Two vignettes and one conclusion: the Tony Blair Institute in summer-party mode, with the late sunlight washing across London from a theatre balcony, and deep worries about Andy Burnham from Labour donors and veterans. Will he do a deal with the Greens? How left is he going? When I express guarded optimism about the new regime, one senior figure puts his palms together and says with a smile, “I pray for you.” Hmm. And then, the final afternoon of my show of paintings and drawings in Bermondsey. A New Statesman reader arrives, just down from the Durham Miners’ Gala, which was full of the bloodcurdling warnings to Burnham against back-sliding. I hope our new prime minister is a neat dancer.
On being a gadfly in a summer of sport
I’m writing this at the beginning of the week. There is no point in pretending. At the time of writing, nobody south of the border is interested in anything except England-Argentina. Even I, a sport atheist, am being dragged in. Three words separate the genuine sport enthusiast from saddos like me. Whether it’s endless back-passing on the football field, or serve after unbroken serve, they are: “But nothing’s happening.” I can’t help it. At least in a Shostakovich string quartet, the action is constant. I have noticed one obvious parallel between sport and politics: in the end, it is character – focus, staying power, determination to avoid failure and distractions on every side – that separates triumph from disaster.
Bohemian rhapsodising
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For the soul