I am often castigated for my lack of knowledge of football — thankfully little Rupert Murdoch took it all away from the channels I watch years ago so I am no longer bothered by the Premiership League. However, I was genuinely sorry to hear of the departure of David Moyes, the manager of Manchester United. Apparently I met him last autumn while a guest of the Glazer children (strange boys) on a visit to the north. I was introduced to a gruff, slightly wrinkled chap with an impenetrable Scottish accent, and assumed it was Sir Alex, Anyway, now the embarrassment has subsided, the Glazer boys have asked me to track down Becks for them. Apparently, they are prepared to make him the new manager in return for a modest loan with which to buy new players. I’ll see what I can do.
Everyone seems to be obsessed with understated glamour these days. I prefer my glamour overstated which is why I was delighted to be asked to contribute in a consultative capacity to the new Waldorf Astoria Jerusalem, which is now complete after years of delays. I told them to make it luxurious, hang the expense and try for the biggest reception hall in the whole of Jerusalem. Thankfully, they accepted all of my suggestions which means there is now a viable alternative to the King David when I’m in Israel. Now all I need is someone to take me there… hmm, just checking my list of phone contacts, under “O” for oligarch.
Last Sunday, a few close friends and I gathered for our annual matzah ramble. It felt like such an adventure as we packed the cars up with yummy Pesach goodies and set off for the country. Fortunately, Hampstead Heath is only a shortish drive from St John’s Wood so we were there in no time. However the rain spoiled things as usual so we didn’t actually go outside in the end. The good news is that Nigella makes a divine macaroon. The bad news is that there were crumbs all over the Bentley — I am now scanning my phone contacts for “V” for valet.
Like everyone, I was transfixed to see the pictures of Sweetie Prince and his mum and dad Down Under, especially when they took George to the petting zoo to meet the animal they had named after him — sadly not Sweetie Prince, however. I was very surprised to learn that this Australian mammal was called a bilby. I always thought that was Yiddish for interfering mother-in-law.
I worry about little Vickie Coren Mitchell. We all knew that she loved cards when she was a girl but I had been hoping that she would have left all the rather unsavoury poker-playing behind when she went to Oxford and embraced the world of clever column-writing and TV panel-game presenting. But I hear that she is back at the card tables. No good will come of it. She may have won the European Poker Tour and nearly £400,000 at the weekend and she may be one of the best women poker players on the planet, scooping in excess of £1.4 million in prize money, but believe me, one day she will blow it all on the fruit machines. Having said that, poker didn’t do darling Omar Sharif any harm… or was that bridge? To be honest, when he looked into my eyes, it could have been snap and I wouldn’t have cared. Anyway, as I was saying, well done, Vickie.