Petronella Wyatt | The Spectator columnists & writers

I have not given up on my Build Back Boris campaign, which is the most pressing concern facing the UK. Once a beloved national monument like Nelson’s Column, this formerly majestic edifice has been chipped away by wokery in all its destructive forms, led by the country’s leading demolition expert, Carrie Symonds. It will cost millions and take years to rebuild him, but donors such as my friends William Shawcross and the historian Andrew Roberts have pledged their assistance and expertise. In the past few weeks, however, there has been serious subsidence, and a potentially catastrophic leaning to the south, like the Tower of Pisa. By the south I mean the London elites and scientific advisers who believe a Covid variant with milder symptoms is an excuse to prevent us from having a good time.

Build Back Boris!

As a clarion call, a sounding of hosannas, a piece of fiery rhetoric to hold puissance over the soul of the nation, 'Build Back Better' is a raspberry. It is a stock that will never sell, a verbal wreck. It lacks zing and pep and, above all, Boris. If Lenin had disembarked from his sealed train and told the frenzied crowds that he would 'Build Back Better', they would have packed him back to the Huns. Having said that, there were times yesterday when Boris riffed on the theme and seemed a bit more himself. ‘Build Back Beaver,’ he said. (Was Carrie backstage?) And even ‘Build Back Burger,’ which sounded encouragingly like the Boris of yesteryear that we have missed so sorely. That’s when a thought struck me.

Spectator Out Loud

Revd Marcus Walker, Douglas Murray and Petronella Wyatt

24 min listen

Spectator Out Loud

Revd Marcus Walker, Douglas Murray and Petronella Wyatt

24 min listen

On this week's episode: Revd Marcus Walker shares his concern and disapproval at being described by the Church of England as an 'Key Limiting Factor' (00:26). Then Douglas Murray looks at the tricky subject of transracialism (09:48)And finally Petronella Wyatt gives her two cents on modern day Westminster culture (17:15).Presented by Sam Holmes

The Prince Harryfication of Boris Johnson

The acting one sees upon the stage doesn’t show how human beings actually comport themselves in crises, but simply how actors think they ought to. It is the same with politicians, but they are not actors, only a sort of reductio ad absurdum of a thespian. Their profession bears the same relation to proper acting (so-called) as that of a card sharp or a divorce lawyer bears to poetry. Take Michael Gove, whom I have known since I was 21, and Matt Hancock, whom (I thank God fasting) I don’t know at all. Were this a play, Hancock would not have left his wife and three children for a well-known flirt, who I have seen in action on several occasions fluttering her eyelashes at other married men. As for the Goves, I am sorry that they are divorcing, but it is unusual that there is no third party involved.

Boris Johnson’s surprising new love of animals

I am amused to learn that Carrie Symonds interrupts cabinet meetings to complain about newspaper stories featuring her dog Dilyn. I was surprised that Boris agreed to a rescue dog in Downing Street. In all the years I have known him, he has never seemed very fond of animals; at least he has always shown a rather cavalier attitude towards Mini. Mini is a gentle soul, with the milk of canine kindness bursting from every pore. The only person she has ever attacked is our current Prime Minister. One could plead this was out of self-defence. Boris had just sat on her.

Petronella Wyatt: I’m not surprised Michael Gove is a lockdown fanatic

What this government needs is a good dose of the London mob, which at its height in the 18th century would express its displeasure in no uncertain terms. In those days, the political system, as I once observed to Boris when he believed in rights, was one of aristocracy tempered by rioting. The mob, whose members ran from tinkers to duchesses, acted as a curative to despotic politicians, whose carriages would be waylaid and their occupants turned upside down. The word ‘liberty’ was then chalked on their shoes. A bystander in 1770 described an apparently good-humoured riot of ‘half-naked men and women, children, chimney-sweepers, tinkers, Moors and men of letters, fishwives and females in grand array’. This fills me with nostalgia, as we are less free now than 300 years ago.

Petronella Wyatt: My food fights with Boris

I have been in Istanbul, partly to research a French-born collateral ancestor of mine, Aimée Dubucq, who, according to legend, was captured by Corsairs in 1778 and presented to the Sultan of Turkey as a gift. Known in captivity as Naksh, or ‘The Beautiful One’, she was 19 when she was taken by boat to Seraglio Point, where stands the Topkapi Palace, the most exquisite and imposing royal residence in the world. The chief black eunuch, Son Altesse Noir, inspected every new arrival to the Harem, and he would have escorted Aimée through its kiosks, pavilions and gardens of splashing fountains, past the sound of parakeets squawking and, less happily, the cries of miscreants in the dungeons. Not even Turkish scholars know what really happened in the Harem.

Boris Johnson is nothing like Winston Churchill

Boris Johnson is nothing like Churchill, a view with which my friend Andrew Roberts concurs. But in the 20-odd years I have known Boris, I have often been struck by his similarity to John Wilkes, 18th-century politician, journalist and catnip to women. A wit and a showman, Wilkes, who denounced European entanglements and championed the rights of the electorate over parliament, was the first politician to achieve celebrity status. One of Boris’s endearing traits is that he has never regarded himself as an enticing proposition in the looks department. Wilkes had a squint, but he said: ‘Give me half an hour to talk away my face and I can seduce any woman ahead of the handsomest man in England.’ He stole Casanova’s favourite mistress and had numerous illegitimate children, and it was for him that Dr Johnson coined ‘Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel’.

Petronella Wyatt: The time I saw Boris cry

Boris Johnson is nothing like Churchill, a view with which my friend Andrew Roberts concurs. But in the 20-odd years I have known Boris, I have often been struck by his similarity to John Wilkes, 18th-century politician, journalist and catnip to women. A wit and a showman, Wilkes, who denounced European entanglements and championed the rights of the electorate over parliament, was the first politician to achieve celebrity status. One of Boris’s endearing traits is that he has never regarded himself as an enticing proposition in the looks department. Wilkes had a squint, but he said: ‘Give me half an hour to talk away my face and I can seduce any woman ahead of the handsomest man in England.’ He stole Casanova’s favourite mistress and had numerous illegitimate children, and it was for him that Dr Johnson coined ‘Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel’.

Diary - 11 July 2019

I am beginning to feel like a sort of fairground curiosity: one of those pickled things in jars that Victorians stared at. It is Boris’s fault. Because I once had a close friendship — all right, all right, a tendresse — with Mr Johnson, I am pointed at, photographed, and harried in the aisles of shops. Soon members of the public will be tearing off bits of my clothes — something Russian peasants used to do with anyone who had met the Tsar, as if this would bestow some of Batiushka’s divine status. Tabloid journalists doorstep me, believing I have the answers. I am a female Zoltan Kapathy; not so much an imposterologist as a Borisologist. My present policy is to pretend that I am insane. Just as no insane person could be executed under the law (until Henry VIII changed it), I operate on the premise that no journalist will bother with a person who isn’t playing with a full deck.

Donald Trump is an awkward ginger snob – and he owes me £20

I am no admirer of Donald Trump — not because he is a doomsayer and professional patriot but because he is a fake and, worse, he owes me money. A few years back I was telephoned by a friend. ‘I have to give a dinner for Donald Trump,’ he said, dolorously. ‘He entertained me in Palm Beach and now he’s over here.’ The dinner was in a bijou Mayfair restaurant and we were a party of about eight. Let me say one thing for Trump: he isn’t stupid. We had never met, but he spotted me for an Englishwoman right away. The other guests were various members of the London ton, including an hereditary peer and the son of a duke (despite Mr Trump’s professed belief in the infallibility of the common people, he has unerring snobbisme and would rather meet a titled Englishman than George Washington, were he alive today.

Diary - 5 May 2016

I am no admirer of Donald Trump — not because he is a doomsayer and professional patriot but because he is a fake and, worse, he owes me money. A few years back I was telephoned by a friend. ‘I have to give a dinner for Donald Trump,’ he said, dolorously. ‘He entertained me in Palm Beach and now he’s over here.’ The dinner was in a bijou Mayfair restaurant and we were a party of about eight. Let me say one thing for Trump: he isn’t stupid. We had never met, but he spotted me for an Englishwoman right away. The other guests were various members of the London ton, including an hereditary peer and the son of a duke (despite Mr Trump’s professed belief in the infallibility of the common people, he has unerring snobbisme and would rather meet a titled Englishman than George Washington, were he alive today.

The perils of dressing - and undressing - for parties

I recall a male friend telling me about an encounter he once had with Bindy Lambton, the eccentric estranged wife of the late Lord Lambton. They had been to the same party and it was snowing outside. ‘Would you mind coming home with me?’ she enquired. ‘I’m not propositioning you. I’m too old. It’s just that I need someone to undo the back of my dress'. On asking how she managed to undress when alone, Lambton answered breezily, 'I go out on the street , hail a taxi and ask the driver to unzip me. But it’s too cold to do that tonight.’ Oh, the perils of dressing, and undressing for parties, particularly during what is called the festive season. Within this daunting social ven diagram are intersecting circles of embarrassment involving both sexes.

Royal Marriage Secrets, by John Ashdown-Hill - review

My brother Pericles Wyatt, as my father liked to say, is by blood the rightful king of England, the nephew of Richard III in the 18th generation, and as such the senior surviving Plantagenet. Richard was crowned king of England on 6 July 1483. It was described at the time as a joyous occasion. Little did anyone present imagine that it would become an event of rancorous controversy, for never has it been so true, sadly for my own family, that history is written by the winners. Just two years later, an exiled adventurer called Henry Tudor took Richard’s life and crown at Bosworth Field and unleashed an assault of unprecedented viciousness on the reputation of the last Plantagenet king of England. Henry’s own claim to the throne was so tenuous that he spent his reign in a state of permanent anxiety.

Diary - 18 April 2013

One of Lady Thatcher’s least publicised qualities, which raised her above any other politician I have known, was the complete absence of schadenfreude or triumphalism. In 1992, I was fortunate enough to be asked by Alistair McAlpine, Lady Thatcher’s former Treasurer and close friend, to spend election night with the recently deposed premier and her family at his London home. Denis and Mark Thatcher were understandably bitter. When Tory wet Chris Patten, whose vitriol towards her had known no bounds, lost his seat, they leapt to their feet and whooped like Watusi chieftains. I shall never forget the majesty on her features as she reprimanded them: ‘Sit down at once! The misfortune of others is never a cause for celebration.

Amalfi: This blessed plot

This is not an article about hedonism. Oh, no. The Amalfi coast may be the favoured historical playground of the bad and the beautiful — from Tiberius to Sophia Loren and Gwyneth Paltrow — but my theme is one of culture. What is it about this rocky stretch of southwest Italy that has drawn such disparate artistes as Wagner, D.H. Lawrence, Turner, John Steinbeck and Gore Vidal? Oh, heck, you win. Let’s have some hedonism first. I am sitting, bubbling nicely, in a Jacuzzi that, through the picture window beside it, looks over the town as it runs down to the sea. The Jacuzzi, in my marbled bathroom in Positano’s Le Sirenuse hotel, comes with an underwater HD screen and a bottle of champagne, or rather the room does — perhaps to console one for having to remortage the house to pay the bill.

Diary - 28 October 2005

David Cameron had me in his arms. His breath was warm on my face. Oh, be still my beating heart! It all lasted less than an hour, but I shall never forget. Yes, the probable future Tory leader and I enjoyed our own brief encounter — on the dance floor. I first met Mr Cameron when he was 25 or so and working for Norman Lamont, who was then Chancellor of the Exchequer. Mr Lamont, who had been on holiday with my family, had heard me sing. Rashly, he asked me to perform at his 50th birthday party at No. 11. Being a Eurosceptic, he was particularly keen on the German song ‘Lilli Marlene’. Poor David was put in charge of the arrangements. We sat next to each other at a dinner beforehand given by Carla Powell. I can assure the public there were no drugs taken except alcohol and cigarettes, mostly smoked by me.

A bastard? Me?

David Davis is the first prospective Tory leader to have been born in a council house to an unmarried mother. The bookies’ favourite to take over from Michael Howard, Davis, 56, is said by his supporters to have garnered the necessary qualities on his way to the top: determination, spirit, tenacity, a sense of social justice and an understanding of ‘the man and woman on the street’. His detractors claim the shadow home secretary is arrogant, treacherous, lazy and unable to get on with those from more privileged backgrounds, such as the members of the ‘Notting Hill Set’, to which his leadership rival David Cameron belongs. I have arranged to meet Davis in his Westminster office. The helicopter flying him from his Yorkshire constituency is late and Tory MPs are in the middle of voting on the proposed leadership rule changes.

Wild card

Alan Duncan, the dapper shadow transport spokesman, is indisputably the most eye-catching of the Tory leadership contenders. Aside from being openly gay, he has a habit of saying and doing unusual things. Earlier in the year he posed for a charity calendar called ‘Men in Wellies’ wearing only a red Santa Claus hat, with a photograph of Lady Thatcher concealing his private parts. Recently, while launching his campaign, he cheerfully compared the Conservative party to an underwear department that needed frilly knickers. Duncan’s behaviour, understandably, has led people to ask whether he is really serious. To find out, I went to see him at his house in Westminster. Duncan, 48 and slight of stature, is elegantly dressed without looking as if he has tried too hard.

The price of happiness

Richard Layard, the founder of the LSE Centre for Economic Performance, is a brave man. The Labour peer and adviser to the government has written a book on happiness. Or to be more precise, Happiness: Lessons from a New Science. This is big stuff. I mean, happiness is the whole point of life, right? Philosophers since Aristotle have been trying to puzzle it out. And then this geezer with no philosophical training claims to have knocked out a tome containing all the answers. Not only that; Layard thinks that governments should legislate to reduce unhappiness, as they legislate to reduce unemployment or crime. This will horrify not only Burkean conservatives and laissez-faire liberals, but also followers of Maurice Cowling who think that ‘the freedom, discipline and social solidarity of modern societies would not be possible without inequality and suffering’.

The race card

My 17-year-old niece recently won a place at Trinity College, Oxford. Although she is one of the brightest girls at her private school, and often works through the night, she was almost convinced that her application would not be accepted. This was because clever, white children from middle-class backgrounds are frequently told that they will be overlooked in favour of foreign, less privileged offspring. This fear turned out to be unfounded. My niece considered the selection process fair and scrupulous. I was thus surprised when Michael Howard decided to play the race card the other day, or rather to play the whole deck. Why this sudden zero-tolerance attitude towards immigration? Strangely, it is sometimes the case that immigrants themselves, or their children — Howard’s family came from Lithuania — are less tolerant than the rest of us.

Lies and more lies

Spending any length of time in South Africa is both an uplifting and sobering experience. Uplifting because for an English visitor the days are an unbroken series of blue skies, the food and the clothes are cheap (by British standards) and of high quality, and the countryside remains wholly breathtaking. But, there are too many buts. Knowing South Africa well, as I have begun to do, since my brother moved to Johannesburg a few years ago, brings with it the realisation that the West takes so very little notice, or remains in ignorance, of the worsening problems of this nation. Rainbows? I don’t think so. More like the desert travellers’ mirage of an oasis. Alternatively, similar to some of Napoleon III’s much

Peacocks on parade

So many outfits in so many shapes and colours; so many ruched tight trousers, or legs encased in flowing chiffon; sharp jackets in claret or blue velvet; frilled, slit skirts and shirts with enormous bows. Yes, men have worn all these since the 14th century, until the day when it was decreed that the male sex, when socialising, should no longer have fun dressing up. Now, the party season is heaven for a woman’s wardrobe. It is the time to get out that slightly outré dress you haven’t worn all year, or that interestingly shaped top in some gloriously indeterminate colour. Then you may curl your hair, douse yourself in aromatherapy oil made from Moroccan roses and step out in silver high-heeled shoes. If the party is dull, you can watch the other women and either curl your lip or stand in breathtaking envy that your best friend nabbed your favourite dress from a Sloane Street boutique.

A surfeit of fish

People ask me why I spend Christmas in South Africa. Why don’t I remain in England and have a proper British Christmas? Or, why don’t I go to Hungary, where I used to go, for the snow and the River Danube, which, when partly iced over, resembles shattered crystals? I’m not sure myself. In England, Christmas seems to last too long (no one in the rest of the world, for example, seems to understand the idea of Boxing Day). And, much as I love Hungary, there is simply a surfeit of fish. Not on the streets, that is, but on the dining table. Hungarian Catholics, who include the maternal side of my family, eat nothing but fish for their Christmas meal. Because the country once had an admiral as regent (Horthy), there are a few imbeciles who assume Hungary has a sea.

Irresponisble behaviour

The other day I arrived back from a trip abroad to find the house in its usual state of working order. The boiler had burst and there was no hot water. Katalin, the Hungarian housekeeper, claimed she had contracted frostbite in her big toe and was hopping around like a one-legged woman, complaining about the uncivilised London weather. But, I protested, in Budapest the temperature was at least ten degrees lower than that in southern England. Yes, she replied, but in Hungary even the cleaning ladies wore fur to keep them warm. This conjured up ideas of mink toe-warmers and goodness knows what else. In lieu of my possessing any of these exotic accoutrements, I suggested we have some wine. Thus we were both drinking Pino Grigio in the sitting-room, Katalin with her toe in the air, when this idyll was interrupted by a series of loud noises.

Speed eating

New York Thanksgiving is a bigger marathon than Christmas. Maybe because the holiday lasts only four days instead of 12. Thus Americans feel obliged to cram as many lunches and dinners as possible into that shorter period. It’s a form of speed eating. Meals are staggered — at least they seem to be in New York State and on Long Island. Thus, on Thanksgiving day itself (Thursday), I attended one lunch at 1 o’clock. Thinking this was it — you know, é finita — I did ample justice to the turkey. Just as I was getting into the swing of a third slice of pecan pie at 4 o’clock, I was told I was expected at another lunch at 4.30. ‘Oh, ha, ha,’ I said with heavy sarcasm, stuffing in another spoonful. At 4.30, we were knocking on another front door.

Scrambled eggs

I don’t mind rude letters, really I don’t. I don’t mind much, actually, which probably illustrates a fatal weakness in my character. But I do mind having eggs thrown at me. There I was opening my front door the other evening and, wham, splat, an egg was hurled in my direction. With unusual dexterity, I leapt to one side and the egg hit the door before squelching to the ground in a trail of yoke and shards. Then the culprit tailed it. But not before a noise like a gun going off shattered the now still darkness. I bent down and examined the egg. Indignation rose in my breast. It wasn’t even free-range. Let alone organic. It was one of those battery-hen-laid-salmonella-infested eggs people buy for 20p a carton. If you are going to be hit by an egg, it ought at least to be a trifle more upmarket.

All change

I was lunching with some friends the other day (I don’t lunch for every column, incidentally, but these happened to be friends from abroad whom I hadn’t seen for a while). I took them to a restaurant and we began catching up on our news over the gazpacho. ‘How’s so-and-so?’ I asked of a girl my age, who lives in America. This girl, let us call her Lucy and hope she doesn’t recognise that it’s her I’m talking about, is a good friend of mine (in a way we grew up together). Recently, though, we haven’t been in touch so much as she has been moving round the States. Anyway, I was expecting the usual answers to my question — new flat, got married, having a baby, split up with boyfriend, etc. Instead, one of the people at lunch said, ‘She’s become a lesbian.

Vintage me

The other day I was asked by a friend to a lunch party. I told her that, unfortunately, I would have to leave early as I had a very important appointment at three in Westbourne Park Villas. ‘Oooh,’ she said, intrigued. What is it? I duly told her and that was that. The lunch turned out to be very jolly and I began to forget the time. I looked at my watch and it was twenty to three. Crumbs. Everyone was still on coffee. I stood up and said, ‘I’m really sorry but I have an appointment and if I don’t go I’ll be late.’ My hostess then giggled and replied, ‘Tell everyone what your appointment is.’ The guests looked at me with understandable curiosity as I had begun to blush. ‘Well, actually,’ I announced in a rather loud voice, ‘I have to try on some Fifties bathing suits.

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