I know May is desperate. But prosecco parties for Tory MPs won’t save her | Peter Bradshaw

As our long, cold summer crawls off somewhere to expire, a Mike Leigh-style nightmare is unfolding at the highest reaches of the British political establishment. Theresa May is reportedly having a series of “prosecco and canapé” receptions at Chequers, the prime ministerial country retreat in Buckinghamshire, to schmooze backbenchers and bolster her leadership for the grim, bongless constitutional struggle ahead. In the BBC dramatisation, Alison Steadman can recreate a variant on her role from Leigh’s Abigail’s Party, with perhaps some digitally recreated cyber-performance from Richard Wattis as Philip. It is the only way of doing justice to what sounds like an excruciating social event. And there is something so horribly contemporary about prosecco itself. In the 1970s it was Liebfraumilch and Mateus rosé; in the 90s the leisured classes were getting hammered on New World chardonnay. Now it is all about the unpretentious non-champagneness of prosecco. It doesn’t say anything as naff or indulgent as “celebration”, just a bit of carefully willed effervescence. I was even offered some recently at a parent-teacher event, at the end of which we all comprehensively lost the plot amid the prosecco democratic fizz. Perhaps May and her guests will experience something similar.

It’s no Love Island

Those hoping for a progressive future in Zimbabwe, particularly when it comes to LGBT rights and sexual politics generally, will not be reassured by the news about Grace Mugabe, who hopes someday to succeed her 93-year-old husband, Robert, as president. South Africa has given Grace Mugabe diplomatic immunity over allegations that she attacked a 20-year-old model, Gabriella Engels, with an extension cord in a Johannesburg hotel room, where Engels was visiting the Mugabes’ sons, Robert Jr, 25, and Chatunga, 21.

Grace Mugabe had apparently been in South Africa to get medical treatment for a leg injury, and went to visit Robert, who lives there. She has in the past talked about metaphorical “evil spirits” that might lead her sons into lax habits. And her encounter with Engels duly resulted in chaos: “She flipped and just kept beating me with the plug. Over and over,” said Engels later. It happened in view of bodyguards and hotel staff; she was reported to have hit the boys themselves too, and Robert Jr is thought to have fled in the melee, evidently unwilling to face his mother’s considerable displeasure. Perhaps the Mugabes could do us all a favour by withdrawing from political life and setting up their own TV reality show.

TV’s gender game

The announcement of a new batch of contestants for Strictly Come Dancing is maintaining the melancholy mood of farewells for Bruce Forsyth – whom people of my generation will, of course, associate with the 70s TV classic The Generation Game, with its daft games, its silly panto scenes with the lines written on the scenery, and heartbreakingly inexpensive items rolling past on the conveyor belt. It was also a gateway drug to Saturday night TV generally, including Saturday Night at the Movies, the slot in which I first saw John Ford’s The Searchers, Stuart Rosenberg’s Cool Hand Luke and the Boulting brothers’ Seven Days to Noon. But I can’t help noticing the eerie similarity between the pairing of Bruce and Tess Daly and Bruce and Anthea Redfern, back in the day. Basically, it’s the same gender-stereotype concept, only with Bruce older. I hope that Tess Daly is one day allowed to present a show with a man 40 years her junior.

• Peter Bradshaw is the Guardian’s film critic and a Guardian columnist