The Spector and the feast

I spent the weekend in Norfolk, the county of my later childhood. One of the hotspots I visited was Wells-Next-The Sea, and more specifically Nelsons Coffee Shop (no apostrophe – don't start me). Nelson himself – the admiral, the leader of men, the rumoured haunter of my primary school toilets – is kind of a big deal in Norfolk. But when I saw his image on the cover of the coffee shop menu, I could not think proudly of my forefather in the flatlands. I could only think of Phil Spector.

I like to think of the grainy image on the left not as a historical portrait, but as a preliminary sketch of the get-up Spector is planning for the time he makes parole.

Yes sir, I can be the 34th president of the United States

I had my lunch in Grosvenor Square today with two friends and 794 pigeons. The square is essentially the back garden of the US embassy, and after I had finished my Square Pie from Selfridges (lamb and rosemary, 6.5 out of 10), I saw this statue of Dwight Eisenhower:

Mr Eisenhower's jaunty stance is an unconventional pose for a leader of men immortalised in statuedom. 

Let's be honest. It's a bit camp.

I was half-expecting petrified President Eisenhower to lurch into life and entertain passers-by with a chorus of Yes Sir, I Can Boogie. 

Perhaps someone could scale his nobel frame under cover of night and drape a pink feather boa around his neck.