Fraser Nelson's Diary

The sight of David Cameron giving speeches beside Nick Clegg still seems unusual, but seeing them arrive at The Spectator’s summer party together was stranger still. Both opted for orange juice, charmed guests, and seemed utterly relaxed in each other’s company – even finishing each other’s sentences at times. What an oddly harmonious coalition this has turned out to be. You would be hard pushed to find two Tories as chummy with each other as the Prime Minister and his deputy. Emotionally and intellectually, Mr Cameron is at home with the liberals. I do have the feeling that he’s playing for keeps.

The Westminster summer party season normally has politicians scanning people to whom they are introduced, asking ‘is this person any use to me?’ But not Cameron. He wanted to meet Jeremy Clark, The Spectator’s Low Life correspondent, saying he is a fan. And this is his real strength: unlike his predecessor, he speaks fluent human. Whereas most politicians just see voters, he sees people. But this does not come across on television. Cameron’s charm cannot be captured by camera. The converse is true for Kenneth Clarke, who comes across as the kindly uncle on TV but is surprisingly dismissive in person.

Last week, I had dinner with a British ambassador who was, in his younger days, assigned to look after Ken Clarke during a summit in Brussels. As the evening drew on, Clarke leaned over to the young diplomat and said, ‘I’ve had enough of this – where are the good jazz clubs in this town?’ It’s hard to work out who, in the Cabinet today, would make such a request. Clarke, for all his grumpiness with strangers, is a politician who sees life as a playground of cigars, birdwatching and Ronnie Scott’s. His type is, alas, becoming rare. Soon, it will be the birds watching him.

I started the week in paradise – or, to use its proper name, the Stockholm archipelago – for midsummer. Normally, Swedes try to disguise their pagan festivals with a Christian veneer, but that weekend it is an unapologetic case of dance-round-the-fertility-pole and pray to Thor and Odin. Yet it is quite enchanting – a mixture of The Waltons, Woodstock and The Wicker Man. Women and children come to the fertility pole with garlands in their hair, the men down homemade vodka and, at one stage, everyone pretends to be frogs. I note that my two-year-old son, who throws off hats in seconds, spends all day with a chain of twinflowers and ox-eye daisies in his hair – a worrying sign that his Swedish genes may have overpowered the Scottish ones.

Back to London on Wednesday, and to chair a debate with Anatole Kaletsky over his excellent new book Capitalism 4.0. I tell a rather incredulous audience that it is a beach read – I have never been so entertained reading a book I so strongly disagree with. But this is Kaletsky’s purpose: you don’t have to agree with him to profit from reading his work. The cause of the credit crunch, of course, can be summed up in a sentence: Government kept interest rates too low, too long, blowing a credit bubble that burst. Kaletsky’s solution? Keep interest rates low, and borrowing high – ie, keep making the same mistake. Marx’s analysis is useful in that history repeats itself, first as tragedy, then as farce.

One very acceptable face of capitalism, Michael Spencer, invites me to lunch on Friday at the offices of the company he created: ICAP. He has just stood down as Tory party treasurer but still holds his famous lunches, where the wine list is as good as the guest list. As I walk into his towering HQ, I wonder why successful businessmen, who do such good for the economy and society, mix with politicians who tend to bugger everything up. I walk back with Norman Lamont, another guest, and we’re stopped by a Japanese television company asking passers-by what they think of the euro crisis. Norman agrees to give a few thoughts in return for directions to the nearest taxi rank. I leave him to it, and wonder if the producers in Tokyo would recognise that their interviewee is the man responsible for making sure that Britain did not end up in this crisis.

It’s stupid, an indulgence, dreadful for the planet no doubt, yet I fly back to Stockholm on Friday evening, having spent just one full day in London. But when I arrive, and pour a beer
on the balcony looking at the lake in the shadow of the midnight sun, I don’t regret it for a second.

BRITSTOP

An A-Z of all things British, by Iain Aitch

7. fish and chips

Our national fast food combines the essential nutritional groups of protein, carbohydrate and grease into what has traditionally been an affordable staple. Though dwindling fish stocks have led to the meal becoming more an expensive treat than a regular meal. The white fish, be it cod, haddock, rock salmon or skate, should be dipped in batter and fried as fiercely as the chips. Vegetarians can replace the fish with battered mushy peas or their favourite confectionery, while Scots can replace it with deep-fried pizzas, kebabs or even
furniture. Arguments rage over whether nut oils or lard are best, though everyone agrees that if you are served thin French-fry-style chips with your fish then you should legally be allowed to slap the vendor across the face with the nearest wet pollock.

IAIN AITCH is the author of We’re British, Innit, published by Collins.