James Thurber, whose work "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" has been remade as a film starring Ben Stiller. Photo: Getty.
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The rules for being Walter Mitty

These rules reveal that few of us qualify as full-blown Walts. But all of us are fantasists.

The basics of being a Walter Mitty are simple. Your delusions of grandeur must take the form of fantastical dreams and pretensions, and you must be their hero. Do you tick those boxes? Brilliant. You’re following in the footsteps of James Thurber’s most durable creation, the protagonist of his 1939 short story, and its 1947 film adaptation, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. He’s the kind of guy who imagines a drive with his wife to be a death-defying military air mission, one that only ends when Mrs Mitty screams at him to slow down. Two-thirds of a century later, Ben Stiller’s sugared adaptation (released Boxing Day), is about a daydreamer who must become a real hero. But Walter Mitty has already been re-made thousands of times, for whenever journalists chuck his name at fantasists, its meaning is refined. These are the rules of its definition.

Rule One: all Walts are clowns, especially when caught out. Think of Grant Shapps, who has provided us with a particularly deep well of schadenfreude since it was revealed that the Tory Party Chairman had constructed a false personality to front his business, and that he allegedly promoted it by faking testimonials. Oh, how we laughed as Channel 4’s Michael Crick followed Shapps backstage at party conference, asking embarrassing questions while the Member for Welwyn Hatfield repeatedly failed to find the exit.

When someone like Shapps gets branded a Mitty, the sadism of our condemnation is on show, as well as the individual's supposed dishonesty. But when the label's not applied, it's equally telling.

Former Co-op Bank chairman Paul Flowers seems like the perfect candidate for such a branding. In his vainglorious dreamland, a deficit in banking knowledge constituted the capacity to preside over £36 billion in customer deposits, while long term use of Class As was disguised as the quiet moralism of the Methodist movement.

However, his sad case avoided the Mitty label because the people surrounding Flowers actively bought into his deceit. His CV was well known, but as one act of groupthink led to another, the Co-op appointed him, the FSA approved and the Labour leadership put him on their finance and industry advisory board. It seems that, by contrast, real Walts must have patsies with no inkling of the truth. Rule Two: Mittys must be alone with their lies.

Like Flowers, Dr David Kelly was also not-a-Walt. But the man who may or may not have told Andrew Gilligan that Alastair Campbell had sexed up the dossier on Iraqi WMD was nonetheless branded as such by Tom Kelly, Tony Blair's favoured spokesman.

The accusation was devastating because it seemed to make sense. With his reticent manner, wary eyes and tired, hanging jowls, the weapons inspector appeared too small for such a significant role in the greatest political scandal of the decade. But the moment Kelly was spun as a Walt, the story became digestibly coherent once more.

We ignored that he was a Nobel-nominated UN adviser on biological warfare, so it seemed like he was just a nobody pretending to be a somebody. The spin doctors, the journalists and the public relied upon Rule Three: all Walts are somehow undistinguished.

David Kelly’s tale shows that however big you are, you can always seem small. Even Harold Wilson, twice Head of Her Majesty's Government, felt the need to show off. Once, when Margaret Thatcher was still Leader of the Opposition, he chastised her for demanding the freedom of Soviet prisoners. But he also announced that he had saved more of them than her, only he was too well-mannered to disclose how many.

On that occasion, the 'Mitty' label was so obviously deserved that the Times' political correspondent used it to describe him, not in a sketch, but in a front page report, and devoid of scare quotes. The British Establishment knows no greater shame.

Here we have evidence for Rule Four: Walts are "pathetic" in our laughing and sadistic sense of the word, but not so according to the piteous classical definition. Even after he left Downing Street, the politician suffered the indignity of having to sue for libel the publishers of a biography entitled "Sir Harold Wilson: Yorkshire Walter Mitty".

All the Walts so far have shared one trait, which points to Rule Five: Mittys are men, and the only women ever described as such are those who give up their traditional gender roles by becoming leaders. This label has been slapped on Hilary Clinton a number of times, most memorably when she made the fictional and tellingly macho claim of having escaped sniper fire in Bosnia.

Women are rarely branded as Mittys because in a sexist society, their being out of touch with reality is treated as a given. If on one side of the coin, women are represented as a priori Walts, then on the other we have Rule Six: men who are Mittys are always emasculated. Indeed, Wilson was portrayed by his libellous biographer as a cuckold who only sought power because his mother never loved him.

This self-deception can be a strength. After Wilson won the February 1974 general election, the Times described his Walter Mitty tendencies as having "allowed him to bounce back every time he was thrown down".

Even so, these rules are really a list of off-limit activities for anyone with ambition. Our rulers need arrogance, but they must make it suit them, and that brings us, finally, to Rule Seven: Walts are not posh. Grammar schoolboy Wilson could never wear his pretensions as well as Blair and Cameron later would, because Britain's public schools teach pupils how to convince people with their hubris.

Consequently, X Factor contestants are today’s perfect Walter Mittys. The majority are in low-pay jobs with no prospect of career progression, and we laugh as millionaire panellists mock them for having ideas ‘above their station’.

That is the sad truth about Mitty: he has survived as a ploy in the sport of name-or-be-named. Every time we identify one of his ilk, we can ignore the fear that while few of us are Walts, all of us are fantasists.

Photo: Tashphotography / Stockimo / Alamy
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The Negroni fools no one – it’s easy to make and contains nothing but booze

It is the colour of danger, a red rag to anyone jaded by cocktail-world bull.

The cocktail is designed to lie about its origins; no wonder it reached its apogee during Prohibition, which forced everyone with an unrepentant thirst to lie about their cravings. Even today, when only extreme youth, religious belief or personal inclination prevents a person from draining the bar dry, the cocktail continues its career of dishonesty. It hides ingredients or methods. It provides a front for poor-quality booze. And it often dissolves, within its inscrutable depths, mountains of sugar, enabling drinkers to pose as sophisticates while downing something that tastes like a soft drink – to get drunk without leaving the playpen.

This is why I love the Negroni, which fools no one. It is easy to make and contains nothing but pure booze. Despite being a third sweet vermouth, it isn’t saccharine: the other two thirds, equal measures of gin and Campari, may have something to do with this. And it is the colour of danger, a red rag to anyone jaded by cocktail-world bull.

They say it was invented in Florence at the request of a Count Negroni, who wanted a drink unsullied by club soda – a drink stiff enough to get a man back on a bucking horse, perhaps, since this Count may have been a rodeo rider. I prefer to believe that the Count, if Count he was, came in, tossed down enough strong liquor to start telling stories about his American adventures, and, when he finally staggered out into the night, the exasperated bartender poured three straight shots into a single glass and baptised this wondrous reviver in grateful homage to the fabulist who had inspired it.

In a former glue factory a very long way from Florence or America, the East London Liquor Company now makes very good gin – Batches One and Two, the former tannic with Darjeeling as well as cassia bark, pink grapefruit peel, and coriander seeds; the latter redolent of savoury, bay, thyme and lavender. Transforming these plants into excellent alcohol seems an improvement on boiling down horses for adhesive, and the company also makes superb Negronis from Batch Two.

We sit outside, in a carpark made marginally more glamorous by border boxes of Batch Two botanicals, and marvel at the transformation of this grimy part of East London, next door to a park intended to give Victorian working men brief respite from lives all too lacking in myth or fantasy. It is a reincarnation at least as miraculous as the transformation of three strong and entirely unalike spirits into the delectable harmony of the Negroni. The sun shines; a fountain plashes. Nuts and charcuterie arrive. All is right with the world.

I leave my herbaceous bower and dangerously pleasing drink for a peek at the large copper distillery behind the bar, walking in past the fountain, a whimsical stone construction that pours vermilion liquid into two, tiered basins topped by a chubby putto clutching a rather reluctant fish.

And then I stop. And double back. Vermilion liquid? It is, indeed, a Negroni fountain. There are even slices of orange floating in the basin. I dip a finger: the taste is slightly metallic but still undeniably that potent mixture of booze, botanicals, bitterness, and just a hint of sweetness. A streak of citrus from the orange slices. It turns out that the world’s most straightforward cocktail lends itself to a decadent neo-Renaissance fantasy. There’s a message here, one forthright as a temperance tract: without imagination, we would have no lies – but no Negronis, either.

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 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder