The pro-Moscow President of Chechnya, Akhmad Kadyrov, has been
killed in a bomb explosion. The President was attending a ceremony commemorating Russian
victory in World War II in a stadium on Sunday morning, when the
bomb, planted under seats near the VIP box, exploded. Five others
also died and more than 50 people were injured. Mr Kadyrov was a former rebel and supreme mufti (Muslim
religious leader) of Chechnya. In the mid-1990s he called for a
holy war against Russia and led a division of guerillas. However,
when Vladimir Putin became President in 1999 he changed his
position to supporting Russia. This won him power, but also
engendered resentment among many Chechens, including former
President (and current rebel leader), Aslan Maskhadov. Maskhadov
has denied responsibility for the bombing. After three years as interim President sponsored by the Moscow
government, Mr Kadyrov was made President last October, when an
election considered by the EU and others to have been suspicious
awarded him 81% of the vote. As both interim and permanent President, Mr Kadyrov continued
to build a private army. Despite being viewed by many as a
Russian puppet, he was often deeply critical of Russian actions
in Chechnya. Fresh Presidential elections will take place in September.
Until then, Prime Minister Sergei Abramov will function as
President. Mr Kadyrov’s son Ramzan, the head of his private
army, has been made deputy leader, prompting suggestions that the
Russian government are grooming him to succeed his father. An
additional 1,000 troops will be sent to Chechnya by the Russian
government.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

After a month of polling, voting has finally closed in
India’s general election. It was predicted that the Prime
Minister’s Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) had failed to secure
an overall majority. In the world’s largest democracy, over 600 million adults
had the right to vote in the election, in which over forty
parties were represented. The BJP had been widely expected to win
the election relatively easily. Their main threat was the
Congress Alliance, which governed India for its first 50 years of
independence, led by Sonia Gandhi. Two Communist parties have
also polled well. The main issue in the election has been the economy. The BJP
had to abandon their ‘India Shining’ slogan in the
campaign following harsh criticism. The party needs to gain 272
seats for an overall majority in Parliament. Current polls
indicate that it has won between 240 and 280 seats. Turnout was
less than 60%.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Give George Bush credit. You might think the day he
acknowledges environmental and climate change will be the day he
can heat up one of those killer pretzels of his simply by the
power of the sun’s rays. However, the earth’s not the
only thing to have been feeling the heat – the environmental
record of the former oil man has become an electoral issue. And,
as with so many other issues, the Bush team has done a brilliant
job of obfuscating the facts. Bush was recently in Florida’s Everglades to tout his
“commitment to conserving Florida’s natural
beauty.” His administration has backed an $8bn conservation
project in the swing state that handed him the presidency. Though
the photo-op was a curious one – Bush was actually shown
cutting down trees – the Florida project is brilliant
electoral politics and helps to distract from the fact that he
approved the scrapping of a mandated clean-up of 161 mercury-
polluted streams, rivers and lakes in Florida alone. Meanwhile, John Kerry has run a disastrous campaign, allowing
the Republicans to brand him a flip-flopper on issues with which
he should be pounding Bush. To the delight of the Bushies, Kerry
denied owning an SUV only for reporters to point to his Audi
Quattro which Kerry explained away by weakly saying that it
belonged to his wife. Similarly, it seems incredible but Kerry’s war record
– a major asset in this Khaki election – has also been
successfully trashed. Republicans have questioned whether Kerry,
still walking around with Vietnamese shrapnel lodged in his body,
deserved his Purple Heart for bravery because he had not been
sufficiently wounded. The sheer audacity of the Bush team needs
little explanation; most went out of their way to avoid combat. It’s been an awful few months for Bush but he is still
neck and neck with his opponent, who has allowed himself to be
defined in the worst possible terms. The smearing of Kerry and
his record is crass and dishonest but, by George, it’s
working.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Sip
102 Walton Street
(01865) 311322 Going to Sip is a bit like being a child at a grown-up,
middleclass dinner party. It’s full of old people talking
about their jobs in the media, and how their roof extension is
coming along. You feel compelled to order the banana and honey
milkshake (which is amazing), don’t know what to say to
anyone and quite want to go to bed, or do something naughty, like
steal one of the stylish ashtrays. Sip is one of the many bar/restaurants lurking around Oxford.
Upon entering you are met with a white haze of minimalist light
and glass. There is a massive projector on the wall, which shows
films without sound. When I went they were showing Leon, which
was strangely hypnotic and annoying. The drinks are expensive, but delicious, with a variety of
cocktails; I recommend the Peach Bellini. The only students to be
found at the Sip bar are American millionnaires, on an exchange
from Harvard. The music might be described as
contemporary-minimalist-chillout. The restaurant is the best thing about Sip, provided you have
a minimalist appetite and a massive wallet. The food is listed
under four categories: “From the Air”, “From the
Land” (get the tempura chicken), “From the Water”
and “From Heaven”. The food arrives on dolly-sized
dishes, containing a portion of approximately 2.5 bites. You might find yourself transforming horribly into a spoiled
brat, and consider stealing your friend’s food. It tastes
exquisite, but I would advise you to eat before you go to the
restaurant at Sip, or you might find yourself ruining the whole
gastronomic experience, and stuffing your face with fish and
chips from this rather dear establishment’s next door
neighbour, Posh Fish, on your way home.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Baby Bar
30 Walton St
(01865) 515910 Baby Bar is one of those amazing places where you arrange to
meet a friend for coffee in the afternoon, and find yourself
emerging several hours later, having whiled away the hours in an
excellent atmosphere accompanied by delicious cocktails and
fantastic food, lulled by laid back yet upbeat music. Baby offers
a huge selection of tempting cocktails – there is always at
least one house special. As ever, it is not just the drinks you
are paying for, but the surroundings, and baby is one of the best
bars/restaurants in Oxford in terms of ambience and staff –
it is relaxed, unpretentious and has excellent service, as well
as benefiting from a terrace overlooking Walton street. It is
idyllic to sit on an early summer’s evening with cocktail in
hand, watching the world go by. Baby serves delicious food – it is testament to the
tantalising nature of the menu that we went in for a drink, had a
glance at the menu, and could not resist what was on offer. It is
just the right size, with enough choice to please everyone, but
not so much that you are overwhelmed; overall it fits in with the
ethos of bar baby – simple, classic food with a modern
twist. I had spaghetti with grilled gambas prawns in a lime coriander
and chilli sauce, and my friend had steak with mashed potato
– both were excellent. Other delights on offer include tuna
rostis with mango salsa, lamb, fish of the day, pizza, as well as
various salads, side dishes, starters, puddings, and there is
even a children’s menu and breakfast. It is quite expensive at £10- £14 for a main meal, and about
£5-£6 for breakfast, but definitely worth it for a special
occasion. Overall Baby Bar definitely needs to be visited, and
having been there once there is every chance that you will become
a regular part of the clientele, enticed back by the excellent
food, cocktails, atmosphere and service.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

If you read last week’s article, those glorious hats
should now be adorning your rain-drenched hair. Do not think,
however, that just because it is cold, and you have a big bright
hat on, you can hide away from having a suitable top. Tops are one of the hardest things to get right. The colours,
the shapes, the sizes – there is so much that can go wrong
– and so little that ever goes completely right. Boys: It is important not to assume that
every t-shirt that looks like your size is your size. Having
found the appropriate chest size, look at the length. With your
arms in the air, the t-shirt should just reach the top of your
waistband (assuming you aren’t wearing your trousers half
way down your bum, or around your rib cage). The colour really can be anything you like, but originality is
key, so try your best. As it is chilly, a nice jumper always
looks good. Preferably vnecked, and non-stripey. Stripes are
everywhere, as Gap goes on sale. Shirts look good, but I am not a fan of the ‘I look smart
casual, because I have a smart shirt but haven’t tucked it
in’. I think there is definite evidence to show that tucked
in shirts, pulled out (so it doesn’t look like a skin tight
body warmer) look very good. With rolled up sleeves, they
definitely suit those of you with boatie hats, or fedoras (I like
to think I can advise the minority too). Girls: Watch out for the size. Your breasts,
and for that matter your bra, are very important here. If you are
going to wear a tight top, don’t wear a ruffled bra, and
make sure your bra fits – no one wants to see back spillage.
If you have big breasts DO NOT be overly summery, i.e., avoid too
much ornamentation and busy patterns. Halter necks can look good,
but if you have big breasts, do some damage limitation. If you are less well-endowed in the chest area, then you can
get away with anything – I think loose tie halter necks look
especially good. Colour, shape, design – paying more
definitely means getting more. Even if two t-shirts look the
same, always get the more expensive one – it will have
subtle tailoring that makes the top look like it fits. Beware of
the mass produced t-shirts – vintage style is only vintage
if it isn’t worn by anybody else. I also offer a caveat about strapless bras. They have a
tendency to pre-occupy the wearer, causing them to
‘hoist’ at every opportunity. Also, they tend to pull
your breasts down, making them look saggy. Two essential
accessories: double-sided sellotape – keep those boob tubes
over your breasts. And duct tape: keep those breasts in check (I
have not tested the duct tape advice – it seems intrusive
and painful. I just stick to bras). And if you are going to wear spaghetti tops, white bras with
black tops are not attractive. Be subtle – yes, the boys do
look at your breasts, regardless of what you wear, or how you
wear it.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

It’s an age old question: what influences a person’s
character? Is it nature or nurture? In a new book released this
week Helen Morrison, a forensic psychiatrist who has interviewed
over 80 murderers, adds her own slant to the question. We are a nation currently obsessed with serial killers. Every
new drama programme seems to be an off-shoot of Cracker, Prime
Suspect,or the like. The popularity of CSI is what made Channel 5
respectable, so popular in fact that it spawned CSI Miami, and
CSI New York. The latest film to depict the life and times of a
serial killer, Monster, was a hit with critics and audience
alike. With its detailing of the minds and behaviours of some of
the world’s most horrifying serial killers, no doubt
Morrison’s book will hit the bestseller lists. So, what is this morbid fascination with complete inhumanity?
There is something of the car crash phenomenon in it. We are
compelled to watch something tragic, something out of the
ordinary. We are drawn to view death, in all its gruesome forms.
Perhaps it makes us feel more alive, more grateful for life.
Someone stuck in the rut of mundanity can tell themselves that no
matter how much life sucks, at least they haven’t been
dismembered and buried under someone else’s porch. It’s
a life affirming thing. But even more compelling is the desire to make sense of
something so completely senseless. How can members of our own
race be capable of such evil acts? How is it that people,
possibly people we know, can take actions which revolt against
every moral, ethical, and emotional code that we follow?
It’s like watching a freak show, a version of the circus
displaying the Elephant man, the bearded lady, the Siamese twins
joined at their skulls. They are like us but unlike us, part of
the same species but seemingly a different strain of the race.
Serial killers distinguish themselves by the horrific nature of
their behaviour. Yet they still look like us. While television shows mainly focus on the killing rather than
the killer, films such as Monster invariably draw upon the
killer’s history, their invariably extreme childhood abuse
and severe mental anguish, in an attempt to begin to explain
their actions. We don’t like things we can’t explain;
they are more dangerous, less controllable and by that reasoning,
less preventable. This is the appeal of the nurture argument. If
it can all be put down to life circumstances, then maybe we can
undo it, even catch it before it’s too late. If we take more
care of our young people, our abandoned, rejected, neglected,
then perhaps they won’t grow up to do obscene things. The
argument against this, of course, is that while killers, without
exception, have suffered abuse in their lives, only a very, very
small minority of abused youngsters grow into killers. This is a
point made by Morrison, who’s firmly on the side of Nature.
She suffered serious abuse in foster homes as a child. If abuse
was the link in serial killers “then why are not all abused
children serial killers?” She writes, “I was physically
abused. I am not a murderer.” It’s certainly a good point. Perhaps while abuse is a
necessary factor, it is not a sufficient one. Morrison believes
that the cause is purely nature; that the killer’s addiction
to killing stems from a genetic anomaly. More specifically, she
contends that there is a fault in the hypothalamus – the
section of the brain that regulates emotions and moods. She also
draws attention to role played by chemicals in the body, such as
oxytocin and vasopressin, which instigate emotions. The idea that evil behaviour stems from nature, some kind of
chemical imbalance, appeals because it sets such people apart
from the rest of us. ‘They’re crazy’ we’re
reassured; no one we know could possibly act like that. Watching
the activities of serial killers on television is one thing.
Thinking they might live next door to us is quite another.
Thinking they might sleep next to us is inconceivable. Yet, as
Morrison points out, most serial killers have families. This, she explains, is precisely because of the very normality
of it: “Most serial killers rarely abuse those very close to
them because the very idea of a wife and kids is part of a
structure that keeps them ‘normal’”. Nor do they
look particularly crazy on the outside. The Yorkshire Ripper, for
example, spent hours grooming himself and, like many others, was
polite, even charming, on first meeting. It is scary to us that
we may not be able to identify a resident evil residing close to
us. Morrison doesn’t know exactly what it is inside the brain
that drives serial killers, but she believes that with the
advances in medical testing we one day will. This is the reason
that she keeps the brain of notorious killer John Wayne Gacy (who
killed 33 young men and buried them under his house) in her
basement, in the hope that it will prove useful in future medical
research. Morrison likens serial killing to drug addiction. While
interviewing the Ohio killer Michael Lee Lockhart (who murdered
and eviscerated 20 women) she had a breakthrough of
understanding. She asked him about his first victim; what led him to kill for
the very first time? He told her how he had got up late in the
morning, and while in the shower: “It hit me. I had to go
out and get me one.” “That was the one sentence that
made everything gel,” according to Morrison. “In my
psychiatric practice, I treat drug addicts. I know when they need
their drug, they have to get it and nothing else exists. The
drugs for people like Lockhart are the people they murder. They
are addicted to killing.” Perhaps one day we will be able to
identify a gene that drives people to compulsively kill. We will
isolate and treat it. One can only hope. But we should not let
our search for this make us overlook the less obscene, but more
prevalent, abuses that continue unabated in our world.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

As we belt down the autopista from Jose Marti airport towards
Havana centre, crammed into our Soviet-built red taxi, this long
hidden corner of the world opened up before us. 1950 Chevrolets
and Cadillacs ploughed past us as our driver effortlessly dodged
the bustling crowds huddled around nuclei of domino games set up
in the slow-lane. Like moths the people of suburban Havana were
waking from their siestas and heading out to the lights of the
motorway. We pulled up outside a crumbing building in a warren of
apparently deserted streets just off the seafront, and it took us
a moment to realise that this was our destination, the Hotel
Lido, gloriously sold to us in the brochure. Stepping out into
the dark humidity of the street we were mobbed by a crowd of kids
who had been playing football in the shadows and now smelt
profit. They showered us with questions: Where you from? You want
dinner? You need a room? In our first few days in Havana we were offered every product
or service imaginable. The large numbers of police no doubt
controlled over enthusiastic sellers but most of the time they
sat on steps with the same people who offered goods, often
sharing a cigar. A casual “You want a cigar?” would be
thrown at us by every passer-by to such an extent that it became
an expected greeting: “You want a cigar?”, “No,
gracias.” The sellers soon became part of the background scenery of the
bustling city and indeed were vital for a little greediness of
our own. Large boxes of cigars even in Cuba went for $120 in the
shops, in the UK this price trebled. On the street, however, the
same boxes went for $30 and searching out the best bargain became
a game that we indulged in with glee. The dilapidated area around
our hotel proved to be a heavily populated and classy area of the
city full of large houses with paint-pealing facades, balconies
and high–ceilinged rooms, not great for dodgy trading. One thing that we soon learnt about Cubans was that they loved
to play gangster with elaborate code words, pick-up points and
hidden store rooms commonplace. Soon we were following, as
instructed, a scruffy local lad who scampered 30 metres ahead of
us through the winding alleys of one of Havana’s more
salubrious quarters. This was the standard game to avoid being
spotted by the police who, in truth, didn’t really care that
the legality of the trade was questionable. Eventually reaching a
little bar we were subtly directed with a veiled nod from the
waiter through a curtain at the back of the shop. Two of us were
then told to follow while two waited for ‘security
purposes’. We were led ever-upwards along a maze of walkways
that circled the interior of the building and led into a room on
the sixth floor. Up to this point I will admit we were scared, and these cigars
were beginning to seem just that bit too expensive. On entering
the little room, however, all fears were dispelled: three kids
sat on a plush sofa watching a pirated copy of Stuart Little with
Spanish subtitles while Grandma baked in the kitchen before
offering us a couple of beers. Before long we were well settled,
sipping beer and watching TV on a Sony widescreen: good times in
a cigar smuggler’s den. Enlightened by the amiability of our
first deal, the street traders took on a whole new aspect: no
longer irritants, they were now colleagues. To the west our quarter faced the sea, bordering the famous
Malecon, the seafront of Havana and one of the most photographed
views in the Caribbean. The regular hurricanes that rush through
this area, on their way to more profitable grounds further north,
have beaten the houses along this road in a beautifully haunting
vision of faded glory that no amount of designer distressing
could ever have achieved. The endless noise of the capital and the pollution soon forced
us into the countryside and we managed to secure an illegal
private taxi to take us south-west to the sugarloaf- shaped
mountains around the small town of Vinales. Our driver was a
middle aged tobacco picker named Armando who procured a bit of
extra income driving his car to Havana and back every week.
Despite the excruciatingly long list of animals that he managed
to run over along the way, Armando was an honest and genuinely
friendly guy. He sold us nothing but the taxi ride and even then
refused to accept a tip from students. Two days later he returned
to take us to a little beach he knew where we spent a day on a
boat catching jellyfish, smoking cigars and discussing American
foreign policy. As we entered customs at Heathrow on our way home, grubby,
tanned, with bottles of Havana Club and boxes of Cohiba stashed
in our backpacks an official asked us if we had anything to
declare and without thinking we replied, “No, gracias,”
before sharing a last cigar on the pavement outside.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Summer is here (finally). Time to join every other Oxford
student in the University Parks. For those of you who enjoy
spending your afternoon in close proximity to a hundred sweaty
bodies, I highly recommend it. However, others of us seek more
space, more solitude in our escapes. For such spatially conscious
folk, I suggest taking a little trip to Port Meadow. This beautiful bunch of fields has much to recommend it. First
of all it’s not too far away. In Oxford student terms it
might be unreachable but, for those of you who can walk more than
a few metres without having a coronary, it’s just past the
Phoenix Picture House. Go to Peppers (and pick up a kebab to
rival the offerings of that greasy van opposite St John’s)
and turn left. There you’ll find a vast expanse of green, flowing rivers
populated by geese and swans, and long paths that lead to the
Trout, itself a haven too oft missed by many an insular Oxonian.
The walk to the Trout is a lovely one. A few miles along the
river, past the ruins of a twelfth century abbey, and over an old
stone bridge. And at the end of that all the Pimms you can drink
without passing out. A sweet way to spend a Saturday afternoon. But the best thing about Port Meadow is that, while in reality
you are only a stone’s throw from the city centre you feel
as though you’ve been transported to some distant location,
a tranquil piece of the countryside. It’s expansive,
beautiful and, best of all, empty. So make haste. Get there
before word gets around and Port Meadow becomes more packed with
the upper middle classes than the south of France.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Private Eye raises hell. Always has done – it’s been
sued more times than anyone can count and provides much weekly
amusement, from titters to belly-laughs, at the expense of the
famous, the pompous and the crooked (preferably all three in one
person). You’d expect the former editor-in-chief, Richard
Ingrams, would not have gone gently into any future jobs. So what
controversial, high-profile publication does he currently helm? He’s now editor of The Oldie magazine, which caters for
those advancing in years. Does he think he’s done anything
to improve the image of old people through the magazine?
“No, not really. I don’t think I’ve done anything
– I’m not in the business of campaigning for certain
causes. It’s a bit of a joke.” This doesn’t sound
like someone who used to run a magazine famed for strong views on
people. The killer streak always perceptible in Private Eye’s
style seems to have mutated into the irascibility not
unassociated with the elderly. Does he think The Oldie has any
other purpose than to entertain, then? Another ‘no’:
“The purpose of all journalism and writing, I think, should
be to entertain, rather than to have some crusading ambitious
aim.” This seems strange given Private Eye’s
longenduring vendettas. Is he proud of what he did at Private Eye? He laughs. “I
certainly had a lot of fun when I was there. I’m very
pleased it’s survived so long, you know, forty years now. In
the life of any magazine forty years is impressive; most are gone
very quickly. It’s a cause of pleasure.” This pleasure seems to derive from the smugness of getting one
over one’s enemy; Ingrams‘ favourite stories from his
years at the Eye are “running campaigns against Robert
Maxwell, James Goldsmith, Jeremy Thorpe. Those are
memorable.” Private Eye was a major irritant to those
figures, who made perfect targets for the magazine’s
particular brand of pompbursting satire; in Maxwell, fame,
self-importance and criminality combined to make him a legitimate
mark (in the magazine’s view) for their unrelenting attacks. Was Private Eye a valid forum for such campaigns, in his
opinion? “It was certainly very useful for ridiculing public
figures. It’s an entirely independent organism, unlike
others which are owned by newspaper or media conglomerates; the
editor has total control, which is rare nowadays. I was there
when Peter Cook was proprietor and there was complete freedom;
Ian Hislop now has complete freedom.” Despite fond recollections, no journalist escapes without
regrets, especially true for Ingrams since Private Eye could cut
deeply. “There were lots of mistake in that long period, but
when you consider that it was such a long period, it’s not
to be wondered at. Of course, my memory’s bad now so I
can’t remember too specifically. Take the Hitler Diaries
– we were taken for a ride with those. There was nothing
else on that scale – mainly details were wrong. When I look
at it again, the Eyewas right, the people it went for were right.
There’s a danger when you attack small people who don’t
have the money to sue or defend themselves.” We move on to what seems to be a national pastime these days
– taking people to court. It is not, however, as prevalent
here yet as it is in America, where it’s practically been
written into the Constitution. On the subject of suing, does he
think the media culture today is becoming overly litigious?
“No, in fact I’d say it was the other way round when
compared with the old days. Jeffrey Archer, going to jail for
lying, has put people off suing and litigation. The media has
always been litigious, on the other hand. Journalists are far
more selfimportant than politicians and so are more likely to
sue. Take Sir Harold Evans, the former Times and Sunday Times
editor. He came to think of himself quite highly.” I sense a high–profile rivalry of the sort which
newspaper barons used to have, channelling their views through
their papers. This is an interesting line worth pursuing, and
Ingrams doesn’t seem like he will hold back. I plunge in:
does he have any schadenfreude over what’s been happening to
Harold Evans and his wife, Tina Brown (former editor of The New
Yorker and Vanity Fair whose latest effort, Talk, folded
ignominiously)? “Oh yes, tremendous schadenfreude,
tremendous. I knew her when she was an Oxford student. The way to
get in to journalism was to interview, and she was a fetching
young blonde lady who charmed many old men. She’s now a
queen bee.” Does he think her fame is commensurate with her
ability? “Well, I never had a high opinion of her as a
journalist. She was socially very ambitious. Vanity Fairand
similar, they’re puff magazines doing publicity for people
you’ve never heard of. If you become rich and famous in
America and then fail, they turn on you.” I think it’s best to move on in case the
Evans-Brown’s lawyers decide to pick up this week’s
Cherwell. An innocuous – well, less sensitive – topic
suggests itself: does he think a magazine like Private Eyewould
go down well in America? But Ingrams is in full swing. “The
thing about America is that American magazines are all about
people you’ve never heard of – rich businessmen, movie
stars and so on. Americans don’t like satire and gossip.
Graydon Carter (current editor of Vanity Fair) started Spy, which
was like Private Eye. I admired it, but it didn’t last that
long. Graydon Carter’s now a prosperous- looking man running
Vanity Fair; that’s what happens – you go from
satirical to businessman.” Moving away from America (I pray), we turn to the home front.
Is there anyone he thinks has a big future in journalism? Anyone
he currently admires? “I don’t tend to follow young
careers. I like the journalism of the Independentand particularly
its coverage of the Iraq War. Robert Fisk, Patrick Cockburn
– they’re extremely good.” Some positive comments.
Phew. Does he like them for their political views or for the
quality of their writing? “It’s probably a bit of both,
I suppose. I really admire oldfashioned journalists – the
problem with journalists today is that they sit in front of
computer screens. It’s old-fashioned going out and talking
to people. The problem was when all the newspapers moved into
Docklands – they went out of the centre of town and now
they’re isolated from the city.” So is journalism more
impersonal now? “It’s much more impersonal and not such
fun. Back then, the hugga-mugga journalists mixed with one
another and with MPs. It’s a very different scene.” As we’re finishing the interview, Ingrams offers the
following: “I hope that was suitably Victor Meldrew-ish for
you.” Quite.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004