Davos is still a mystery to me – nothing much ever seems to get done

Monday

There are many landmarks that signify you are getting on a bit. Some more unexpected than others. It had never occurred to me that one day my youngest child would call me for help filling in his first ever self-assessment tax return. Not least because I am almost clueless as the very idea terrifies me and I have always paid an accountant to do mine. But this felt like an important rite of passage and, given that Robbie hadn’t earned enough to owe any tax, it seemed pointless to shell out a few hundred quid. So we ploughed are way through the online form, taking what we hoped were intelligent guesses for the right boxes to fill, and his tax return is now filed. Maybe next year, he can save me money by doing mine. That really would age me. I also realised in a depressing sort of way that this year marks the 50th anniversary of the first time I ever bought an album. I had bought a few singles before 1970 – the first being All or Nothing by the Small Faces – but had only listened to my sisters’ LPs up till then. I’m not quite sure how I chose my first album – I certainly hadn’t heard it before so I must have overheard someone cool talking about it – but I timidly went to a record shop in Salisbury to ask for Led Zeppelin. The bloke behind the counter replied in a rather bored way, “Which one do you want? I, II or III?” I panicked, having no idea there was more than one and said, “III” to make it sound as if I already had the other two. Where did all the intervening years go?

Tuesday

Two years ago the arrival of President Trump for the first time in Davos was enough to send everyone attending the World Economic Forum into a complete tizzy. Now, though, anything Trump might do or say has already been priced in and everyone is relaxed there is nothing that can happen that would seriously disrupt the smooth running of global capitalism. So Trump breezed in with little fanfare to deliver a keynote speech in a bored, distracted monotone – maybe the impeachment is getting to him more than he lets on – that basically consisted of him boasting about his achievements. Come the end there was only the faintest ripple of applause from those still awake in the audience. It was hard to know if the near silence was prompted by the knowledge that almost every claim Trump had made had proved to be untrue or if one of the qualifications for getting invited to Davos is that you must be too rich to clap. Then, it’s always been a bit of a mystery to me what the World Economic Forum does anyway, other than to provide a nice January Alpine break for the very powerful. After all, it’s not as if anything much seems to get done. This year, the conference also invited Greta Thunberg along as a token nod to the need to do something about climate change, but when Trump and other members of the US delegation basically told her to get lost and that the most they would do would be to plant a few trees, nobody joined in the argument. Almost as if no one was listening.

Wednesday

Prime minister’s questions may be of no real national significance and of interest mainly to Westminster lobby journalists, but they are usually quite a good way of assessing the relative moods and attitudes of both parties. It won’t come as a surprise that Labour MPs are still more or less silent ghosts, but Boris Johnson’s performances have caught many observers on the hop. When he won the election, he put on a great display of humility. He said many votes had only been lent to the Conservatives and that he would do his best to serve and unite the country. But all that appears to have been forgotten at PMQs as now Johnson doesn’t even bother to conceal his contempt for the opposition. What’s more he can’t even be bothered to properly prepare. Twice this week he refused to answer a perfectly reasonable question from Jeremy Corbyn, saying the Labour leader should try asking something else and reminding him he had lost the election. To add insult, Johnson later in the afternoon chose to have his own People’s FaceTime PMQs where he answered his own questions about what shampoo he used and whether he preferred tea or coffee. Questions about Brexit were flannelled away with the assertion everything was going to be brilliant. It’s almost as if there is something so inherently self-destructive about Boris, he can’t stop himself from taking the piss.

Thursday

Michael Palin breaking down on TV as he talked of the loss of his friend and collaborator Terry Jones, who died this week from dementia, was almost unbearable to watch. A lifetime of friendship, love and fun were perfectly captured in just a few tears. Yet again Palin proved himself to be the classiest of class acts. I was lucky enough to meet Terry on many occasions as he and his then wife, Alison, were next-door neighbours with Jane and Stephen, two of our close friends, in south London and they would often be there when we went round for lunch or dinner. Initially I couldn’t help but being a bit in awe of Terry, not knowing quite how to react to someone who had played such an important part in my childhood. The first ever Monty Python show had been a lightbulb moment for me. I had no idea what to expect – I had only been allowed to stay up late to watch it as my Dad was a sucker for circuses and he was hoping for a bit of tight-rope walking and a few lions – but almost from the first sketch I felt some release from my teenage self. There was a world outside my Wiltshire village and there were people with a sense of the absurd whose humour connected with me and made me feel alive. But Terry was the exception to the adage “Never meet your heroes”; his natural warmth and interest in other people broke down barriers and conversation and friendship quickly flowed. I shall miss him. I also miss Stephen, who died nearly three years ago, terribly. The past is no longer quite so present as I would like it to be.

Friday

My love affair with Spurs continues to be tested. Not that there is any danger of divorce. We first hooked up back in 1966 and I’m not going to let the arrival of Jose Mourinho get between us. I’ve seen off other managers I couldn’t stand and I will see off the football antichrist. But we are undoubtedly going through a rough patch. It’s not the losing I mind, so much as the manner of it. I am still struggling to see how a team that reached the Champions League final last June could have become quite so clueless so quickly. Several players can no longer even master the basics of controlling the ball or passing it to another member of the team, and our only tactic appears to be pumping a long ball forward to a striker who is half the size of most defenders. It’s almost as if we are trying to beat teams by conceding possession. Even more bizarrely, the manager keeps giving a game to Christian Eriksen, a man whose mission to leave the club means he now refuses to move at anything other than walking pace. Spurs did somehow manage to scrape a win against Norwich on Wednesday, but the standard of football was pitiful. A decent Championship team would have beaten either club. The mood among the season ticket holders near me is not yet toxic. But there is open derision at the hopelessness of some players. A kind of gallows humour. Though maybe we should be thanking Mourinho for eradicating the sense of hope with which some of us had taken to feeling as we walked up Tottenham High Road. Despair is a much safer bet. Which is why I shall be traipsing down to Southampton to watch the team in the 4th round of the FA Cup on Saturday. I might as well experience the futility first hand, rather than vicariously.

Digested week: Save the Laurence One.