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Everybody loves a lord. Just look at all those hapless people taken in by Eddie Davenport, the playboy conman. Among his 51 victims were Patrick Cox and dress designer Elizabeth Emanuel, who agreed to surrender 65 per cent of her company in return for a £1.5 million investment on condition she paid Davenport £20,000 up front in fees. Sorry! Even to someone innumerate like me that seems a bum deal.
Davenport, or Fast Eddie as he was nicknamed, is described on his website as "a true gentleman from an established British family. What is not so well known is that Davenport really is a lord. His correct manorial title, which he inherited aged 28, is Lord of Giffords, but this is something he chooses not to use" - unlike the more distinguished moniker Lord Edward Davenport, which appears at the bottom of his webpage.
As any fule know, or at least those in possession of Burke's Peerage, only the sons and daughters of dukes, marquesses and earls can add the style "lord" or "lady" to their first names. Lord Edward Davenport was clearly not the son of a duke, marquess or earl (and he was presumably unaware of the distinction), so visitors to his website should have smelt a very large rat. Or a dodgy aristocrat.
Besides, what gentleman ever boasted that he was a gentleman? Or "lives the high life in London and Monaco, rubbing shoulders with celebrity friends"? Those celebrities happy to pose for mugshots with the entrepreneur included Victoria Beckham, Russell Brand, Tamara Beckwith and Sir Mick Jagger. Davenport's website itself is beyond parody.
The Davenport story is vivid proof that toffs continue to exert a strange fascination over our cultural life even though they no longer rule the roost. Call it the Downton Abbey effect - or Brideshead Regurgitated, as Tom Stoppard wittily dubbed the phenomenon.
You might have thought that since Tony Blair packed the House of Lords with cronies, all peers, let alone members of the aristocracy, had become fit for ridicule. But no matter how meritocratic we are ourselves there is something in the British psyche which means we still doff our proverbial caps at "lords and ladies". We still think the lustre of a title will somehow rub off on us. It is a sentimental fantasy borne of false nostalgia.
Toffs no longer lord it over us, thank goodness. They are there largely for our entertainment, to be enjoyed in costume dramas. So in a sense, Elizabeth Emanuel et al got their comeuppance. By all means love a lord but don't take them seriously. Especially if they come with financial strings attached.
Jessie beats the morris men
Hats off to Jessie J for scooping 4 Mobo awards (Best Song, Best Album, Best Newcomer and Best UK Act). Some critics say she shouldn't have won because she's not black but the whole point of the awards is that they celebrate music of black origin. You don't have to be black to perform it.
Just as I think there are too may literary awards these days, so there are too many for music. Why do we need an Orange Prize for female novelists and a Mobo award for music of black origin? Why segregate them? Both categories can compete on a level playing field with male novelists and music of white origin, and more often than not surpass them.
Just imagine the Music of White Origin awards: presumably the sort of tunes that accompany morris dancing would win every time.
Give me Tinie, Rihanna or Jessie over that any day.
The art of keeping your mouth shut
Danish film director Lars von Trier says he will no longer give interviews after he was questioned by police this week following his inflammatoy remarks at the Cannes Film Festival about understanding Hitler. "I realise that I do not possess the skills to express myself unequivocally and I have therefore decided from this day forth to refrain from all pubilc statements," he said.
Strange. I would have thought "Okay, I'm a Nazi," was pretty unequivocal. In which case he's very skilful at it. Or does he really mean to say that he does not possess the skills to express himself equivocally, like Boris Johnson, for example?
If only more creative types would emulate von Trier and take a vow of silence. Great artists on the whole should let their work speak for itself. Every time Damien Hirst opens his gob I think less of his art. By the same token, there are some artists who prove themselves greater than their oeuvre when they open their mouths. The divine Tracey Emin, for one.
Tormented by the Twitterati
Comedian Rob Brydon says he's shocked by the evil abuse he receives on Twitter, without divulging details. You don't have to be a celebrity to suffer the slings and arrows of the Twitterati, as I know. Twitter is the last refuge of the green-ink brigade and I speak as a well-abused journalist.
Whenever I write about a vaguely contentious subject such as foxes (bring back hunting), bullfighting (beautiful sport) or cyclists (sanctimonious kings of the road) I am denounced in the most vicious terms. Twitter is a brilliant tool for finding links to obscure websites and for giving the impotent a voice. But when the voices become so shrill and abusive, it becomes akin to an ugly, braying mob.
Reader views (1)
I thought the point of the Davenport story had been that he'd used (another) false name for the purposes of the scam & not his 'lordly' one? So the punters weren't even aware they were dealing with him. Surely if he'd used his usual moniker he'd have been far less successful, as nearly all us know he's a total shyster.
- Ruth, London, UK, 07/10/2011 14:11
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