Headlines from a surprisingly busy August

Forgive me, dear readers, for disappearing over the past month. August ... usually the province of quiet workdays and lazy weekends ... has been manic. Work has been busier than the usual holiday season, the social diary has been quite full, and we decided we didn't have enough to do, so picked the end of the month to move house. Quiet time for blog writing simply hasn't been available.

And so, rather than living on in the hope that I'll get a bunch of complete entries written, I'm going to provide you with headlines and brief summaries of what I would have published, had those lazy weekends been a reality.

Ivy trounces Groucho on the private club scene
Both The Ivy and The Groucho Club have long been popular with the media and communications industries; now that the former has its own private club they can compete head-to-head. I had the chance to go to both within a fortnight, and the comparison was stark. The Groucho is poky, a bit tattered and feels badly in need of refurbishment. Its irreverent art collection tries too hard (do you really need a line drawing of a kitten and a penis hanging over your business meeting?). Its food and service are good but unexceptional. It doesn't feel like a private club, but like a business centre with rooms to hire.

The private club at The Ivy is in a different league. Beautifully decorated with design that echoes the restaurant, including those iconic diamond-paned windows with the spots of colour, yet with more comfortable lounge furniture. It's a cross between modern elegance and an old gentlemen's club. The staff clearly knows club members and bends over backwards to make you feel comfortable; very much a "clubby" feeling. And the food is exquisite. As you'd expect, all the best of The Ivy's great traditional British food, served at a cozy table while you sit in big, comfy wing backs. I could have stayed all day...

Ducal palaces provide stark comparison of how times change
Two flags hang in the guard room at Windsor Castle, each the annual, symbolic "rent" for a country seat given by a grateful nation to a triumphant general. United in their origins, Blenheim and Stratfield Saye couldn't be more different in their reality.

The duke of Marlborough's place at Blenheim (near Oxford) is Vanbrugh's architectural tour de force, a massive, baroque pile set in a famous Capability Brown park, open to tourists for much of the year. The duke of Wellington's place at Stratfield Saye is a charming but simple manor house of modest proportions in basic parkland just outside Basingstoke. It's open only a handful of weekends a year, and is still very much a family home.

There were plans to make Stratfield Saye just as grand as Blenheim, some of which you can see on the walls here. One of the architectural delights of the place is that it's packed with decorative items that were purchased for that never-constructed palace, gloriously oversized and out of place here. But times were different. Money was tighter and the crown had less power over it in the early 19th century than in the early 18th; Wellington had humble tastes, content to sleep on a camp bed and live simply; there was no equivalent to the energetic Sarah Churchill at Stratfield Saye, determined to build an unparalleled monument to a beloved husband. Stratfield Saye ranks low in the overall country house list, but its context makes it an interesting day out.
Lords in the rain shows me the other side of English cricket
My last cricket outing was an exquisitely sunny day at Lords (see 19.7.09). Evidently my recent visit to those hallowed grounds was far more typical of the game. We hung around the grounds for six hours, most of it spent watching grounds keepers inspecting the pitch and umpires taking light readings rather than the English taking on Pakistan. Even though it didn't rain consistently throughout the day, the officials called the light levels inadequate, so we got in just 12 overs (American translation: sets of six pitches each).

So we sat in the stands, ate, drank, watched the drizzle and talked a great deal. This, according to my host, is as much cricket as my first experience. And given the reticence to play, I can believe it. We could have squeezed nine baseball innings into the patches of decent weather easily. But, evidently, the conditions of the cricket playing field are far more delicate, and the use of a red ball means spotting it in the gloom is tricky, thus making the whole game more susceptible to inclement weather. You wouldn't have thought such a thing of a game developed on this rainy island, but there you are.

The best part of the day was a wander around the museum, currently hosting an exhibition on baseball and cricket. Rather than try to determine which game is better, it celebrates the similarities between them. From comparisons of stats to side-by-side displays of famous bats, it's a fascinating show. Most of the baseball stuff is on loan from the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, to which I've never been, so an unexpected treat.

Even Shakespeare's worst is a treat at The Globe
Every time I walk into the magical space that is The Globe Theatre, I wonder why I don't go there more often. This authentic reconstruction of Shakespeare's most famous venue is both lively, beautiful and small enough to make the experience intimate. We saw Henry VIII here, particularly appropriate because this was the play being performed when the prop cannons set fire to the thatched roof of the original.

It's the first time the new Globe has put on Henry VIII, perhaps not surprising given (a) the history and (b) the fact that it's just not a very good play. Yes, even The Bard can be average. It's not that it's terrible, but it just doesn't have the dazzling brilliance and emotional depth of most of his other work.

It is an over-the-top piece of propaganda, celebrating the glory of the eponymous king, the birth of Elizabeth and, ultimately, her heir James VI. In many ways, it's just as revisionist as television's "The Tudors", making Henry VIII a good guy, Katherine of Aragon a saintly martyr, Anne Boleyn a humble, modest girl and Wolsey the scapegoat and bringer of all evil. Since we all know the Henry VIII story, it's easier here to see how Shakespeare played hard and fast with history, manipulating facts to suit his political and dramatic agendas.

Fortunately, The Globe laid on full pomp and circumstance, which is what this play is really all about. The coronation of Anne Boleyn and the baptism of Elizabeth were exquisite set pieces. The closest the play got to tugging at heartstrings, however, was in the laments of the cast off Katherine. Unfortunately, the actress' attempt at a Spanish accent came out sounding like Russian, so I spent all of her scenes thinking about Boris and Natasha of the old Bullwinkle series. And that is definitely not Shakespearean...