How good are your WW1 connections?

On the 100th anniversary of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, there's inevitably a lot of reflection on the 'great' war of 1914 -1918. Virtually every British publication has been preparing its own tribute or analysis. The Richmond Magazine is no exception.

The glossy freebie, already familiar to readers of Washed and Ready to Eat, normally survives on a staple diet of articles from local divorce lawyers and ads for preparatory schools. In the latest edition, however, they have gone to town in commemoration of centenary of the European conflict.

Who better to ponder the implications of WWI than the great-granddaughter of the Archduke whose death kicked the whole shooting match off?

It goes without saying that Her Serene Highness Princess Marie-Therese von Hohenberg is herself a recipient of The Richmond Magazine, living as she does in the upmarket south-west London district of St Margarets. We are introduced to her husband, the 'interfaith campaigner' Anthony Bailey OBE (apparently described by The Observer in 2007 as 'one of the most influential men you've never heard of'), and their son, Maximilian.

In typical style, the prose of the interview is just a little overblown.

"From the soil of calamity darker flowers sprang," writes magazine Editor Richard Nye, when he refers to the seeds of Hitlerism sown in the Treaty of Versailles and ultimately traced back to that 'tumultuous Balkan morn' of the assassination.

There's much talk of the couple's religious beliefs - 'faith is not a fortress to keep the infidel out; it is a bridge to believers on other shores' - as well as their welcome support for the beleaguered EU.

"Vienna may have lost its throne," comments Nye, "but deep within its melancholy ashes the European dream lives on."

Indeed it does. So much so, in fact, that Mr Bailey is pictured wearing what looks like traditional Austrian garb, despite the fact that he was born in London. He's really entered into the spirit of the thing. And the Princess? According to the editor, she brings the 'aroma of a vanished court'.

The gauntlet has been thrown down. If your local rag tries to fob you off with the tale of some anonymous Private Baldrick, point them in the direction of Richmond.

A Fawlty Towers script? Si, senor!

Ok, so I gave ChatGPT the following scenario: "Imagine a theatrical script for a situation comedy set in a hotel in Torquay, England. The proprietor is called Basil, an eccentric man who believes the calibre of guests to be low. His wife, Sybil, is often frustrated by Basil's incompetence. They employ a Spanish waiter called Manuel, who struggles to understand English. Basil suspects that two guests, who claim to be married, may be lying." Here's what our favourite AI came up with: Scene: The hotel lobby in Torquay, England. Basil is standing behind the reception desk, looking at a piece of paper. Sybil is standing next to him, looking annoyed. Manuel is hovering nearby, trying to look busy. Basil: (to Sybil) I don't know why we get such low-calibre guests at this hotel. Look at these two - Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They claim to be married, but I suspect they might be lying. Sybil: (sighing) Basil, it's not our job to judge the marital status of our guests. Just m

It's been a tough year. Let's give ourselves a clap.

If something didn’t smell right about the UK handling of the pandemic, the British public was never going to notice. But they knew that if they couldn’t smell something, they really ought to get a Covid test sent to them in the post. There has been something incredibly British about the DIY swabs and their delivery via the gig-economy workers of Amazon, hasn’t there? Touch of corona? I’ll pop something in the post to you. Should be with you tomorrow. I suppose it was inevitable that we’d need some new kind of system. After all, the coronavirus outbreak was the first thing in the history of the NHS that couldn’t be cured by paracetamol, rest and plenty of fluids. This understandably left GPs flummoxed and anxious. The UK decided pretty early on that if you were ill with a novel pathogen – which proved deadly in maybe 1% of cases – you really shouldn’t go to the doctor. You should STAY AT HOME and spread it quickly to your flatmates or family members. And because they were now at

Sign of the times

The oldest mini-W (aged seven) tonight: "Can we get a webcam, dad?" Straight up. She wants to communicate with a pal who's heading off to Australia in the not-too-distant. When I was her age, I didn't even know what a webcam was. In fact, nobody did.

WASHED AND READY TO EAT

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