tire Of Caviar?
I Don’t.
Who Wants A Private Landing Field Too?
I Don’t.
And I Don’t.
‘Cause All I Want Is You.
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
I Don’t.
And Go To Every Swell Affair?
I Don’t.
Who Wants To Ride Behind A Liv’ried Chauffeur?
A Liv’ried Chauffeur
Do I Want? No Sir!
Who Wants An Opera Box, I’ll Bet?
I Don’t.
And Sleep Through Wagner At The Met?
I Don’t.
Who Wants To Corner Cartier’s Too?
I Don’t.
And I Don’t,
‘Cause All I Want Is You.

HIGGINS
What in all of heaven could’ve promted her to go,
After such a triumph as the ball?
What could’ve depressed her;
What could’ve possessed her?
I cannot understand the wretch at all.

Women are irrational, that’s all there is to that!
There heads are full of cotton, hay, and rags!
They’re nothing but exasperating, irritating,
vacillating, calculating, agitating,
Maddening and infuriating hags!
[To Pickering]
Pickering, why can’t a woman be more like a man?
PICKERING
Hmm?
HIGGINS
Yes…
Why can’t a woman be more like a man?
Men are so honest, so thoroughly square;
Eternally noble, historic’ly fair;
Who, when you win, will always give your back a pat.
Well, why can’t a woman be like that?
Why does ev’ryone do what the others do?
Can’t a woman learn to use her head?
Why do they do ev’rything their mothers do?
Why don’t they grow up- well, like their father instead?
Why can’t a woman take after a man?
Men are so pleasant, so easy to please;
Whenever you are with them, you’re always at ease.
Would you be slighted if I didn’t speak for hours?
PICKERING
Of course not!
HIGGINS
Would you be livid if I had a drink or two?
PICKERING
Nonsense.
HIGGINS
Would you be wounded if I never sent you flowers?
PICKERING
Never.
HIGGINS
Well, why can’t a woman be like you?
One man in a million may shout a bit.
Now and then there’s one with slight defects;
One, perhaps, whose truthfulness you doubt a bit.
But by and large we are a marvelous sex!
Why can’t a woman take after like a man?
Cause men are so friendly, good natured and kind.
A better companion you never will find.
If I were hours late for dinner, would you bellow?
PICKERING
Of course not!
HIGGINS
If I forgot your silly birthday, would you fuss?
PICKERING
Nonsense.
HIGGINS
Would you complain if I took out another fellow?
PICKERING
Never.
HIGGINS
Well, why can’t a woman be like us?
[To Mrs. Pearce]
Mrs. Pearce, you’re a woman…
Why can’t a woman be more like a man?
Men are so decent, such regular chaps.
Ready to help you through any mishaps.
Ready to buck you up whenever you are glum.
Why can’t a woman be a chum?
Why is thinking something women never do?
Why is logic never even tried?
Straight’ning up their hair is all they ever do.
Why don’t they straighten up the mess that’s inside?
Why can’t a woman behave like a man?
If I was a woman who’d been to a ball,
Been hailed as a princess by one and by all;
Would I start weeping like a bathtub overflowing?
And carry on as if my home were in a tree?
Would I run off and never tell me where I’m going?
Why can’t a woman be like me?

source: https://www.lyricsondemand.com/soundtracks/m/myfairladylyrics/ahymntohimlyrics.html

Do-Re-Me

Let’s start at the very beginning
A very good place to start
When you read, you begin with A-B-C
When you sing, you begin with Do-Re-MiDo-Re-MiDo-Re-Mi
The first three notes just happen to be
Do-Re-MiDo-Re-MiDo-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti
Oh, let’s see if I can make it easyDo, a deer, a female deer
Re, a drop of golden sun
Mi, a name, I call myself
Fa, a long, long way to run
So, a needle pulling thread
La, a note to follow So
Ti, a drink with jam and bread
That will bring us back to Do, oh, oh, ohDo, a deer, a female deer
Re, a drop of golden sun
Mi, a name, I call myself
Fa, a long, long way to run
So, a needle pulling thread
La, a note to follow So
Ti, a drink with jam and bread
That will bring us back to DoA deer, a female deer
Re, a drop of golden sun
Mi, a name, I call myself
Fa, a long, long way to run
So, a needle pulling thread
La, a note to follow So
Ti, a drink with jam and bread
That will bring us back to DoDo-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti-Do, So-DoNow, children, Do-Re-Mi-Fa-So and so on
Are only the tools we use to build a song
Once you have these notes in your heads
You can sing a million different tunes by mixing them up
Like thisSo, Do, La, Fa, Mi, Do, ReCan you do that?So, Do, La, Fa, Mi, Do, ReSo, Do, La, Ti, Do, Re, DoSo, Do, La, Ti, Do, Re, DoNow put it all togetherSo, Do, La, Fa, Mi, Do, Re
So, Do, La, Ti, Do, Re, DoGoodBut it doesn’t mean anythingSo we put in words
One word for every note
Like thisWhen you know the notes to sing
You can sing most anything
TogetherWhen you know the notes to sing
You can sing most anythingDo, a deer, a female deer
Re, a drop of golden sun
Mi, a name, I call myself
Fa, a long, long way to run
So, a needle pulling thread
La, a note to follow So
Ti, a drink with jam and bread
That will bring us back to DoDo, Re, Mi, Fa, So, La, Ti, Do
Do, Ti, La, So, Fa, Mi, ReDo, Mi, Mi
Mi, So, So
Re, Fa, Fa
La, Ti, TiDo, Mi, Mi
Mi, So, So
Re, Fa, Fa
La, Ti, TiWhen you know the notes to sing
You can sing most anythingDo, a deer, a female deer
Re, a drop of golden sun
Mi, a name, I call myself
Fa, a long, long way to run
So, a needle pulling thread
La, a note to follow So
Ti, a drink with jam and bread
That will bring us back toSo (So, Do)
Re (La, Fa)
Mi (Mi, Do)
Fa (Re)
So (So, Do)
La (La, Fa)
Ti (La, So, Fa, Mi, Re)
Ti, Do

Doll on a music box

What do you see?
You people gazing at me?
You see a doll on a music box that’s
Wound by a key

How can you tell?
I’m under a spell
I’m waiting for love’s first kiss

You cannot see
How much I long to be free
Turning around on this music box that’s
Wound by a key
Yearning
Yearning
While I’m
Turning around and around

{TRULY(CARACTACUS)}
What do you see? (Truly Scrumptious)
You people gazing at me? (You’re truly, truly, scrumptious)
You see a doll on a music box that’s (Scrumptious as a cherry)
Wound by a key. (peach parfait)

How can you tell? (When you’re near me)
I’m under a spell. ( it’s so delicious)
I’m waiting for love’s first kiss. ( Honest, truly. You’re the)
(Answer to my wishes)

You cannot see (Truly Scrumptious)
How much I long to be free (And if I seem presumptuous)
Turning around on this music box that’s (Never, never, ever)
Wound by a key. (Go away)

Yearning (My heart beats so unruly)
Yearning (because I love you truly)
While I’m ( Honest, Truly)
Turning around and around. (I do)

Chu-chi face

You’re my little chu-chi face
My coo-chi, coo-chi, woo-chi little chu-chi face
Every time I look at you I sigh
And you’re my little teddy bear
My lovey lovey dovey little teddy bear
You’re the apfel strudel of mine eye
Your chu-chi woo-chi nose
Your chu-chi woo-chi eyes
They set my heart a flutter
Your ooo-chi coo-chi ways
Your ooo-chi coo-chi gaze
Wilts me down like meltings butter
You’re my little chu-chi face
And you’re my teddy bear
Together we’re a chu-chi woo-chi, ooo-chi coo-chi pair
Whatever you may ask becomes my happy task
I only live to serve you
I never will divine what magic made you mine
I only know I don’t deserve you
You’re my little chu-chi face
And you’re my teddy bear
Together we’re a chu-chi woo-chi, ooo-chi coo-chi
Chu-chi, Woo-chi, Ooo-chi, Coo-chi pair
Chu-chi
Woo-chi
Ooo-chi
Coo-chi pair

Thank heaven for little girls

Each time I see a little girl
Of five or six or seven
I can’t resist a joyous urge
To smile and say
Thank heaven for little girls
For little girls get
Bigger every day
Thank heaven for little girls
They grow up in
The most delightful way.
Those little eyes
So helpless and appealing
When they were flashing
Send you crashing
Through the ceiling
Thank heaven for little girls
Thank heaven for them all
No matter where,
No matter who
Without them
What would little boys do
Thank heaven
Thank heaven
Thank heaven for little girls.

I’m glad I’m not young anymore

Poor boy!
Poor boy!
Down hearted and depressed and in a spin
Poor boy!
Poor boy!
Oh, youth can really do a fellow in!

How lovely to sit here in the shade
With none of the woes of man and maid
I’m glad I’m not young anymore.
The rivals that don’t exist at all.
The feeling you’re only two feet tall.
I’m glad that I’m not young anymore.

No more confusion
No morning-after surprise.
No more self delusion
That when you ‘re telling those lies
She isn’t wise…
And even if love comes through the door
The can that goes on forevermore.
Forever more is shorter than before.
Oh, I’m so glad that I’m not young anymore.

The tiny remark that tortures you
The fear that your friends won’t like her too
I’m glad that I’m not young anymore
The longing to end the stale affair
Until you find out she doesn’t care
I’m glad that I’m not young anymore.

No more frustration
No star-crossed lover am I
No aggravation
Just one reluctant reply
“Lady, goodbye!”

The fountain of youth
Is —
Methuselah is my patron saint
I’ve never been so comfortable before
Oh, I’m so glad that I am not young anymore!

I remember it well

We met at nine
We met at eight
I was on time
No, you were late
Ah yes, I remember it well.
We dined with friends
We dined alone.
A tenor sang
A baritone.
I remember it well.
That dazzling April moon!
There was none that night.
And the month was June
That’s right, that’s right.
It warms my heart
To know that you
Remember still
The way you do
Ah yes, I remember it well.
How often I’ve thought of that Friday–
Monday–
Night, when we had our last rendezvous
And somehow I foolishly wondered if you might
By some chance be thinkin’ of it too
That carriage ride
You walked me home
You lost a glove
I lost a comb
Ah yes, I remember it well.
That brilliant sky!
We had some rain
Those Russian songs
From sunny Spain
Ah yes, I remember it well.
You wore a gown of gold
I was all in blue
Am I getting old?
Oh no, not you!
How strong you were
How young and gay
A prince of love
In every way
Ah yes, I remember it well

It is a Pandora’s Box of an issue. As we speak, in December 2022, Britain’s colonial past is, again, in the headlines. This time, for the insensitive interrogation given by an 83 year old Lady in Waiting at a reception hosted by the Camilla, the Queen Consort, to a black British woman. The octogenarian couldn’t fathom the notion that this person was British or from Britain, so she kept asking where the woman was really from? To the point of tin-earedness and huge embarrassment to those who witnessed the conversation – and, ultimately, to the Palace. It belied an underlying prejudice of those raised in the era where non-whites must, de facto, come from elsewhere. A prejudice typical of anyone white and from a particular class born before WWII.

Where do you even begin to untangle this issue? For groups such as Black Lives Matter, the answer is simple. Empire means slavery, repression, exploitation. Empire can have no saving graces. It is a calumny and those who profited from Empire must now make recompense for the gains they made. In the case of the Caribbean islands – the West Indies – this means financial compensation for the descendants of millions of negro slaves shipped to the sugar cane fields of Barbados, Guyana, Belize and Jamaica. How do you calculate incalculable human suffering? Should you even try? Or should a line be drawn underneath the historical suffering and instead, a settlement be made which invests in programmes which re-balance the present and future opportunity stolen from those on the exploited side of the Imperial experience?

For the baby-boomer white generation of Brits schooled post WWII, in the 50s, 60s and 70s, Empire was, predominantly, taught as having been a force for good and, generally, a positive thing. Indeed, in contrast to the way other European Imperial powers ran their overseas territories, British colonists were lauded as beneficent, leaving a legacy of parliamentary democratic government, the rule of law, fair play, a love of sport and Corinthian values, competent civil service, education and infrastructure. At school, my generation was shielded from the other side of Empire – the side experienced by the vast majority, black, brown or yellow. We didn’t discuss the Colonial wars for independence that characterised the 1950s through to the final conflicts in 1970s Rhodesia. The ‘Malayan Emergency’ (so named for insurance purposes, would you believe, because if it was declared to be a war, no one would get any payouts), the Mau Mau in Kenya, Cyprus, Aden…none of these happened at my school. Our focus was on Kings and Queens of England, Magna Carta, the industrial revolution. And, of course, on the Battle of Britain, when Britain stood alone. And in all of that, we never learnt that Elizabeth I had bankrolled the very first slaver ship. No. Instead, we learnt about triangular trade, drew pictures of below decks on slave transports and, star of the show, about the Abolitionists. And when we pulled out of Hong Kong in 1997, it was all, well, jolly civilised and really rather sad. The sun finally setting on a glorious adventure at last.

My version of history was unblemished by the bad side of British Imperialism.

In the span of my father’s adulthood, from serving in the Royal Navy at the end of WWII to his retirement from work in 1986, Britain left some 4/5th of its colonies and protectorates. Peculiarly, this isn’t mentioned in my father’s memoirs. By inclination, my father was a liberal. Yet the only mention of Empire in his 200 page volume My Life is a mention of him going to play tennis at a club in Ceylon (Sri Lanka), whilst in the Royal Navy, and being struck by the notice at the entrance which said: No natives. He played anyway.

And my grandparents on my father’s side, used to catch a banana boat from the UK to South Africa and winter in Cape Town. For three months. My father said it was cheap for them to do this and got them away from the worst of the cold weather in Yorkshire. That they did this for a number of years at the height of Apartheid seemed unworthy of comment. And it is only now, as an adult, that this seems extraordinarily awful.

I do not think that most white Brittons, especially those in rural areas, even remotely understand the sensibilities at play about issues of race and colour and empire. I was at school with people who I know did not vote for Rishi Sunak to lead the Conservative party against Liz Truss because he is coloured. The same people still refer to black people using the N word. This is normal. Do not think that it is not. White supremacy is alive and kicking in rural Britain. It is inbuilt. Centuries of assumptions are laced into white Brittons’ attitudes and behaviour. Our football hooligans, who rampage around Europe causing mayhem and fighting, are no different from the uniformed yobs of the C18th and C19th British Army. Brits, especially Georgian Brits, loved a fight, a brawl and particularly with Johnny Foreigner.

When we encounter different colours of people we exhibit an innate sense of superiority. I have seen, in the Orient, the attitude of British ex pats to Asians. By and large, it is brusque, rude and arrogant. As if they are rather funny little people, not to be worried about or taken too seriously. I have seen whites behaving exactly as they like, heedless of local sensibilities and, in fact, dismissive of them. I know tales of white male business executives who spent their years in Asia going to bars and having blow jobs in booths, in full view of each other. Who ordered up sex as a sort of right and perk of business travel, who had maids and domestic servants at home. Servants who got to see their own children just one weekend a month whilst catering to every whim of their white employers’ children the rest of the time. When the Masters still live in colonial castles, are paid enormous ex pat packages, send their children to the best private schools, are members of the finest clubs and get waited on hand and foot by the indigenous population, is it any wonder that they see Asians as somehow inferior? When their experience of work is white men in charge and local talent as underlings, is it so surprising that they still use phrases such as “choppy choppy!” when they want something done fast?

We are the last colonials. We know intellectually that everyone is equal, that it is wrong to be prejudice. But behaviourally and in the layers beneath the surface, we betray our outer veneer of civilised values. We espouse equality whilst insulating ourselves from the poverty of local communities in tropical hotel compounds. We fly around the globe in big, poluting jets planes to go on eco-holidays where we learn to make our own soap and upcycle. The only time I ever ran into resentment was strolling around Castries in St. Lucia. There I was, 14 years old, dressed in matching red white and blue striped shirt and shorts, the very essence of a white colonial boy. I called over to my parents on the other side of the street and a black man turned on me and said:

What you say, white boy?

I had never felt threatened until that moment. And in the hotel – in a compound, of course – one of the waiters wore a baseball cap with the legend Take this job and stuff it inscribed on it. The resentment towards whites was tangible.

Our trip out east has re-kindled a fascination with the British Empire. Now we are home for Christmas, I am reading George Orwell’s Burmese Days. The truly shocking thing is to read the dialogue of the British characters when arguing whether to let natives join their club. The N-word is everywhere. Orwell was, I am sure, putting into their mouths only that which he had heard real life colonialists say a thousand times. And we watched David Lean’s A passage to India the other night. The east is east and west is west philosophy seems to have permeated the whole colonial lifestyle; no social mixing and definitely no inter-racial relationships.

Our colonial past is constantly intruding in the news – Myanmar’s (Burma’s) Ang Sang Su Shi, legitimate democratic prime minister – has just been sentenced to yet another seven years imprisonment by the ruling military junta as that benighted country struggles with its post colonial identity. ‘Charity boss tells LBC of ‘race interrogation’ ordeal by Prince William’s godmother at Buckingham Palace reception’. The Dutch monarch has just commissioned research into the royal family’s role in colonialism. Germany has just repatriated the Benin Bronzes to Nigeria. The new King Charles III and his heir, William, Prince of Wales, will be unable to kick the can of demands for compensation down the road as the ex colonies get into full cry of outrage now that Queen Elizabeth is gone.

We are the last generation who will enjoy the illusion that the Empire was a good thing. The last generation who will hark back to an era when life for the colonial tribe was good – luxury living, servants, privilege, parties, ex pat lifestyle (a phrase that covers so much). Where we travel now, where the remnants of Empire are scattered, we seek them out; where the buildings have fallen into disrepair, we cry ‘shame!’. Where we can indulge the fantasy for a few weeks, we can imagine the cool oasis of a colonnade and what it must have been like to come into convivial company after months on the plantation. To enjoy the shade of some of the most desirable and luxurious houses in the world – the black and whites in Singapore, the rubber plantation estates Malaysia, sugar cane in Jamaica, coffee in Kenya, tea in Darjeeling and cinnamon in Sri Lanka.

There is clearly a market for this nostalgia. In the hit film, The best exotic marigold hotel (2011), a cast of the UK’s favourite actors live out an alternative romanticised retirement in India’s pink city, Jaipur. It conjures an atmosphere of faded and fondly remembered Raj. My parents loved it. They loved all things to do with the Colonies. In my childhood, all our holidays were in ex colonies: Malta (three times), the West Indies, Mauritius, Gibraltar, Mallorca. In fact, the only time we went beyond the British Empire, to the Italian island of Elba, it was an atrocious experience and put my father off Italy for life. (Oh dear.) When we were in these places, we invariably stayed at old colonial hotels (The Rock in Gibraltar, the Phoenicia in Valletta) and visited British military installations when we travelled around – most memorably, Nelson’s Dockyard in Antigua.

Data shows Leicester and Birmingham have become UK’s first ‘minority majority’ cities in new age of ‘super-diversity’

In the 2021 census, it was found that 18% of the UK’s population is non-white. Christianity is now a minority religion in England and Wales. Our Prime Minister, Rishi Sunak, is a Hindu. The Empire has come home. And our colonialist ex pats are also returning. What sort of Britain are they finding? It is a far cry from the life they were leading in the tropics. Britain is grinding to a halt. The nurses are on strike; the ambulance drivers are on strike. The postmen, the train drivers, border forces and passport control and teachers – all on strike. Some 55,000 refugees have attempted to cross the English Channel in 2022. Over 89,000 refugees from Ukraine; 76,000 from Hong Kong; 21,000 Afghans. And on 3rd January 2023, my wife and son become British subjects as well. It is the end of our five year journey towards citizenship. And it has been a tough road. It is not that easy to become British.

I hope we become more welcoming as a nation. Our current regime, headed by the children of Asian immigrants in the positions of Prime Minister and Home Secretary, has been hostile – it feels very much like the beneficiaries of a tolerant policy pulling up the ladder behind them. There is, it appears, nothing more vindictive or mean-spirited than someone who has benefited from largesse and denying that same kindness to others in the same boat as their own kith and kin. And this country will rue the day. As we find our new role as ‘global Britain’, we’d better start thinking globally and welcoming those from other parts of the globe – especially those who can make a totally legitimate claim that this country, above all others, owes them. Owes them big.

In search of a quiet life after the second world war, Richard Pinney left London to move to a cottage in the Suffolk countryside. He aimed to rekindle traditional and sustainable methods of oyster farming and fishing – a dying trade at the time. He restored deserted oyster beds and experimented with smoking methods. The Butley Orford Oysterage was born and was a success. It’s my favourite place to eat in England. End of. 

The Keans have taken full advantage of Richard Pinney’s success over the years. The Oysterage is a place we’ve had many great meals and where I hold fond memories of childish conversations and infectious laughter. We still eat at The Oysterage once a year on our family holiday to the overwhelmingly Middle-Class village Thorpeness. My brother is now a vegetarian, so we don’t invite him anymore.

The restaurant’s interior is old-fashioned and a bit stiff, resembling a 1930s English tearoom. Paper tablecloths decorated with illustrations of Poseidon cover bulky marble tables, and the chairs look like they’ve been plucked from a school classroom. It’s cold and initially slightly uncomfortable. But The Oysterage isn’t about appearances, it is what it is. And the decor grows on you. Its outdated charm encapsulates a priority towards good food that doesn’t leave you disappointed. 

The Kean clan crosses the Suffolk countryside like wildebeest on migration. We take our seats, watched by diners who like look they’ve never left. Our spread is always the same. Lots of small plates, allowing everyone to try everything. Smoked eel, grilled squid, mussels au gratin, garlicky prawns, deep-fried whitebait, smoked fish pâté, crab cakes, and of course oysters. Three to four ingredients per dish, minimal intervention – maximum fuck me that tastes good.

For me, the smoked eel on toast is the best of the bunch, a testament to Pinney’s method of burning whole oak logs which has barely changed in sixty years. Over-excitedly, I always stuff down my share of the food too quickly and end up watching everyone else enjoying it for longer.

If that doesn’t do the trick, there are several classic desserts on the menu. Their sticky toffee pudding is the best I’ve ever had. Every element of the dish is executed to perfection. It’s a popular sweet at The Oysterage and I am always relieved when they have any left. I take a strange satisfaction from watching the old timers devour ridiculously giant portions of sticky toffee pudding after barely being able to make a dent in their main course.

A glance across the dining room and all you see are smiling faces and clean plates. Customers are no longer concerned with life’s trivial concerns. They are lost in the food. A human phenomenon occurring exclusively in great restaurants. Eating out is about getting stuck into great food, stimulating conversation, and being with the people you love. A great restaurant must not only serve food you want to eat. It must create an ambiance you feel comfortable enough to spend time in. If both those boxes are ticked, you’ll invite your loved ones and get lost together. Here, The Oysterage excels.

The biggest compliment I can give to the Butley Orford Oysterage is that I can still remember, clear as day, my first oyster there. The unexpected creamy texture and dad’s firm instruction on how to correctly eat it. “Lemon, Tabasco and swallow it whole”. I prefer to chew them now. It ignited my love for seafood and sent me on a tasting journey. The Oysterage will always be a nostalgic favourite of mine and many others. It’s very good at what it does: putting high-quality produce on a plate in a simple and sustainable way. I think Richard Pinney would be proud.

My Big Five

1. Fresh Butley Oysters (half a dozen)
2. Smoked eel on toast
3. Breaded Mussels
4. Grilled Squid
5. Sticky Toffee Pudding

One of the highlights at the FT Weekend festival is the session where you get to witness the to-and-fro between the editorial staff over what to write as the leader for the paper. Last year, the big topics were the pandemic and the withdrawal from Afghanistan. This year, in defiance of imagination, the world is in an even more perilous state. Putin, the war in Ukraine, energy prices, NHS collapse, the crisis in social welfare provision. So, what should she do? Here’s what the panel discussed.

Martin Wolf, the economics editor, opened the debate by shouting ‘resign!’, which drew a big cheer from the crowd. Another staffer suggested she form a government of national unity (yes, things appear to be that bad, even to the FT). The hygiene factors came next: construct a cabinet of all the talents and do not just appoint loyalists, as Boris did – in other words, heal the party and put the good of the country first. But even this early in her tenure, it appears that this isn’t what she is going to do. Terrific news that Priti Patel has gone but be careful what you wish for – she’s to be replaced by the even more hawkish Suella Braverman. Secondly, restore confidence in the integrity of the government – but branding the outgoing Boris as ‘my very good friend’ yesterday doesn’t send a strong signal she is putting any ethical clear blue water between her and the previous administration either. Oh dear. 0/2 so far.

Engage constructively and deeply with business. Boris didn’t because his ideologically Brexit-pure regime never trusted big business, which it always saw as remainer at heart. But if Truss sees that the answer to our economic ills is growth, she needs business engaged with the project. Jury’s out.

Price controls – as an idea, this will never see the light of day as it harks back to the era of Heath and Wilson – which is anathema to a would-be Thatcher. Tax increases for the well off. Again, not traditional ground for the Tory party, but popular with the well-to-do audience who seemed up for shouldering their responsibility to help many through a tough winter ahead. (Maybe Richi would have been the FT readership’s choice?)

Reform property and capital gains tax to free up land on which to build and close the loophole which prevents so much tax revenue being collected and exacerbates the disparity between the very rich and the rest of us.

Fund welfare properly to release the 13,000 NHS beds currently being taken up by people who do not need to be in hospital but who cannot move back into the community because there is no provision of help there.

The overwhelming consensus was that she can afford to be brave and magnanimous…but probably won’t be either. With only two years to go before a general election, these next two years will be ‘death or glory’ for her time in Number 10. No Prime Minister has inherited such a crisis. In some ways it is a phenomenal opportunity to be radical, imaginative and daring. I’m not sure those weapons are in her arsenal. I hope I am wrong.

Post script: it was death not glory. She lasted just seven weeks before resigning after doing the exact opposite of what this FT panel advised: she appointed a cabinet of only loyalists to her leadership campaign and excluded the broad church of opinion. She and her Chancellor, Kwasi Kwarteng, announced a ‘fiscal event’ just after the Queen’s funeral that backfired spectacularly. Billions were wiped off the value of the British pound, the Bank of England had to intervene to the tune of £65bn to rescue Government Bonds and she wiped £80k off my pension. Plus left the country with a hole in its finances which has necessitated £70 billion of tax rises and public expenditure cuts. When is this electorate going to tire of the utter incompetence of the five successive Tory leaders since 2010 who have, between them, allowed a catastrophic severance with the EU, mishandled the divorce settlement to piss absolutely everyone off, including the idiots who voted for Brexit, brought Parliament and the government into moral turpitude, been found guilty of cronyism and corruption in purchasing PPE, of selling peerages, of mishandling the pandemic to cause the death of hundreds of thousands of our citizens and, finally, of financially bankrupting the economy?

The anywhere people are my fellow travellers. Nomads who owe loyalty to every place they see and who can quite easily envisage their lives in every location they visit. People to whom the idea of putting down roots in a specific community and being tethered to a place is repugnant. Entrapping, limiting, claustrophobic.

There is a song by Lemon Jello called ‘Ramblin’ man’. This is me. I find myself on the road again, this time in Toronto, Canada. It’s my sixth foreign trip this year. The world truly has blossomed again, opened up. Brussels twice; Paris, Istanbul, California and now Canada. With another trip to Long Beach and the potential of Singapore at the end of the year. Like old times. Old times I took for granted.

Ramblin’ man gets to experience local life. The weird and wonderful thing about my work is that it immerses me in a group intensely for a finite period of time when we get to know one another intimately. The nature of the work I do seems to compel people to confide. As an outsider, I am non-threatening and people are indiscrete in their breaches of confidence with me about work. And often quite open about personal stuff too. If I were a local, this could never happen. I could not be taken into anyone’s confidence because a local is invested. As an outsider, I am not.

It appears that I have chosen an occupation – business consultant – which complements my natural disinclination to get involved. I do not wish to get involved with my clients’ businesses on any permanent basis any more than I wish to immerse my energies into my local community. Church flower arranging, parish council business and Chamber of Commerce shindigs are not my idea of fun.

The corporate citizen is a sub-species of the somewhere person; they put down roots (at least, for a number of years) in one ‘location’ – one firm – and commute. I have no commute, though I have a sort of permanent location in Hove. I do not think of Hove any more affectionately than I do York, or Singapore or San Francisco. I have no close friends in Hove, mere acquaintances and associates. Our social life is entirely elsewhere – wherever our friends happen to be: Michigan State, London, Leicester, Paris, Appleby Magna.

A friend of ours who works at Google, a single woman, travels almost continuously. She is that rare corporate exception and her roving feet have been propelled even faster by the pandemic. She now has the permanent excuse to work from home, and home, for her, can be anywhere. Namibia, the Greek Islands, Czechia are all office locations when the office is irrelevant.

It is good to be a travelling man. A ramblin’ man. I do not ever want to be tethered, at work or at home.

Ramblin’ man

John, you’ve been on the go ever since you were born
And I imagine few people in the world today have travelled as much as you have
Now why?

Well, I dunno
I suppose some of us are cave dwellers, some of us live in houses
Some of us like to be loose footed
I’m a ramblin’ man

I’m a ramblin’ man

Paris
Tibet
Sydney
Naxos

Rangu
Rotterdam
Runcton
The Cayman Islands

Malawi
Mauritius
Haight-Ashbury
Patagonia

Kingston
Kentish Town
Codrington
Koh Samui

Felixstowe
Fingrinhoe
Valmorel
The North Pole

Brixton
Antwerp
Gujarat
Prawle

Uganda
Shennington
Sudbury
Sri Lanka

Ecuador
Edinburgh
Stockholm
Abu Dhabi

Lexington
Lindos
Tokyo
HarlemIpanema
Nicosia
Granada
San Jose

Damascus
Mandalay
San Frandisco
Atlantis

Adelaide
Angmering
Arumpo
Amsterdam

New York
Kabul
Rwanda
Kyoto

Manchester
Prague
Mendhurst
Toronto

Madrid
Melbourne
Dublin
Dakar

Boston
Oslo
Tooting
Belfast

Botswana
Tonga
Rayburn

I’m a ramblin’ man
And you’re going to keep on rambling?
Oh yes, he he, have to