Review: David Attenborough's Africa

David Attenborough's latest series shows we're not so different from the beasts.

The BBC have impeccable timing; just as the nation prepares for the onset of a case of January Blues, national treasure David Attenborough arrives on our screens, bringing with him a glorious display of animals and nature both industrious and wild.

Africa is a six-part series exploring the wildlife of the rich continent housing vast rainforest, savannah and desert. As well as being educational, last night’s series opener captured some amusing comparisons between us and our wilder counterparts. We share the same instincts of survival and the quest for love, as well as some remarkably similar social reactions.

Belligerent alpha male giraffes sparring in a Western-style showdown made for gripping viewing, with the upper hand changing unpredictably; an unnerving reflection of our society where two testosterone-fuelled youngsters might lock horns over a lady rather than a watering hole.

The featured Golden Wheel Spider epitomises most humans’ natural instinct in times of danger. After numerous attacks (by a wasp of all things) the arachnid cuts his losses and does what any self-respecting being would do: he curls up in a ball and cartwheels down the sand dune to safety.

The interplay between the Black Rhinos was at first extraordinarily intimate, using the latest photographic technology to capture never-before seen night-time interactions. This, however, quickly descends into something comical. We witness one Lothario trying his luck with an unsuspecting female, who at first seems open to the idea of cavorting in the dark - but upon her suitor’s below average performance, she pretends to be asleep. As David Attenborough points out, 'a girl can only put up with so much'.

It is unsurprising that this masterpiece took more than four years to shoot, so intricate are sequences like the Pompilid Wasp foraging for water in the expanse of the Kalahari Desert. As ever, Attenborough’s familiar, soothing and gently enriching narration aids Africa's intrigue. Menial, routine activities such as stalking prey and caring for young become fascinating and frequently amusing. The understanding of nature he has after 60 years is unrivalled, and his passion is endlessly apparent.

Majestic and enlightening, with quirky editing and some astounding shots, the series brings to light new creatures and explores new sides to those which are so familiar. David Attenborough told the New Statesman in 2011, “If you remove the licence fee, it would be gone in a decade”. As long as programs like Africa continue to be made, the fee is worth every penny.

Read the New Statesman's latest interview with David Attenborough here.

Black Rhinos. Photograph: Getty Images
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The Bloody Mary is dead: all hail the Bloody Caesar

This Canadian version of an old standard is a good substitute for dinner.

It is not anti-Catholic bias that makes me dislike the Bloody Mary, that lumpish combination of tomato juice and vodka named after a 16th-century English queen who, despite the immense reach of her royal powers, found burning Protestants alive the most effective display of majesty.

My prejudice is against its contents: the pulverised tomatoes that look like run-off from a Tudor torture chamber. A whole tomato is a source of joy and, occasionally, wonder (I remember learning that the Farsi for tomato is gojeh farangi, which translates literally as “foreign plum”) – and I am as fond of pizza as anyone. Most accessories to the Bloody Mary are fine with me: Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, celery, black pepper, even sherry or oysters. But generally I share the curmudgeon Bernard DeVoto’s mistrust of fruit juice in my spirits: “all pestilential, all gangrenous, all vile” was the great man’s verdict. His main objection was sweetness but I will include the admittedly savoury tomato in my ban. At the cocktail hour, I have been known to crave all kinds of odd concoctions but none has included pulp.

To many, the whole point of a Bloody Mary is that you don’t wait until the cocktail hour. This seems to entail a certain shying away from unpleasant realities. I know perfectly well the reaction I would get if I were to ask for a grilled tomato and a chilled Martini at brunch: my friends would start likening me to F Scott Fitzgerald and they wouldn’t be referring to my writing talent. Despite its remarkably similar contents, a Bloody Mary is a perfectly acceptable midday, middle-class beverage. If the original Mary were here to witness such hypocrisy, she would surely tut and reach for her firelighters.

Yet, like the good Catholic I certainly am not, I must confess, for I have seen the error of my ways. In July, on Vancouver Island, I tried a Bloody Caesar – Canada’s spirited response to England’s favourite breakfast tipple (“I’ll see your Tudor queen, you bunch of retrograde royalists, and raise you a Roman emperor”). The main difference is a weird yet oddly palatable concoction called Clamato: tomato juice thinned and refined by clam juice. Replace your standard slop with this stuff, which has all the tang of tomato yet flows like a veritable Niagara, and you will have a drink far stranger yet more delicious than the traditional version.

Apparently, the Caesar was invented by an Italian restaurateur in Calgary, Alberta, who wanted a liquid version of his favourite dish from the old country: spaghetti alle vongole in rosso (clam and tomato spaghetti). He got it – and, more importantly, the rest of us got something we can drink not at breakfast but instead of dinner. Find a really interesting garnish – pickled bull kelp or spicy pickled celery, say – and you can even claim to have eaten your greens.

I’m sure that dedicated fans of the Bloody Mary will consider this entire column heretical, which seems appropriate: that’s the side I was born on, being Jewish, and I like to hope I wouldn’t switch even under extreme forms of persuasion. But this cocktail is in any case a broad church: few cocktails come in so many different incarnations.

The original was invented, according to him, by Fernand Petiot, who was a French barman in New York during Prohibition (and so must have known a thing or two about hypocrisy). It includes lemon juice and a “layer” of Worcestershire sauce and the tomato juice is strained; it may also actually have been named after a barmaid.

All of which proves only that dogma has no place at the bar. Variety is the spice of life, which makes it ironic that the world’s spiciest cocktail bestows a frivolous immortality on a woman who believed all choice to be the work of the devil.

Next week John Burnside on nature

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin vs Isis