Clive Davis

UP AND DOWN THE LADDER

Michael Winerip's essay on all those hyper-talented, hot-house kids who won't get into Harvard makes a wonderfully touching read. The fact that Winerip is a blue-collar boy made good gives his views special weight:

What kind of kid doesn’t get into Harvard? Well, there was the charming boy I interviewed with 1560 SATs. He did cancer research in the summer; played two instruments in three orchestras; and composed his own music. He redid the computer system for his student paper, loved to cook and was writing his own cookbook. One of his specialties was snapper poached in tea and served with noodle cake. At his age, when I got hungry, I made myself peanut butter and jam on white bread and got into Harvard.

Of course, evolution is not the same as progress...I see these kids — and watch my own applying to college — and as evolved as they are, I wouldn’t change places with them for anything. They’re under such pressure.

Who deserves to win, who deserves to fail? Driving home on Sunday night, I just managed to catch the first part of Anne McElvoy's radio series on the promises and pitfalls of meritocracy. Going to Oxford from a state school in the north set her thinking about the way the class system squanders talent.

Also worth checking: Madeleine Bunting's article on the 50th anniversary of that milestone in sociology Family and Kinship in East London. Critics and admirers weigh in.

DIFFERENT TYPES OF PARENTING

Having been raised in a single-parent family, back in the days when it was a rare phenomenon, I've never needed much convincing that having both parents around is, generally, a much better option. A week of playing Mum and Dad has reminded me of that. I can't remember the last time I've felt so tired. My working day has shrunk yet more, and by the time I sit down after cooking, cleaning and policing it's gone nine o'clock and I can barely keep my eyes open during a re-run of Seinfeld. (Or Lost. After announcing I'd kicked the habit, I've slipped back into watching it.) Ah well, only eleven days to go.  And it's good to be reminded that there are other, trickier domestic permutations:

Half of the time we are four. But when we are four, we are sometimes two and two. Occasionally we are two and one. Sometimes we are just two.

Confessions of a Psychotherapist, a site I discovered via Dave Hill, has lots more to say on the art of being a step-mother.

CULTURE CLASH

The difference between trendy Brighton and staid Hove, as defined by PooterGeek... Brilliant.

IN DEFENCE OF E-MAIL

FT columnist Lucy Kellaway [subscriber link] loves firing off cyber-messages. She even reads them at night when she can't sleep (at which point I feel obliged to introduce a ! even though she disapproves of them.) In short, she's hooked:

The spontaneity, informality and solitariness of e-mail make it more beguiling than lethal: e-mail tempts us to be ourselves. In business any glimpse of people as they are is worth having, even if the sight isn’t pretty.Take the famous story of the lawyer who e-mailed a secretary asking her to pay a £4 ($8, €6) dry cleaning bill to remove a stain on his trousers left by some ketchup she had spilt there. The result: massive public ridicule. The true problem wasn’t that this man sent an e-mail that got forwarded. It was that the e-mail revealed him to be an incredibly mean fellow, who deserved what he got.

This forwarding of e-mails gives a riveting glimpse into the working lives of others. An e-mail gone wrong is a modern equivalent of putting someone in the stocks. Not very pleasant for them, but stimulating for those who throw the rotten eggs.

She knows what she is talking about. Here's an extract from her satirical novel, Who Moved My Blackberry?, a glimpse into the mind of the marketing classes. And there's also her office agony aunt column: My boss likes to hit me... I suspect my office cleaner has stolen my shoes... My PA wants time off for cosmetic surgery... 

Problems, problems.

UPDATE: Could it be that all those e-mails increase productivity? Chris Dillow looks at the stats.

WHO'S WHO

Jilly Cooper is so twee you can hear her wellies squeak. But her op-ed on Kate Middleton, blue-bloods and the non-U contretemps does contain a neat anecdote:

In 1979 I wrote a book called "Class". It caused an uproar... Not long afterwards I was at a party at Hatchards in Piccadilly. The Duke of Edinburgh came rushing over to me and said didn’t I realise the class system no longer existed. I told him that according to the 1971 census his daughter Princess Anne, as an event rider, was in the same social class as a gamekeeper, social class III (manual). "Rubbish," he snapped. "Keepers are working class."

A DIFFERENT SORT OF PRE-TEEN

It's a sign of our ahistorical times that we forget that teenagers were skulking around long before Elvis or The Beatles. Adding a little perspective, Jon Savage's new book traces the origins of modern youth culture back to Scott Fitzgerald and beyond. The Indy has just run an extract. Unfortunately, it seems to have dropped off-line all of a sudden, but here's one part that caught my eye - an account of that French phenomenon of WW2, the "zazous", rebellious, nattily dressed lovers of jazz and all things American:

Living under curfew and surveillance, they took their culture underground, reviving a 1920s tradition of "surprise-parties" - illegal, unlicensed gatherings. Behind thick shutters and under soft lights, they could listen to New Orleans jazz and swing without fear of interruption... After the Germans censored all English and American films made after 1937, the zazous felt bereft. "We deplored the disappearance of the old MGM lion like that of a friend," one remembered... Seemingly innocuous lines became commandments of faith, like Jimmy Stewart's speech in "Mr Smith Goes to Washington": "I am free, to think and speak."

As well as being targeted by fascist bully-boys, the zazous were picked up in regular police sweeps and sent off to work in the harvest. Reinforcing their status as public enemy number one, some zazous responded to the introduction of the yellow star that summer by creating their own star 'to show their sympathy for the Jews".

A DIFFERENT SORT OF DANCING

Of course, popular culture has changed a little since the days of the zazous, as you can see from this performance by the R&B star Akon. Don't click the link if you're easily offended.

LATER: On reflection, maybe the Lindy Hop was almost as shocking in its day. The big difference is that these guys (swinging up a storm in Hellzapoppin') really can dance...

...And the music was much more fun.

U, NON-U & USEFUL

Poor Kate Middleton. Middle-class, but not classy enough, apparently:

Some of William's circle would even whisper "doors to manual" when Miss Middleton arrived, in a jibe at her mother being a former airline stewardess. There were even worse social sins, such as using the word "toilet" not "lavatory", saying "pleased to meet you" rather than "how do you do?", and "pardon" rather than "what?"

Perhaps she should get some coaching from entrepreneur and former "It Boy" Ben Elliott, a man of "impeccable breeding" who is the subject of a gushing profile in the staunchly democratic Independent. Actually, I was struck less by the wide-eyed Tatlerisms than the off-the-wall nature of his company -  called Quintessentially -  which plays Jeeves to anyone with money to burn:

Quintessentially...  positions itself at the beck and call of high-maintenance clients, providing deals, discounts and contacts in every corner of the globe and helping them "access the inaccessible"... Quintessentially will take care of everyday travel arrangements, or look after spare sets of house keys; at the exotic, it will service a client's every (legal) need, getting tickets into sold-out events, or "invitation only" film premieres. It's an exclusive club whose members pay between £750 and £24,000 a year to be told where's cool, and to be got in there, particularly when travelling abroad... No request is too big, either. They once flew a particular brand of teabags halfway across the world, so Madonna could have a cuppa...

Each to his own. And there I was, thinking that journalism could be a mite parasitical at times.

CASTING THE FIRST STONE

Oxblogger David Adesnik, on Paul Wolfowitz's difficulties at the World Bank:

When romantic attachments at the office result in a serious lack of professionalism, should one say that the culpable party is unfit to lead? Or should one say that the culpable party deserves a measure of forgiveness because we all make mistakes when romance is involved? These seem to be the exact same questions we were all asking in the Clinton years, except that liberals and conservatives now have an incentive to contradict the answers they gave last time around.

MESSING ABOUT IN VEGAS…AND OTHER PLACES

The irrepressible Molly Parkin, now in her seventies, has been getting up to no good with a "bronzed surfer boy-beauty" – "a sexual explosion of such spontaneity that I still haven't fully recovered." She bares all in a typically frank interview with Madame Arcati:

Q - I understand you spanked Sir John Mortimer’s bottom for up to two hours during a liaison with that naughty masochistic QC. Tell me it’s not true … I mean he’s no oil painting … didn’t you get you arm ache?

A - It most certainly is true, and I would gladly perform the same service again, if asked. I adored and still do adore John Mortimer. It is a pleasure to respond to men with brilliant minds, with a saucy side to them. The humour was in the right place between us from the start.

As for the other men in her life, let's just say that there can’t be many ladies who have been down the garden path with both James Robertson Justice and Bo Diddley.

PS: Are there racist connotations in her comments about Diddley's, er, prowess? I don't think so. There's a difference between plain speaking and Don Imus-style abuse, especially in an English context.