Bruce Anderson | The Spectator columnists & writers

The Eton vs Winchester of the wine world

A few days ago, when everything looked black, a small group of us were consoling ourselves over a couple of good bottles. ‘In politics,’ said I, ‘things are never as bad as you fear, or as good as you hope.’ ‘I entirely agree,’ replied one friend. ‘At the moment, things are not as bad as I fear. They are worse.’ That was before Bojo lost his mojo. Has his curse now finally been lifted from the Conservative party? It would be foolish to offer a swift and complacent ‘yes’. Among the political figures Boris resembles, we must include not only Alcibiades, Silvio Berlusconi and Donald Trump. There is also Rasputin. Can we be certain that Mr Johnson has been given the full fatal dosage: icy Neva, silver bullet, poisoned cake, stake through the heart? Nothing less is guaranteed to be sufficient.

A wine company after Roger Scruton’s heart

‘Golden’ is often used to describe the hue of some wines in the glass. But there is another resemblance. Gold is a beautiful metal as well as a store of value. Wine, covetable for its taste, can also be a store of value, at least for many years. So it inevitably attracts the attention of investors, the best of whom want to deploy expertise partly in order to finance their drinking. The late Roger Scruton, no less, once wrote a piece explaining how it was possible to drink Château Lafite free. You estimate your future needs and then buy twice the quantity. Within a few years, you should be able to sell half your bottles for the cost of the whole. I never asked him whether he had tried this out. But there is a firm based in London which is run on Scrutonian lines.

Why the dry martini is the finest cocktail of all

We were discussing bourbon and whether American whiskey could ever rival Scotch. I recalled the first time I ever tried the transatlantic spirit. It was more than 50 years ago, in an undergraduate room in Oxford. The occupant was an ingenious fellow. At the beginning of one term, he wrote to Jim Beam, the whiskey makers. He informed them that he had discovered their wonderful product in the States, but it appeared to be impossible to come by in Oxford, which was a pity, because it deserved to be better known (in truth he had never tasted it and had never been to the US). A case shortly arrived, followed by another at the beginning of next term, and so on. He sent enthusiastic letters of thanks, assuring the Beam-ites that his friends were developing a lifelong taste for the stuff.

A toast to absent friends

There have been few more momentous weeks in British history, or indeed in world history. This commentator must plead guilty. To draw on George Bush Jr, I mis-underestimated Liz Truss and appear to have made the same mistake about Ukraine. That said, we should all be relieved when the war is over on favourable terms, and tactical nukes have remained an item in Russian military doctrine, without becoming part of military practice. Another mis-underestimation has now been corrected, one hopes permanently. Though I was never guilty, the former Prince of Wales had not received the respect that was his due. That is not true of King Charles III. Throughout the United Kingdom, his first coronation has already taken place, in his loyal subjects’ hearts.

A toast to the field marshals

August may not be the cruellest month but it is often the most dangerous one. Now that it is over, and rosé is giving way to grouse, we can console ourselves. There has not been a world war. We merely face a number of middle--ranking crises. Over fortifying bottles, I was chatting about such matters with friends who had known the late Peter Inge, a dominating figure even by field marshal standards. It was said that in his company, brigadiers’ coffee cups would rattle with tension. I once taxed him with the contrast between his reputation as a martinet’s martinet and his geniality in private life. ‘If there is any truth in what you say – which of course I deny – remember that as Commander-in-Chief in Germany, I could put brigadiers and indeed major-generals through the fire, just as I had been by Baggy [Field Marshal Nigel Bagnall] and see what they were made of.

At least we still have wine

Even in recent heat, the English summer can be magical. As long as there is shade, a pool and a steady supply of cooling wine, there is so much to enjoy. Trees, flowers, songbirds, butterflies: dolce far niente works here too. But thinking can be the snake which insinuates itself into Eden. Susan Hill’s Simon Serrailler books are always excellent train reading and the latest was no exception, even if the principal character always puts one in mind of Turner’s supposed reply to someone who said that they had never seen a sunset like the one which he had painted. ‘But don’t you wish you could?’ It is hard to believe that there are many actual policemen like Simon Serrailler – more’s the pity. There are other reasons for pity.

Should you really pair Pimm’s with oysters?

Imagine a camel train, crossing the great desert. The remaining water is rancid; the beasts’ humps are shrunken. Death looms. Then suddenly, there is the sound of a fountain plashing and the scent of sherbet. Old Abdullah, who has done the journey often, as he has been reminding everyone for ten days and making his companions increasingly homicidal, is vindicated. The oasis is at hand. Although Londoners, afflicted by heat, may feel affinity with those sons of the desert, our conditions are not so dire. For a start, there are many more oases, in the form of bars or clubs. That brings us to Pimm’s, that admirable method of rehydration. According to the sources, Mr Pimm invented the drink to accompany oysters. Eh? I have never tried the combination, but on consulting my palate, am assured that it would not do.

Think pink: there’s no shame in quaffing rosé in England

In the battle of ideas, it is sometimes necessary to make a tactical withdrawal. That is now the case over climate change. This should not be confused with a full retreat. But in the circumstances, those who insist on the need for lifestyle changes have a point, at least when it comes to wine. Some time ago, I propounded a dictum. Rosé should only be drunk south of Lyon. One could start quite early – 10.30 perhaps, opening the first bottle while brushing away the final crumbs of croissant. Apart from a very few serious wines, it would not matter if the stuff were cooled to ice-lolly temperature. But in this heat, there is no shame in quaffing rosé in England. Other wines can be problematic. Freedom and whisky gang thegither.

The ghost of Thatcher is haunting the Tory leadership race

At least one groundless anxiety has surfaced during the Tory leadership contest. It concerns Boris Johnson's future and the fear that he will try to undermine his successor, in the way Margaret Thatcher treated John Major. But that ought to be the least of the party’s anxieties. It is true that Boris will not display any loyalty to the new leader, or to the party – or indeed to the country. If he were to give an honest response, it would be a simple one: 'What's in it for me?’ He needs money. Freed from the constraints of Downing Street, he will want to have fun (watch him, Carrie). But this will all lead him, not towards serious political engagement, but to the light entertainment industry. He is not another Margaret Thatcher any more than he is a second Winston Churchill.

My memorable night at the Carlton Club

‘Club’ is a four-letter word. Whenever a club is mentioned in the press, it will inevitably be portrayed as a sinister meeting place where men gather in secret to plot against the common weal. If only. The main point about all clubs is that they are fun. That is true in St James’s. It is also true in the working-men’s clubs of the north and Midlands. That said, the Carlton Club could claim to be a special case, although anyone entering its portals in the hope of coming across louche behaviour would be disappointed (almost always). But it could be regarded as a trustee of the Conservative party. As such, it has provided the setting for crucial events, most notably in 1922. Then, the Conservative Parliamentary Party met at the Carlton – in a previous building – and decided to dispense with Lloyd George.

A voyage through fine wine off Sardinia

One could get used to this. I come from seafaring stock, albeit distant. ‘Anderson’ suggests Viking antecedents, especially as my forebears came from the Shetland Islands. Yet there must have been something wrong with the first Anderson. Other Vikings reached Normandy, Sicily, even Byzantium. At the very least, they found the odd monastery to plunder. Later, their Norman descendants compensated for cultural destruction with cultural creation. But to endure the rigours of crossing from Norway and then disembark on Shetland? Was my remote ancestor seasick, or mutinous, or did he rape the cabin boy? We will never know. A millennium or so later, life at sea was rather different. We were on a yacht, cruising between Sardinia and Corsica.

A claret to toast the Queen – and forget the Prime Minister

It was an extraordinary weekend. The various spectacles had something for all tastes: pageantry on Horse Guards; solemnity in St Paul’s; the street party of all street parties on the Mall. And there was also food for thought. What does this tell us about the monarchy, and about Britain? I discussed it with a French friend, abetted by some moderately serious claret. We agreed that France was a monarchy masquerading as a republic; Spain, a republic pretending to be a monarchy. As for Britain, the monarchy is as secure as it has ever been. The evolution of British institutions regularly refutes Our Lord Himself. It is possible to put new wine into old bottles. Ancient forms change, but the best changes are imperceptible, as they also ought to be when it comes to an ancient building.

The perfect pairing of books and wine

In the West End of London there is an alley which insinuates its way between the Charing Cross Road and St Martin’s Lane. It is called Cecil Court, and the Salisbury pub is close at hand. Those are clues. The area around Cecil Court has been owned by the Salisbury branch of the Cecil family since the 17th century. For a long period, it was not a salubrious area. At least one local was hanged. Others were transported. There may have been a whorehouse or two. The ambience resembled a cross between Fagin’s kitchen and Mistress Quickly’s Boar’s Head, with Doll tearing the sheets. Then everything changed, thanks to Victorian morality and political pressure. The Third Marquess of Salisbury was a devout churchman as well as a prime minister.

The horror of gluten-free beer

I was reminded of the worst liquid that I have ever consumed. It was the last occasion on which I drank Coca-Cola, nearly 50 years ago. To be fair to Coke, this bottle was at room temperature, and the room was in the Anatolian peninsula, during the ferocity of high summer. A group of us were travelling in a battered old bus, still four hours by bad roads from Izmir, hot water and cold beer. Having run out of bottled water, we needed something to stave off dehydration. The village offered a choice: well water or parboiled Coke. An aristocratic French leftie was moved to a declamation: ‘Moi, j’ai un horreur de Coca-Cola.’ I concurred. But as every mouthful of well water would have contained at least 20 organisms lethal to a delicately nurtured western European stomach, there was no choice.

Do the Tories really want Boris to fight the next election?

In large part, these local elections were a referendum on a basic proposition. Do the government and the Prime Minister deserve a kick in the pants? As it was virtually impossible to argue against that verdict, Boris Johnson could claim to have done surprisingly well. Indeed, some of his Tory critics are disappointed with the outcome. It does not justify an immediate coup. That said, it seems certain that many of the Tory losses can be blamed on Boris. A lot of traditional Tories, who are used to seriousness in their own lives, will not accept lower standards in their prime minister. This appears to have been especially true in London. In local elections, London always attracts disproportionate attention. Keir Starmer will be grateful for that.

Tony Blair was a victim of his own success

Napoleon is said to have placed a high value on lucky generals, though no one has succeeded in identifying the source of the quote. Then again, he would hardly have been in favour of unlucky ones. Luck is equally important in politics. For ten years, Margaret Thatcher had it, and exploited it ruthlessly. Her successor, John Major, was less fortunate. Events, and his opponents, seemed determined to give him the doubt of every benefit. He hardly had any luck, and his enemies were also ruthless, in exploiting its absence. What a contrast with Tony Blair – who celebrates the 25th anniversary of his 1997 election win today. No British politician has ever enjoyed such a cornucopia of good fortune. In his political career, he had started out as Gordon Brown’s younger brother.

A taste of la dolce vita in Tuscany

Amid the grandeur of old Edinburgh, in the lee of the castle, is one of the finest buildings in Scotland: George Heriot’s School. But Heriot’s is more than an architectural gem. It is an epitome of Scotland as it used to be, before the Scottish esprit de corps succumbed to kailyard grievance-mongering under the rule of Sturgeon the tricoteuse and her Nationalist administration. George Heriot, ‘Jingling Geordie’ as he was nicknamed after the coins supposedly jingling in his pockets, was one of many Scotsmen who went south to make their fortune after the Union of the Crowns in 1603. ‘The noblest prospect a Scotsman ever sees is the high road… to England’ applied then as well as in Dr Johnson’s time. Heriot served as a goldsmith and banker to James the Sixth and First and also as a court jeweller to his Queen, Anne of Denmark.

The wine of the Wild Geese

The Irish rarely understate their achievements. Yet there is one exception. Over the centuries, the links between Catholic Ireland and the Bordeaux wine trade have been fruitful. O’Brien (Pepys’s Ho Bryan, now Haut Brion), Lynch, Barton and many other names: these are enduring memorials to a fruitful relationship. But the best-known Hibernian exiles were warriors. From the 16th century onwards, Irish soldiers served with distinction in continental armies. Their numbers increased after the Battle of the Boyne. London wanted to break the power of Gaelic, Catholic Ireland for all time, and one way of doing so was to expropriate the native landowners. Many of them decided to repair their fortunes elsewhere. They became known as the Wild Geese.

War, wine and the brilliance of Beychevelle

If only toasts and good wishes were weapons of war. At every serious repast I have attended since the invasion began, someone has raised a glass to the heroes – and heroines – of Ukraine. The rest of us have responded with a blend of solemnity and moist-eyed emotion. One’s emotions are strange. I can read about the deaths of warriors on the battlefield, now riding with the Valkyries on their way to Valhalla, and merely respond with a dry-eyed salutation. But hearing of some old girl who had been living in hunger and squalor and terror in a cellar for days and indeed weeks, with the regular crump of shellfire threatening death at any moment, and now weeping with joy not only because she had been evacuated but because she had been able to bring her cat with her; that is tear-duct time.

A toast to the platonic ideal of diplomatic intellect

My dear friend Richard Stow is a most congenial fellow. A serious financial entrepreneur, he is also a clubman and an oenophile. Over a sound meal and good bottles, he enjoys convening a group of old muckers. They are all well into the respectabilities of middle life. Some of them have already featured in the Honours List. Others are heading in that direction. But Richard still manages to evoke the atmosphere of an undergraduate dining club. Begone, dull care. So when he proposed a dinner with a diplomatic theme and some estimable bottles, I was delighted. These are times when care has ceased to be dull: heart-rending is more accurate. An evening away from the news was attractive. Not that we could evade Ukraine, in the presence of two ambassadors.

The story of Tuscany’s all-female winery

The inhabitants of Tuscany and Umbria can claim to be the most civilised beings on the planet, even exceeding the Afrikaners and the Ulster Prods. In the farms, villages and hill towns, there is an easy understanding of life’s pleasures, naturally including food and drink. One might describe it as prelapsarian, except that Adam and Eve did not drink wine – which surely justifies the Fall. Well done, that serpent. It is easy to imagine the course of events on a typical morning in a typical village. Lorenzo has decided to visit the dottore. His wife has been nagging him about his liver, insisting he cuts back on grappa. What nonsense, as he is sure that the dottore will confirm. But when he arrives at the surgery, the nurse is oddly evasive.

A toast to Victorian Britain

Across oceans and continents, less favoured nations produce more history than they can consume. In these islands, the English — as opposed to the Scots and the Irish — merely consume a lot of well-written military history. The other evening, stimulated by a few decent bottles, someone raised a hoary question. If we could have been born in an earlier century — pre-20th — which would we have chosen? What epoch was worthy to compare with the Antonines and those Good Emperors, as praised by Gibbon? The consensus was that, assuming a strong constitution and plenty of money, the long 19th century in Britain, from the end of the Napoleonic Wars to 1914, would have been as good as any. Of course, we must restrain the roseate glow of retrospect.

Why Sardinian wine is one to watch

The larger islands of the Mediterranean all have their glories. Fought over for millennia, they now seem to have attained stability as part of the post-1945 political order, but the records of the long epochs of conflict are among the most fascinating aspects of European history. The successive waves of conquest have left material to delight archaeologists and aesthetes. Although western Sicily stands above them all, the intricacies of Sardinia’s history and culture can enthral the scholar, and the visitor. Prehistoric inhabitants left interesting traces as did Phoenicians, who were succeeded by Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals and Byzantium. Then, for more than four centuries, Sardinia was part of the Kingdom of Aragon.

The real reason Boris is unfit to be prime minister

Three years ago, imagine that you had wanted to write a film script about a prime minister and his travails. By some coincidence, your draft bore a close relationship to Boris Johnson’s character and recent developments. We know the outcome. You would have been laughed out of the producer’s office. ‘Some of this is quite amusing,’ you would have been told. ‘You clearly have a talent for slapstick. But you have none for verisimilitude. You are writing about the head of government of a serious country, at a time of great events and challenges, at home and abroad. And this is how you portray the PM and 10 Downing Street? Donnez-moi un break. How long a break? In the last few hours, Boris may have been granted a stay of execution.

It’s time for Boris Johnson to go

The partygate farce drags on. Do we have a government, sustained by a dominant political party or do we have an ill-run children's playground? The PM has suffered a humiliating loss of authority, which is surely irreversible. He is no longer the First Lord of the Treasury. He has become the first laughing-stock of state. In one respect, Boris Johnson was always an improbable Prime Minister. From Attlee onwards, all post-war premiers could have claimed to be serious people. History might question whether that was really true of Harold Wilson or Tony Blair but at various stages they both dominated British politics. At least for a season, to use a phrase of Joe Chamberlain's, they made the weather. That was never true of Boris, for one overriding reason.

A magnificent malt worthy of Burns

The bleak midwinter. Actually, since I wallowed in curmudgeonly complaints about dreich days, everything has improved. Clear blue skies, pleasing sunsets: perfect shooting weather. It is cold, admittedly, but that holds no terrors for those of us well insulated. The rest can wrap up. At least pro tem, we have moved to midwinter spring. In that spirit, over a pre-Burns supper, a few merry gentlemen were discussing humorous verse. Which is the funniest poem in English? A million years ago, when I was slogging through ‘The Knight’s Tale’, a school-fellow alerted the class to ‘The Miller’s Tale’, which follows on (not to be confused with English batsmen). Chaucer obviously felt his readers deserved light relief, and provided it.

A rioja to beat the new year blues

There was only one flaw in my Christmas this year. I did not spend enough of it with Santa Claus-age children. It is of course easier to delight in the charm if one does not live with the brats all year round. However adorable they may be, there are moments when they are also living instances of the doctrine of Original Sin. Moreover, in a Father Christmas household, it is helpful to have a bedroom some way from the parents. Admonitions will have been issued. The little ones will have been prohibited from invading the parents’ room until, say, 8 a.m. But admonitions do not automatically command obedience. Misrule is — and should be — one of the joys of Christmas Day. There can be pathos as well. Roy Hattersley once wrote that one of the sadnesses of human life is that animals you love will predecease you.

The promise of South Africa

‘Earth has not anything to show more fair.’ One can admire the view from Westminster Bridge and feel near the epicentre of a great civilisation, but still believe that Wordsworth was exaggerating. His line came to mind when I was thinking about Christmases past, two of which I was fortunate enough to spend in the Cape. That scenery really is hard to rival. In the 1980s, the Cape offered five of life’s greatest pleasures. Landscape, politics, shooting, wine — and about 120 miles from Cape Town, there is an enchanting village called Arniston, or Waenhuiskrans, not far from Cape Agulhas, the southernmost point of Africa. Its inhabitants are Cape Coloured fishermen, living in charming white cottages and speaking only Afrikaans.

Raising a glass to Grey Gowrie

A group of us had gathered together to raise a glass, tell stories, to laugh and to mourn. It was a lunch to mark the passing of Grey Gowrie. Although we were an interesting and diverse group (this writer excepted), we could all agree on one point. Over longish lives spent in lively company, Grey stood out, not only for his intellectual firepower but for his originality and his exoticism. His family name was Ruthven, and his ancestors had played a conspicuous and frequently violent part in the chronic disorders of late-medieval Scottish life. Effectively, they were aristocratic brigands. After a couple of hundred years in which they disappeared from history, they made an appropriate return to the high peerage, via warfare.

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