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It used to be a rather bleak joke that there were more men called Dave in David Cameron's shadow cabinet than there were women. In a triumph for equal opportunities, these days there are only three Daves, and four women.
The group which is over-represented, however, is former students of Magdalen College, Oxford. There are five “wilted lilies”, or old members, serving in Cabinet: the Chancellor, George Osborne; the Foreign Secretary, William Hague; the Energy Secretary Chris Huhne; the Attorney-General Dominic Grieve and the Culture Secretary, Jeremy Hunt.
It should come as no surprise that none of these alumni is female. When I arrived in 1990, women had only been allowed in 10 years before and, though my fellow students were charming, some tutors had issues with “lady members”. One old don made it his aim to reduce me to tears in every tutorial. It might have been that he was bored — he set every student the same essay questions, week in, week out, for 20 years. Or perhaps, it was rumoured, he'd suffered a bitter divorce which, as well as turning him into a misogynist, had driven him to break into the college library to burn the academic tomes written by his scholarly ex-wife.
His wasn't the only destructive impulse. A drunken student (now a company director) swinging, Tarzan-like, out of the windows of the Junior Common Room gave an ancient sculpture of a greyhound a swipe with his feet and smashed it to smithereens on the flagstones below. Undaunted, the president of the college, who should have known better, borrowed a beautiful full-sized mirrored sculpture of a winged unicorn from the flamboyant artist Andrew Logan. This was erected amid great fanfares but only lasted a couple of weeks before the same student snapped its horn off. Andrew Logan's response was unprintable.
Male students had two sets of black tie, one for smart occasions they were invited to and one “combat” black tie for gatecrashing events in which they would have to survive an army-style assault course of stone walls, electric fences and Alsatians before arriving, muddy and dishevelled at whatever ball they had failed to buy a ticket for. Frequently, this outfit was accessorised with lashings of badly applied black eyeliner.
Perhaps, though, as well as revelling in the wood-panelled, beer-scented masculinity of the place, something they have sought to replicate in the House of Commons, the MPs did learn some bad habits during their time at Magdalen. The college bills, called battels, were not itemised, and most of the wealthy students' parents paid them without question. Little did they know that anything we bought at the college shop (bestseller Moët et Chandon, £16 a bottle) went straight onto battels, to be settled up by them at the end of term. Bad habits that would die hard in the Commons.
Kate cracks the whip …
We at ES magazine have our own reasons for believing an engagement announcement from the Palace may be imminent. Pippa Middleton, younger, prettier sister of the princess-in-waiting, wanted to talk to us about her online party magazine, The Party Times, and we were agog to hear all about it.
So, at 7am one August morning, our photographers, stylists and writer were descending on Fortnum and Mason laden with Alberta Ferretti dresses, 30 Hummingbird Bakery cupcakes, 40 Harrods cupcakes, 30 Ladurée macaroons and five Knickerbocker Glories as props. (These are, I'm told, a nightmare to transport.)
Just then an apologetic Pippa rang: “I'm so, so, sorry, but I was talking to my sister last night, and she just isn't happy about this.” And with that, the photoshoot collapsed.
Wills should take note: when Kate cracks the whip, everyone jumps into line …
JK's superior style of donating
My admiration for JK Rowling is unequalled — she's the only writer whose books, read aloud by Stephen Fry, can make me lose concentration during an intense game of Racing Demon. And I particularly like her way of raising money for causes she cares about, in this case to combat the multiple sclerosis that killed her mother.
Many rich-list do-gooders host splashy charity balls and encourage their less well-off guests to bid for auction lots they don't want, reluctantly donated by third parties. Alternatively, they run a marathon in a silly costume and demand sponsorship.
Not JK. She quietly opens her own wallet and writes a fat cheque.
Glamour of the bed bug man
A friend in New York has started dating the ultimate super-hero. He's not from Krypton, nor has he been bitten by a radioactive spider. He's the bed-bug man who, armed with a sniffer-beagle, goes round exterminating the Manhattanites' latest plague. His stock is high, and my friend is in seventh heaven. Whether the relationship lasts beyond the infestation, when his glamour wears off, remains to be seen.
Reader views (1)
What about the Cabinet of DR. CALIGARI ?
- Richard Merrell, Wentworth Falls, NSW Australia, 03/09/2010 06:48
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