Today

11 Aug 2022
What’s the point of the NHS if it doesn’t work?

We left prepared. Bottles of water, protein snacks, phone chargers, portable Scrabble (even the teenagers can look at the internet for only so long). And we left early: our crossing was at 2 p.m., and by 9 a.m. we were already on the M25. Six-hour queues, we’d been warned. Armageddon on the M2. Somewhere around Maidstone, I got a text. P&O Ferries: ‘We regret our sailings are delayed by up to 45 minutes.’ Uh-oh. But as we descended into Dover, zero sign of trouble. We sailed through check-in. ‘So sorry there’s a bit of a delay,’ said the man in the booth. No worries, said we, pathetically grateful not to be stuck in a lorry park. On to French customs. Again, not a queue in sight. ‘Bonjour,’ I said, in my best Franglais, handing over our passports.

What’s the point of the NHS if it doesn’t work?

Friday

19 Nov 2021

Sunday

7 Jan 2018

Saturday

6 Jan 2018
Hamilton: America 1776? Or Britain 2016?

Hamilton is the most exciting American cultural export in decades. It's now showing in London every to large, delighted audiences -- and we Brits love it. As a musical, it takes a dusty, distant slice of history and infuses it with excitement, intellect, lightning wit and an intoxicating whiff of sexual tension. I know this because I saw it in New York two years ago, just before Britain's EU referendum. And I was struck by the way it captured — not always intentionally, I suspect, given the impeccable liberal credentials of the cast and writers — the political mood in America and over here: revolution, uncertainty, unrest, the falling of old orders and rising of new. In particular, it’s the inspiring story of a nation full of talent and fizzing with energy that’s shackled to a greedy, unelected elite across the sea; belittled and derided by self-appointed rulers, yet willing nonetheless to take a risk in the name of freedom and self-determination.

Hamilton: America 1776? Or Britain 2016?

Thursday

4 Jan 2018
Diary - 4 January 2018

Owing to the spectacular uselessness of Ticketmaster, my son missed out on his birthday treat, seats for Hamilton at the newly refurbished Victoria Palace Theatre. Our show was cancelled — just one of a total of 16 — and our allotted replacement date clashed with an immovable engagement. By the time the rusty wheels of Ticketmaster’s nonexistent customer service had ground into action, the entire run was sold out. I asked the boy’s godfather to accompany him in my place. Turns out even that’s verboten. Such is the hype that tickets are non-transferable — and require you to show a printed email confirmation, your original payment card and a photo ID on arrival at the theatre. Even with the best will in the world, I don’t think Nick Boles can pass himself off as me.

Diary - 4 January 2018

Sunday

24 Dec 2017
Sarah Vine: My most convincing ghost story

I’ve seen a few spectres in my life, the most recent last year, just before New Year’s Eve. We were invited to stay with some friends in Devon. Recently restored, the house is beautiful. My daughter’s room was the sweetest: just down the corridor from ours. The first night we all slept soundly, replete with food and wine and gossip. On the second night we retired slightly earlier. I awoke at around 2 a.m. Seeing a light flickering, I walked down the corridor to my daughter’s room. She was wide awake, watching a film on my laptop. She too had woken up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I closed the laptop and straightened out the bedclothes. I then tucked her up and sat on the edge of her bed to stroke her hair. As I sat there, half snoozing, I reflected that the room felt rather chilly.

Sarah Vine: My most convincing ghost story

Saturday

9 Sep 2017
Voted Leave? It’s one way to lose friends, says Sarah Vine

September is my time of year. Summer is all very well if you’re one of those golden-haired, long-limbed types who looks heavenly in a sarong and a waist chain. But for me it’s just an endless battle against heat, direct sunlight, corpulence (chiefly my own) and biting insects. Besides, there’s nothing quite like that back-to-school feeling, the promise of a new term — and a chance to catch up with friends who have been off gallivanting all summer. Hence one of my favourite dates in our social calendar, an annual ‘end of summer’ party in Henley. It’s a bit of a schlep on a Saturday night, but always worth it, not least because the fish and chips are excellent and the hostess divine. The Prime Minister was in attendance — not that I actually saw her.

Voted Leave? It’s one way to lose friends, says Sarah Vine

Thursday

7 Sep 2017
Diary - 7 September 2017

September is my time of year. Summer is all very well if you’re one of those golden-haired, long-limbed types who looks heavenly in a sarong and a waist chain. But for me it’s just an endless battle against heat, direct sunlight, corpulence (chiefly my own) and biting insects. Besides, there’s nothing quite like that back-to-school feeling, the promise of a new term — and a chance to catch up with friends who have been off gallivanting all summer. Hence one of my favourite dates in our social calendar, an annual ‘end of summer’ party in Henley. It’s a bit of a schlep on a Saturday night, but always worth it, not least because the fish and chips are excellent and the hostess divine. The Prime Minister was in attendance — not that I actually saw her.

Diary - 7 September 2017

Thursday

10 Dec 2015
The Ghost in the machine

One of the great joys of the late Brian Sewell’s style of writing was his almost child-like bluntness. He had a three-year-old’s lack of tact when it came to saying what he thought of things, be it art or food or life in general. The fact that he combined such unflinching honesty with intelligence, insight and erudite delivery was what made him one of the great critics. Always entertaining, occasionally right, cheerfully abusive, he showed us the world through his pince-nez, and it was both terrifying and magnificent. Despite a weakness for baroque vocabulary, he was a master of economy. It took him only a few choice lines to demolish a victim: Tracey Emin was a ‘self-regarding exhibitionist’, Hockney a ‘vulgar prankster’, Banksy had ‘no virtue’, the work of Damian Hirst ‘I can sum it up as shiny shit’.

The Ghost in the machine

Thursday

28 Mar 2013
Sarah Vine on Leveson, Michael Gove’s Question Time, and Westfield

After £4 million of taxpayer’s money and eight months of celebrity hand-wringing (bar a few notable and worthy exceptions), democracy has finally triumphed: Leveson has got the press where many MPs have long wanted it, i.e. strapped to a chair having its teeth pulled, without anaesthetic. What was it that Laurence Olivier wanted to know? Oh yes: ‘Is it safe?’ Only if you’re a close personal friend of Hugh Grant, it seems. God help the rest of us. We’re waiting to hear Fleet Street’s response but so far, at least one publication has refused to submit to its punishment: this one. Last week’s NO cover was such an overdue display of cojones, I couldn’t resist tweeting a request: ‘Can you please produce a poster version of that NO cover for your readers? I want to stick it in my window.

Saturday

22 Sep 2007
Scared of sexists? Try upsetting the feminists

As a study published the other day showed, the equality gap is far from sewn up. Despite the fact that women managers climb the career ladder faster than men and reach positions of responsibility five years earlier than their male counterparts, they are still paid less ...an average of 12 per cent less, rising to 23 per cent at senior level.Are you still there? Because if I were you I would have wandered off by now, perhaps to tidy my sock drawer, or empty the bins — or perform any number of more fascinating tasks; anything apart from listening to yet another whingeing career woman bleating on about the unfairness of it all. It is not that I don’t care, of course I do: I am a woman and I have a job; but it’s like another recent headlining report, the one about e-numbers making children hyperactive — tell me something I don’t already know.