Last week I left you with the tantalising prospect of being able to read about my fridge. Well, I’ll get on to that. But something vaguely interesting has happened, so you’ll just have to wait.
Now, I may not have mentioned him before, but for more than a quarter of a century I have been good friends with J—, who happens to be one of the three members of the band Black Box Recorder. You might not have heard of them, but they had a hit single in 2000 with a song called “The Facts of Life”, which I consider to be the best, wittiest and most intelligent single ever to grace the UK hit parade.
As it happened, J— knew my work and liked that too, so we fell into each other’s arms and have remained friends ever since, although I used to see much more of him when I lived in London. But I would sometimes see him after going to Lord’s for a Test match, for he lived but a short ride up Finchley Road, north-west London, on the 13 or 113 bus. Once, on a cold and rainy day at the end of summer, I was able to take him into the Pavilion, for I am a member of Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC), and watch Middlesex swim out to the wicket between squalls and thrash it out miserably with Glamorgan. He was very pleased with this, for he is a great cricket fan.
I saw him a few months ago and he told me that the singer, Billie Eilish, had recently said Black Box Recorder was one of her favourite bands and that her favourite album by them was England Made Me, and her favourite song by them on that album is “Child Psychology”, the chorus of which goes: “Life is unfair, kill yourself or get over it.” (Sung, as always, by the incredible Sarah Nixey, whose voice is like that of an angel whispering into your ear while you’re sleeping.) They’re that kind of band.
Because Ms Eilish has a certain amount of clout with people much younger than myself, this piqued interest in the band, who then realised that a good way to capitalise on this would be to reform for a few gigs (their London one being at the Palladium on 22 May). “Billie Eilish fucked up our retirement,” said J— in a recent Guardian interview, for that is his idea of whimsical humour, and this is why we are friends.
However, because I cannot afford to buy tickets at the London Palladium, I had to think of a way to be invited to the gig. (You may ask how I can afford to be a member of MCC and although that is none of your business, I can tell you that it is paid for by my father’s will, and once you’re inside the Pavilion it’s only £6 a pint, which is mind-bogglingly cheap for central London.) So I had the bright idea of inviting J— to Lord’s again, for a county match. The first one, at the beginning of the season, against I forget whom, I did not go to, for the weather was damp and chilly and I was feeling poorly anyway. But last week it was glorious and Middlesex were playing Durham and J— came along. For county matches, you can bring friends in for free, as long as they are wearing, if men, a jacket and tie.
“I bet you only invited me so you can get free tickets to our show,” said J— as I escorted him into the Pavilion.
“Ha ha,” I said. “Nothing could have been further from my mind.”
And we had a lovely time. It was made even more exciting by the fact that sitting in front of us was a gentleman, a fellow MCC member, reading the latest issue of the New Statesman. This got me into a bit of a tizzy. I had brought my own copy, for I never travel without it, and every single time I have gone to Lord’s I have been very confident that mine is the only copy of the magazine in the Pavilion, if not the entire ground. MCC members’ favoured weekly political magazine is the Spectator, and when they see me with the Staggers there is often a curl of the lip. At which point I say: “It gets worse – I write for it.” I like to think of myself as an ambassador for the publication. The only time I’ve ever been close to another copy was when I bumped into the then editor, Jason Cowley, having emailed in sick that morning saying I was terribly ill and could I file tomorrow please? Rotten luck, considering it was a Test match and the ground was full to capacity. (I have told this story before, I know.)
Yet here, in the wild, was someone else reading it. I watched him go through the pages. He was clearly reading every article. And soon he would get to mine. My nerves couldn’t handle the strain. I rolled a cigarette and told J— I’d have to step out into a smoking area.
“Tell me what laughing boy’s reaction to my column is when he gets to it,” I said. (I was hoping for explosions of laughter and many a slapping of the thigh.)
When I got back, J— said “he got to your page and then threw the magazine down in disgust”, but he is something of a kidder, so that might not have happened. Anyway, the man was then reading the Week, which isn’t as good. So I drank more beer and then fell asleep on the way home, which was just as well, for the journey was awful. Fridge story next week.
[Further reading: Beer and sandwiches: At the Granta, Cambridge]
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This article appears in the 13 May 2026 issue of the New Statesman, Never-Ending Chaos
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