1 October 2025

I’ve had a disappointing week, salvation-wise

I am neither the infidel, and nor do I find myself in heaven

I know I give the impression that I live a life of idleness, but that is not strictly true. I always have something looming over me, whether it is a script, or proofs to approve, or a book waiting to be read and reviewed. Well, the script is in Development Limbo, the proofs have gone to press (in typical fashion, the moment it became too late to do anything about it, I noticed a typo on the back cover), and I had a gap between reviewing books. I simply had nothing to do.

For some reason this sudden dolce far niente took me off my guard. (Oh, by the way, the script is earning me nothing at the moment; the book, which is a selection of these columns written between 2017 and 2020, and which I will be plugging ruthlessly and relentlessly as we approach publication date, has earned me in total less than I get paid for a single one of these pieces; and long gone are the days when a literary reviewer could earn a meagre living by doing nothing else. So I’m still going to be Down and Out for the foreseeable future.) But as I was about to say, in order to enjoy not working I actually have to be putting off work. It is more thrilling to play truant than to be on holiday.

So to distract myself I went up to London yet again, this time to have lunch with the renowned novelist and lady of letters Linda Grant. Among other things, she wanted to hear the details of my lunch with our mutual friend, ex-Rev Richard Coles. She lives in Crouch End or Muswell Hill or something and as I am a gentleman I said I’d meet her there – but as the train goes direct to Finsbury Park, and from there it is about a 12-minute bus ride to the Queen’s, our now-traditional venue, it was no hardship. And she was paying, of course.

I was curious, too, to see if London had changed in the days since I had been there last. Nigel Farage and Donald Trump had been making much of the imposition of sharia law in the capital, but I had not noticed it much a week ago.

But now, all had changed. At the Queen’s, I ordered a nice big gin and tonic before I ordered my food: no dice. Alcohol is no longer served in London, in accordance with the strictures imposed by Sadiq Khan’s new laws. So I had a nice mint tea instead. Because I had not yet broken my fast, I felt like something substantial and traditional: the Cumberland sausages, mash and onion gravy looked like they’d do the trick. The barman blushed awkwardly. Sausages were off the menu, he said – due to the pork, and they had not yet managed to source a halal replacement. Never mind, I said, I’ll just have the mash and gravy. I washed the meal down with a nice glass of orange juice. Linda, of course, being an unaccompanied woman, had to sit at another table.

There had been an accident on the high street when I left, so I sat by the bus stop in the sunshine for a while and listened to the muezzin’s call to prayer float high over the smouldering ruins of Christ Church on Crouch End Hill. All around me were posters of Rod Liddle with the words “Have you seen this man?” in English and Arabic script.

Perhaps I should come clean. None of the above scenario is true. I made it all up. Apart from the accident and the sunshine. I had my G&T, and my sausages, and two or three glasses of wine with them; the church was intact, and Rod Liddle is not a wanted man. (You can’t have everything.) And yet people are whipping up ever-increasing amounts of delusional hatred by claiming that this is what is going on. Even Brighton, which I thought would hold up against this kind of stupidity, has been seeing outbreaks of St George’s crosses on the lamp posts. Because this is Brighton, they don’t last long – but the local Facebook groups have been buzzing with delight about their appearance, when previously the only subjects that exercised them were missing people or animals, terrible driving, or lost and found wallets or car keys. Something is happening, and it’s not nice; I have a sneaking suspicion that the people putting up these flags are not doing so only because they are thinking sweet thoughts about the English women’s rugby team.

So it was a relief to be back in Brighton for the Rapture, which was scheduled for the 23rd. Here was something I could get behind. It seemed like a win-win. Either I go to Heaven, or I find myself with a much-reduced populace. “Fuck you, loser,” said Richard Coles, assured of his place among the Elect. Another friend was worried because she had forgotten to put the bins out. I told her not to worry: if they have been good bins, they, too, will ascend to Paradise.

In the end, the Rapture was something of a damp squib. I went out at 10pm to buy some Frazzles, or possibly shoplift them if there was no one else around, but everything seemed to be ticking over normally. Not to worry, I thought. Still a couple of hours to go. But the next day I woke up and everyone was still here. For one reason or another, Brighton seems to have been largely unaffected. And now I have to get back to work. I have another deadline.

[Further reading: Inside the Tony Blair Institute]