I’m so anti-noise I once called the police to shut down my own party

It is with great surprise that I find myself possessing something in common with Jeremy Corbyn. Yesterday The Londoner reported that the Labour leader had complained to a local councillor concerning the Wireless Festival in Finsbury Park. Like him, I am something of a veteran when it comes to filing noise complaints.

When a neighbours’ summer barbecue became a rave at 4am, I called 101. When our office in Kensington became disturbed on a daily basis by a tuneless saxophonist who only sort-of-knew George Michael’s Careless Whisper, I reported him via an online form.

I once even called the police on my own house party. Returning to what was then my home in Shepherd’s Bush in 2011, I found that my friends had decided to throw what they called a little gathering. A DJ soon arrived, followed by a crowd laden with spirits and beers. This was not the cheese-and-wine affair I had anticipated but I joined in, turning in at around two o’clock in the morning, before which I asked my friends to wrap things up.

An hour later, lying in bed with my floorboards vibrating gently, I picked up the phone. “I’d like to report a noise complaint: my neighbours are having a party and it’s got a bit loud.” “I’ll say!” the officer replied. “I can hear it! It sounds like you’re there!”

Soon enough, there was a knock on the door, the noise abated, and I fell asleep. The next morning my housemates sat in the kitchen complaining of the anonymous busybody so lacking a sense of fun.

I did not come clean for years, and earned their ire when I did.

I don’t consider myself anti-fun.

I love a good party with a good soundtrack and a couple of drinks. But I also don’t think I’m unreasonable for expecting the volume to decrease when the clock chimes midnight. Perhaps I should just invest in some earplugs before I turn into Corbyn?

So we meet a gin, Mister Bond ...

I don’t want Idris Elba to be James Bond. It’s nothing to do with the colour of his skin but a run-in with him in my twenties that still makes me shudder.

The actor was at the launch of a bar in Covent Garden and I had secured a quick interview. A big fan of his work in Luther, I was excited to meet him to ask about the Bond rumours that were circulating, even back in 2013. So excited, in fact, that I dropped a giant glass of gin all over his trousers. He was a gent about it but I’m not sure I could handle seeing him on billboards everywhere if he gets the 007 job.

From Mad Men to crazy Russian royals

An avid Mad Men viewer I was thrilled this week to see the teaser trailer for the new show from its creator, Matthew Weiner. Titled The Romanoffs, it stars the excellent Christina Hendricks, and follows a disparate group, all of whom believe themselves descended from the Russian royal family killed in Ekaterinburg.

I’d be tuning in even without Weiner’s involvement: I have long been fascinated by the history of the last Tsar of Russia, his wife and children. It started with the schmaltzy Nineties cartoon in which a young amnesiac found she was actually the young Grand Duchess Anastasia. Now I read every book on the subject and have even befriended historian Helen Rappaport, whose latest tome The Race to Save the Romanovs is fascinating. She tells me she still receives letters from the well-meaning fantasists who insist they are one of the heirs to the Russian throne.

With this series, I fear she’s about to get a spike in correspondence.

Help us out with with homophobia

Cricketer Ben Stokes has been found not guilty of affray, after stepping in to defend two gay men from verbal abuse. Some will be disgusted at the fact the pair were attacked in the first place but let’s not pretend it’s rare: it is a constant presence in my life and in the lives of most of the gay men I know.

You get used to shrugging off insults thrown your way in the street, on the bus, in bars, but it’s profoundly upsetting. So next time you hear it happening to someone, consider doing something. We don’t all want a champion coming to our rescue but an “Is everything OK?” might be nice once in a while.