I was once told that a gentleman never lets himself be photographed with a glass in his hand. Now it seems de rigeur to look as pissed as a fart, so this convention may have died the death. Sir Iain Moncrieffe noted another telltale sign of ill breeding. He blackballed an aspiring member of his club because he saw him wash his hands after taking a pee. Urine is sterile but that one would be a hard sell these days.

I should be going to the UK for a wedding next week, but I’m suffering from an acute attack of manflu. My colds used to last for a snotty three days but it doesn’t work like that any more. I blame Trump and Brexit.

The grandson must have a dozen cars on his premises. His ride of choice is a white thing with go-faster decals. I’ve never clocked the brand but it must be by his front door with the bonnet up or on jacks for a dozen hours a week, every week. It has as much care lavished on it as a Formula 1 racing car. Grunts beyond the window at about 10pm yesterday showed him pushing it down the street outside in an attempt to get it started. He built a new wall last autumn for his garage and took his sledgehammer and angle grinder to take it down again over the weekend. It’s been 10 years in its construction so far.

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