Morning:
14°c
The other night I was invited to dinner by Jonathan Downey, owner of Milk & Honey, at his new venture, The East Room in Shoreditch.
Halfway through the meal I suddenly gulped — and it wasn't the 1965 Armagnac that gave me pause. Mr Downey announced that he was going to host a Death of Capitalism party at his club on 1 May.
A week on, I still can't work out whether this is a feel-bad or a feel‑good story. Any excuse for a party is surely a good thing. But should we be so keen to gloat over our own demise? Karl Marx predicted the death of capitalism in 1848, when he published The Communist Manifesto. He is in Highgate cemetery and capitalism is still going, albeit with a few hiccups.
Instead of celebrating, I am doing my bit for the British economy. I bought a new bed last week, I have got the builders round to repair my leaking roof and, yes, I am not ashamed to admit it, I am a culinary protectionist. I go out and eat at British restaurants (Sally Clarke's, Le Café Anglais), not filthy old McDonald's. It's epicureanism without a guilty conscience.
So I, for one, will not be joining Mr Downey on 1 May. If you want to do your bit to hasten the end of the world as we know it, by all means get on down to The East Room and man the barricades. But be warned: you will have to pay an entrance fee. The death of capitalism does not come cheap.
* New York, watch out. Rupert Everett is making his Broadway debut in Blithe Spirit next Tuesday. The last time he was in a Noël Coward play — The Vortex, in 1989 — he sent his own pubic hair to an elderly couple who had written to him complaining that his West End matinée performance was inaudible. The actor said he hoped the enclosure “may make up for any inconvenience”. The couple spilt the beans to the Evening Standard in protest. His American critics had better be prepared. Our Rupe is a sensitive soul.
* Ever since I went to the British premiere of Ocean, by Merce Cunningham, at the Roundhouse two years ago, I vowed never to watch contemporary dance again. The music was cacophonous, the choreography inexplicable and rarely have I seen so many audience members leave before the end of a show.
On Saturday I broke my vow and went to Eonnagata at Sadler's Wells, a collaboration between Robert Lepage, Russell Maliphant and Sylvie Guillem. The production was a mixed bag but Guillem blew me away. The ballerina is so limber she makes Madonna look geriatric. Sylvie, I abhor dance but I would gladly watch you all night long.
