From me to you

Liver Building from the docks

Tuesday morning dawned as fairly as the weather has been since Saturday afternoon, and since I wasn't due to start actual work until around 11am, I took the camera for a walk around the dock area.

Usually, I find that first efforts at photographing somewhere I don't know leave plenty of room for improvement.

Now that may well still be the case, but I'm actually quite pleased with some of these first efforts.

And since, by the time I next left the building, a blanket of white cloud had descended, I was delighted with the light and skies I'd managed to capture.

So here are a few of my initial efforts – given just a quite basic processing.

All can be double-clicked to reveal a larger image.

Enjoy.

Mermaid House

Albert Dock

Rusted ring

Ferry 'cross the Mersey

Liver Building; Museum of Liverpool

Cunard Building

Conference centre

Roses

John Lennon memorial

A day in the life

Albert Dock, Stevedores by Edward Chambré Hardman

The first full day in Liverpool dawned under rather grey skies. But since I didn’t need to be in the conference centre until around 9.20, I went for an amble around the deserted docks area first, snapping a few shots with the phone.

What has been done in this area is really heartening.

As I touched on the other day, so many towns and cities have been de-regionalised, losing so much identity that you could be forgiven for thinking that you were in some sort of identikit town centre – wherever you are.

Around the Liverpool docks, however, you have a range of the old buildings that have been utilised afresh, but without losing the character.

The old remains, but like some sort of Brigadoon.

Mersey Tunnel

Outside our hotel are a series of boards advertising the house and studio of Irish-born photographer Edward Chambré Hardman (1898-1988).

Near the Anglican cathedral, it is now run by the National Trust and is open to the public. Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll have the time to visit, but those same boards also acted as miniature exhibition of Hardman’s work.

He recorded the city in wonderfully dramatic monochrome, from the 1920s on. There are some superb shots – of which a few are reproduced here – and Hardman deserves to be much better known.

He not only recorded the changing scenery of the city, but some of his street photography brings to mind Henri Cartier Bresson.

Hardman with his Rolleiflex

And several of the pictures displayed featured the Albert Dock from the years when Liverpool was a much more active port.

The buildings are the same, although the use has changed to a commercial mix, including everything from residential, to a hotel, to The Beatles Story to the Tate Liverpool, to retail to eateries and cafés.

And the dock itself still provides harbour for boats – not just tourist craft, but working boats too.

After a morning stint of conference reporting, lunchtime offered a chance to go back out into the improving weather to head back to the Albert Dock in search of fodder.

Because I’d earlier spotted the Docklands Fish & Chip Shop, I was heading in a very specific direction.

I’m up north, after all – and London absolutely cannot compete on the fish ‘n’ chips front.

As it happens, I ordered scampi and chips to take away. It came in a huge box: scampi, chips, mushy peas, lettuce and a small pickled onion and a piece of pickled gherkin.

Now I admit to abandoning the pickles and the lettuce. But the rest – even though mostly out of a freezer, but fried as I waited – was damned good scoff.

Cunard Building, bird's eye view

And oh … oh … they have scallops on the menu and I haven’t seen those for decades, so it was a case of ‘I’ll be back’ on the fried-lunch front.

Indeed, it was straight back there today for a portion of these delightful that’s potato discs, battered, for any non-northerners reading this) and a steak and kidney pie.

By gum – it’s great to get some proper northern fodder!

The evening saw us eat at the hotel – and it was certainly one of the better hotel restaurants I’ve eaten at – although it was a tiny bit strange.

With a few curtains, drawn and undrawn, the space was transformed from the breakfast area of the morning.

One pair of curtains had been opened to reveal a small cinema screen. Playing, as we sat down, was an Abbott and Costello film (with sound off, so that the music from the nearby bar was the soundtrack), followed by the 1929 silent-talkie half-and-half Douglas Fairbanks romp, The Iron Mask.

This – together with the Charlie Chapin posters on one side – is apparently what makes it The Cinema Club. And it was a tad surreal, to be honest. I had my back to the screen, but The Other Half went from observing that he'd never 'got' Abbott and Costello, to laughing-groaning at a 'lion' that was licking its lips at the sight of Costello.

View of the Mersey from the Liver Building

Later, he was able to muse on how every single screen representation of Cardinal Richelieu looks exactly the same.

It appeared to have no connection with the cuisine, which had a clear south of France-Italian influence.

For a starter, I had calamari with a light mayo and a quarter of lemon with dried chilli.

The battered squid was the tiniest bit over-cooked, but it was still tasty enough.

I opted for the ravioli as a main: excellent pasta, stuffed with a mushroom mix that was meaty yet light, and served with a four-cheese sauce that was also mild enough that it didn’t overwhelm the mushroom. It was garnished with a handful of rocket.

There was a salad of rocket, red onion and feta, plus a slice of very enjoyable garlic bread.

The incredibly modern Two Cathedrals

The downside was the rocket: not only was there far too much – for goodness sake, it is not the only leaf available – and it wasn’t at its freshest.

The other half had a veal Milanese and reported it to be very pleasant, having started with mushrooms and aîoli.

For a dessert, I went for the tiramisu with a Bailey’s custard.

This was the weakest course: the tiramisu seemed to be part made of sponge cake – nowhere near light enough – and the crème anglais was too thin and seemed pretty much flavourless.

To drink, we had a rosé Chateau la Gordonn 2011 from Provence, which was nice and fruity, with a honey sweetness developing to a hint of tobacco – and it was very pleasant.

And that was the end of that.

Hopefully, in the coming days, there’s be a little more chance to see a little more.

Peas please me do

The first harvest

And so to Liverpool for a week’s conference work. It’s not a city I’ve spent much time in – the last time I was here was during Euro ’96, for a group match between Italy and Russia at Anfield, marvelling at the sight of Gianfranco Zola bringing a ball down out of the air, apparently stuck to his boot, before haring off on a run.

Then afterwards, being ticked off by a very young policemen at Lime Street Station, as I swore with frustration on learning that my train had been cancelled for some reason or other, and two trains worth of us were crammed into one for the journey back to London.

But before then, late on Friday afternoon, pottering in the potager, I harvested three pea pods. There’ll be many more to come, but those were not going to wait for a further week.

Oh, the smell from those pods, freshly picked. Just a few hours later, the aroma had faded somewhat.

But by then, the few tender, young peas were being podded into a pan to blanch for just a moment, alongside asparagus and courgette.

There were few enough of them, but enough to experience the extraordinary taste.

Some people think that growing peas is a waste of time – you need loads, after all, the podding takes time, and the frozen variety are excellent.

I’d certainly be lost without frozen peas – but they are a different beast; a very different taste.

And podding peas is as enjoyable as scraping new potatoes. Or, for that matter, podding broad beans, of which you can also get quite decent frozen ones.

Oh, but the taste. Freshly-picked peas really do please me. And after a completely failed harvest last year, this is already looking good.

The potager is so full of life now: chard, lettuce, radishes, spring onions, the pot of various salad leaves, turnips and carrots are all, finally, on the way.

The blackcurrant bush has produced it’s first fruit. There won’t be a lot, but it’s a start.

The peas are producing many more flowers and already some baby pods. The broad beans are producing many beautiful, delicate black and white flowers. And the runner beans are running away up the wigwam.

On the patio, nasturtiums are finally growing, and the vine is close to seeing us start to train it along the fence. The pyracantha has burst forth with delicate, creamy flowers, and the belis and sweet William and violas add vibrant colour.

Hopefully, it’ll all be even further on when I get back later this week.

In the meantime, Liverpool.

Our hotel restaurant was rammed by the time we went looking for food. Forced, then, to wander a little, we were equally unfortunate as we ambled into the Liverpool 1 area and tried to see if there was any chance of getting in to Jamie’s Italian.

Fortunately, around another corner, we found a Bistro Franc – and thoroughly decent it turned out to be.

As a general point, each place that we checked out was not only busy but so noisy that you’d have had to shout to make your dining companion/s hear you.

Bistro Franc was perhaps not quite as loud.

First lesson: get to know your waitor/waitress.

We were served by a delightful French woman from Toulouse, who was tickled pink that I, entirely coincidentally, was wearing a limited edition Olympique Lyonnais top.

They had a monthly menu – a point that The Other Half pointed out as something impressive.

I started with a chicken liver parfait on onion toast, with a small salad. But I couldn’t resist one of the side dishes on offer – pan-fried frogs’ legs, so that I had that alongside.

For my main course, I opted for confited leg of duck with an orange and cointreau sauce. The Other Half had the bourguingnon, and we were given a substantial side dish of assorted vegetables.

Bistro Franc

Both courses were very good – and left us very nicely fed as we pottered back to the hotel, and we'd enjoyed a bottle of 2012 rosé d'Anjou 'Tourville' from the Loire, which had a nice fruity sweetness to balance the acidity.

The space, it’s worth adding, has been very nicely used.

Our arrival in the city had coincided with the sinking of a ‘yellow duckmarine’ with 31 tourists on board in the dock opposite the hotel.

Thanks to the incredibly quick action of the RAF rescue service, together with the local police, ambulance and fire and rescue services, all on board were rapidly rescued and accounted for, with no major injuries sustained.

Nobody could imagine publicly-owned restaurants – whether serving French or otherwise. But why on earth can anyone imagine that privatised emergency services, which would have a legal obligation to maximise profits for shareholders as their priority, would be able to perform their jobs any better than the way in which those emergency services reacted on Saturday?

A mixed economy is best for the majority. And long may it continue.

They don't make 'em like that any more

A proper film: The Third Man

Like the proverbial trio of London buses, there are times when stories come in threes. Or at least not in a state of splendid isolation.

Last night, a tweet drew my attention to a report from www/france24.com – an English-language source of French news – about Gallic film and subsidies.

In essence, the EU is discussing a free trade agreement with the US, and the US doesn’t find it “helpful” that France doesn’t want to even discuss the country’s ‘cultural exception’.

This is the state subsidy that helps ensure that the French film-making industry thrives and can fight off ‘competition’ from Hollywood.

Now, let’s be clear, Hollywood bigwigs, including Stephen Spielberg, have defended the French approach.

And so too have many film industry figures from across Europe.

A letter from German director Win Wenders, French star Bérénice Bejo told the European parliament: “Culture is not merchandise; you can’t put it in the same category as cars, lamps, or screws and bolts”.

As of this Wednesday just gone, the top 10 films at the UK box office at all from the US, with the exception of Shane Meadows's The Stone Roses: Made of Stone.

The rest is mainstream, with the exception of the made-for-TV Behind the Candelabra, Steven Soderbergh’s tale of Liberace.

It apparently required TV company HBO to make this, because, in effect, it wasn’t Hollywood enough for Hollywood.

Gallic genius: Jean de Florette

For clarity, I’m actually looking forward to seeing this: this post is not a rant against US films per se.

But there was a time when we used to produce loads of films too – films that reflected British life and British humour, and with a vast variety, from The Servant to Ice Cold in Alex, Red Shoes to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Doctor in Distress to Carry on Doctor, The Railway Children to Whistle Down the Wind, Zulu to The Third Man, Dracula to The Whicker Man.

But what has happened?

We can still make films, but few get made and instead, our cinemas are full of Hollywood movies. And until a few recent exceptions, the bulk of English-language films that have appeared have been aimed at a youthful and primarily male audience.

When push comes to shove, successive UK governments have either not cared enough; been ideologically opposed to subsidy and/or convinced that the market provides the best and most desirable outcomes – or a combination thereof.

Result? An indigenous cinema that barely seems to breathe. And yet across the Channel, you have an entirely different situation, with a wide variety of films being made that reflect in myriad ways, French culture, French life, French experience and French sensibilities.

To be honest, the UK isn't helped by have such a similar language to that of the US – it makes us lazy. But since the 1970s, the bulk of English-language film production has been aimed at a young and primarily male audience (make the right blockbuster and you can sell all the collectibles too).

If you wanted to watch something that was a bit more grown-up, but without that meaning loads of violence (and I have no per se objection to violence in entertainment, incidentally), then you'd mostly be better looking to mainland Europe.

Yet for us Brits, we even judge our own cinema on the basis of Hollywood, getting into a lather if we can find any British element in a film that wins an Oscar. It gets far more coverage than, say, if a British films wins at Cannes.

The French saw a threat to their industry and their culture – and they did something about it.

But in these times, when our own culture secretary, Maria Miller, is telling arts organisations to think more of culture as a commodity to sell, it seems to be verging on the downright heretical to mention such things.

None of this is intended to suggest that any aspect of culture need stand still.

In the case of film, it's not that long ago that an excellent, small-budget British film made an impact: Bend it Like Beckham is not only charming, but it also reflects a number of aspects of modern British life. Nor was it just a movie for 'older people'.

But the commoditisation of culture removes it from the people whose culture it is.

One positive from the years of Labour government was the early move to scrap admissions to libraries and galleries that had been introduced under the post-'79 governments. It also backed, at least a little, the British film industry, by creating a system of tax breaks – a scheme scrapped within very short order by George Osborne.

On the cultural downside, and for balance, Labour allowed the continuation of the previous governments' policy of allowing school playing fields to be sold off.

British culture – in its widest sense – has been changed massively in the space of just a generation and a half. If we remember that such cultural change includes the homogenisation of town centres and the decline in regional difference and identity, it's not difficult to see why there are plenty of people around who feel, in effect, culturally disoriented.

Only yesterday, I spotted a story about a man who has already saved and restored one magnificent Art Deco cinema and is now onto another one.

Via Twitter, I discovered that a similar thing nearly saved the cinema in Lancaster – but then it was razed to the ground and the site 'redeveloped'.

I have happy memories of Lancaster, but I'm not even sure sometimes how much I want to visit again: I suspect that so much of what I remember will have been subsumed into the same old homogenised sights I see in any city I visit in the UK.

So many of the buildings that helped to give our town and cities and sense of their own identity were allowed to rot and have now gone, replaced – often – by identikit structures that have an intended lifespan little beyond 30 years.

We no longer build for the future, let alone posterity. And how we build has become the epitome of our apparently chronic addiction to short-termism.

Pubs are another example of cultural change – not all, bit some simply because breweries spot the chance to flog a building/land for easy cash.

Many people are priced out of attending elite sport. Swimming pools are either boarded up – or have to charge much more than they did just a few years ago. Libraries are being closed – or in some cases, councils are trying to save cash by turning them over to unqualified volunteers. I'm probably not the only one who actually remembers when becoming a librarian was considered a good career. Not any more, apparently. Anyone can do it.

So, bon chance to the French. I hope that they prevail under this attack. After all, the US government doesn't want the issue of French films on the table because of quality, but simply because of big dollars for already-rich corporations.

Perhaps one day, we might have a government that actually cares an iota about our own culture – and sees the impact of a free-market dogma on it, and the resultant disorientation of at least some of the populace.

Unfortunately, much like Uncle Sam – to whose coattails we so desperately cling – we seem to know the price of everything, and the value of nothing.

A cracking new book from Bruno Loubet

Salmon, new potatoes, asparagus and a green gazpacho

There hasn't been much serious cooking taking place at the Voluptuous Villa of late: well okay, that’s perhaps a tad misleading.

There hasn’t been much experimentation or complexity: the long-awaited seasonal ingredients just cry out for the simplest possible treatment.

After all, when the asparagus and the Jersey Royals finally arrive, what else do you really want to do other than serve them simply with a lamb chop and some fresh mint sauce?

But a pre-ordered book arrived in my hands last week that demanded an instant change to this approach.

Bruno Loubet’s new book, Mange Tout, was the inspiration. And a delightful and inspirational collection it is.

With a braai having already been scheduled for Saturday – small steaks, pork and apple patties and Toulouse sausage, with bread and a small salad on the side – Sunday was marked down for a touch of Bruno experimentation.

The starting point with Bruno is the south west of France.

Coming from within the Bordeaux region, Loubet is absolutely an omnivore.

The south west of France is, after all, the home of duck confit and foie gras. Vegetarianism is not high in the menu.

Although Bruno’s new restaurant (which I hope to visit in a few weeks, work allowing) gives a much greater prominence to vegetables.

However, back to this book.

It didn’t take much of a browse before I saw dishes that I wanted to try.

Mackerel with salted and compressed watermelon and a lime mayonnaise is one that most certainly will be done, to give but a single example. And then there's lobster with mango – another pairing that you know, instantly, will work superbly. 

But I have already tried two dishes.

First, I tried a dish of salmon confit with asparagus, new potatoes and a green gazpacho.

Now this really is excellent.

Of course, it’s enormously seasonal – and seriously worships the produce.

The salmon is confited in olive oil – and works wonderfully – while the new potatoes and asparagus are cooked as you would expect.

The difference is in the green gazpacho, which includes avocado, spring onion, green pepper, green chilli, olive oil, basil and mint.

You use that as a sauce – and a delightfully fragrant sauce it is too, with just a little bit of a kick.

It is, on the one hand, very simple dish, but on the other, the gazpacho and the way the fish is cooked makes it a very grown-up dish.

You need a cook's thermometer to maintain the temperature of the oil – and my pesky, unsubtle hob made it close to a nightmare to keep the gauge steady at 50-55˚C, but it would be difficult to completely muck this up.

And it has the wonderful advantage of many aspects of it being able to be prepared well in advance, so the final cook is not difficult.

Bruno concludes the recipe by saying that he garnishes with whatever herbs are available: I finely shredded a few leaves of mint and sorrel from the garden, which worked well.

Next up was a rhubarb Clerkenwell mess – which I have actually eaten at Bistrot Bruno Loubet in, well, err, Clerkenwell.

It meant that, since I hadn’t planned well enough in advance to buy pre-made ones, I had to make my own meringue for the first ever time.

I checked Delia first, assuming simplicity and finding instead, mentions of cornflour and vinegar. So I turned to Michel Roux, where I found the simple directions that guided me through my first ever experience of making meringue.

And I managed it – and I admit to having felt really rather chuffed with myself.

The mess is made with meringue, a rhubarb jelly and a rhubarb compote (in effect), and while the compote is really quite sweet, having been cooked very briskly, with plenty of sugar and also orange juice, the addition of pink grapefruit segments keeps the whole thing very nicely balanced.

Now, I’m afraid I can’t actually read the words ‘mange tout’ without thinking of Del Boy’s glorious mis-pronounciation in an effort to impress in Only Fools and Horses.

But if that was about a misplaced belief in one’s own sophistication, this is the real deal.

Bruno’s new book has serious elements of fusion cookery, but they do not seem to be there for the sake of it.

They’re subtle and seriously considered – not just some excuse to combine a random series of ingredients.

On the basis of what I have cooked from the book, the instructions are clear, but do assume a certain knowledge.

Bruno’s food is wonderful – and that’s exactly why I pre-ordered this book some eight months ago, as soon as it was possible to do so.

Never mind me: suffice it to say that Raymond Blanc rates Bruno very highly (I can see why). And if you buy just one cookery book this year, you won’t go far wrong with this one.

#CultureMatters

This geezer – he was right.

Earlier today, a tweet landed in my account from the Royal Opera House, asking why those looking in thoughts that the arts were important.

Well, 140 characters isn’t really enough to do justice to such a big question, so it seems worth going into rather more detail here.

The question itself was directly related to that of funding – or subsidy, as it’s often referred to. And one of the first answers – whether intended satirically or not – was that “I like my opera tickets being subsidised”.

Actually, this rather takes me back to my first venture into any form of political activism. It was the early to mid ’80s, and I got rather heftily involved with the Campaign for the Arts.

I handed out leaflets and posted posters (with permission!); I even wrote to my MP.

Indeed, I still have the reply from the sub-Thatcher handbagger that was Dame Elaine Kellett-Bowman. It took on a tone – unexpected to naive little me – effectively accusing me of being a Loony Lefty. The irony is that, in those days, I had no party politics – or if anything, it was in a conservative direction.

But supporting the arts remains seen as a liberal/lefty sort of thing. Perhaps, without her ever intending it that way, the dame gave me a little shove in that direction. I was certainly not only shocked at her response, but somewhat indignant too.

Now I don’t really do indignation much these days. Little surprises me about pretty much any politician – my faith in the majority, on all sides, it little greater than my faith in a god.

But here we are, with the same old question – and the answers remain largely the same too.

It strikes me as rather perverse that many of those who bemoan the state of our culture – or at least, convey a perception that it is being allowed to die (and by which they generally mean white Western European culture) – also object to arts subsidy.

Yet subsidy is vital if we are to maintain a thriving and cultural life that everyone has access to and can feel part of.

Of course the arts are not the be all and end all of culture, but they make up a neat part of it and, for the sake of this piece at least, that’s what we’re going to mean by the word.

It’s easy to forget that one of the results of the post-war settlement was the expansion of the arts beyond something that was largely enjoyed by an elite.

Funding meant that working-class people could not only watch good theatre, for instance, but could also study to become actors, directors and writers.

An entire generation of talent was able then to go on and produce some of the iconic plays and films of the 1960s and ’70s. The entire kitchen-sink oeuvre came from precisely such a point.

The plays became films – which boosted a then vibrant British film industry. Yes – we really did have one.

They gave voice to a working-class experience that otherwise would never have occurred – and in so doing, created art that was well worth the name.

Without funding, there would almost certainly, for instance, have been no Joan Littlewood at Stratford. And in that case, no Oh, What a Lovely War! and no Oliver! – both of which continue to make money to this day. And that also provides a very succinct indication of the variety of works that were produced.

Many of the generation that we now venerate as great actors came from working-class backgrounds outside London – Patrick Stewart, Ian McKellen, Tom Courtenay, Albert Finney, Maggie Smith, Glenda Jackson: it’s a lengthy list.

Many of the writers who went on to pen classic TV shows, from Z Cars to I Claudius, were from working-class backgrounds, and were able to achieve what they did because of the equalising effects of that post-war settlement.

And in so doing, they didn’t simply contribute (massively) to the cultural health of the nation as a whole, they provided a voice for other working-class people – and not one bent simply on vilifying such people, as we increasingly see now through so many entertainment means.

How else would the likes of Alan Bleasdale, Willy Russell and Alan Plater otherwise have had the chance to make their own contributions?

And in what we’ve just discussed, we have already acknowledged that the subsidised arts create money.

Let’s take the economic issue further, because this is important.

The arts in the UK create far more wealth for the country than does the monarchy.

More tourists come to the UK for our cultural life than to try and glimpse HM. That was a fact in the 1980s and it’s still a fact today.

We have an extraordinarily rich cultural heritage – and people come from across the planet to explore and discover and experience it. And tourism is one of the most important sub-sections of our service-based national economy.

The arts are use in terms of diplomacy too.

Now try and put all of that in terms of the simple buck. If you can, then I suggest that you know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

It’s been said that the great artists of history were not subsidised, but were paid by private patrons. Well, in many cases, yes.

But that meant art for the private individual, not the masses.

Personally, I’m with old Dickie Wagner in thinking that we should hark back to Grecian times and a belief that art should be for everyone, not just some elite.

In that vein, I deeply believe that every single child in the UK, whatever their background, should have the chance to experience ‘high’ art.

I believe that music lessons should be widely available, for instance: it is a well-documented fact that learning an instrument provides many other benefits – helping develop powers of concentration, for instance.

Why should the nation deny itself the talents of many people from homes that cannot afford training privately? And equally, having the money to do just that does not equate with real talent.

But the arts are more than something merely aesthetic – and I think I’ve touched on this already. High culture promotes something that can be seen as a tad dangerous: thinking.

It is no coincidence that all totalitarian regimes seek, as a matter of import, to control the arts.

The Nazis, after rising to power in 1933, rapidly got rid of opponents, including those from the cultural community. Yet they also sought to continue culture – making it ‘purely’ German; safe and so on. But it was never a question of scrapping culture/art per se.

Quite the contrary.

Similarly, Stalin didn’t get rid of art – bought sought to control it and exploit art (including composers such as Prokofiev and Shostakovich) for the benefit of the state.

Even dictators know that culture and art are important.

But then again, we live, so it seems, in days when culture is denuded to the point of ‘reality’ TV and a general trashiness – and to complain about that is itself a form of snobbery and elitism.

Just remember: one Rupert Murdoch is a great believer in railing against the 'elite' – and dumbing down as much as he can get away with, to his own profit.

No: this isn’t cultural snobbery – as I have clearly laid out, the post-war settlement allowed working-class culture and experience to be acknowledged at the highest cultural levels, at the same time as working-class people could also access art.

I dread to think that we should step back into a past where we lose all the gains of that post-war settlement.

Culture should be for all.

It is a unifying and educative force. In that sense, it is perhaps little surprise that successive neo-liberal governments, for 30-plus years, have sought to reduce the reach and importance of the arts in the UK.

Yet where regimes as diverse as the Nazis and the Soviets were united in recognising that high art should be for all, this lot seem to believe in a dumbing down that does absolutely nobody any good whatsoever.

There's a lesson there.

And to be honest, it’s even hard to imagine that most of them really appreciate culture beyond it having a perceived societal kudos.

So when the Royal Opera House asks about the arts, essentially in response to yet further onslaughts against the arts by government, let’s all be a bit Wagnerian and not fall into the trap of thinking that it’s only a subsidy for the entertainment of posh, rich people.