2 1GT Wednesday September 16 2020 | the times

times

circle was “a very particular, narrow

tribe of Britain... enough to repulse

the ordinary man.. .” — no great

surprise there — but that the PCW

(Posh Country Wife) is thriving in

2020, and is a force to be reckoned

with. Once this is over, her reputation

as a harmless Sloane Ranger type will

be buried for ever.

Thanks to Swire’s salacious, razor-

sharp and frankly hilarious diaries, the

Posh Country Wife has been revealed

to be nothing like the Volvo-driving,

gilet and Hunter wellies-wearing

woman most of us picture when we

think PCW. If you had been under the

impression that country-dwelling

wives of Swire’s class spent their time

worrying if the Aga was going down,

making Sunday lunch with all the

trimmings, fretting about slugs, trying

to get their husbands to join the

village bums and tums class, worrying

if it’s time to put the dog down (the

vet recommended it in 2018) and

doing flowers for the church, then

you have been sorely mistaken. Those

women may exist — they definitely

do exist — but they’re not the new

generation of PCWs, the ones who

have settled into pole position of

influence, and are in control of their

and their husband’s destinies.

If you’re not sure how to spot the

new PCW, here are some clues.

6 PCWs are blithely confident,

outspoken, “opinionated and gobby”

as Swire describes herself, and never

intimidated no matter what the

situation — but at the same time

dippy and careless when it suits. It’s

this combination that gives them

permission to tease prime ministers

and say the unthinkable, because they

can always afford to back up and

yawn: “Oh, who gets how the whip

works anyway?” If they came on all

Alastair Campbell about the issues of

the day, if they weren’t a bit of a “pro”

when it comes to handling men (how

Swire describes the Duchess of

Cornwall, patron saint of PCWs), they

wouldn’t have the power they do.

6 They make light of everything.

Nothing is that serious. Not Brexit.

Not Josh getting arrested. Not a case

of deathwatch beetle. No problem is so

big it can’t be got around by phoning

someone who knows someone or

getting in the Land Rover and driving

at breakneck speed to the vet/hospital/

headmaster’s office. And no one,

least of all the PCW’s husband, is so

effective at getting things done. The

Swires of this world are the soft power,

and not so soft when they are dealing

with, say, the admissions people at

Bristol University or the bloke who

didn’t deliver the marquee to the

right place.

6 The PCW prides herself on being

hands-on, as adept at dispatching

I

have carefully considered the

ways I would punish the cough-

on-a-granny, shelf-licker brigade

who have emerged during this

pandemic. And I have concluded

that a nail gun to the groin

seems more than fair.

However, I am not without

heart. For I’m still icky about the

government telling us to shop our

neighbours if they break the rule of

six, as Priti Patel urged this week,

even though she voted to break

international law hours earlier. (Rules

can be confusing. Try to concentrate.)

No one wants to be the sad snitch with

no life sitting in a hedge at midnight

with military-grade binoculars and a

dowager’s hump. It’s not how we

saw our futures panning

out. This is a serious

situation, but will it

be improved by the

Wilsons punching

the Joneses’

lights out?

I must admit,

though, if my

neighbours

were hosting

a large party

with music,

wine and

laughter then I

might well relish

calling the police

because 1) a party

like that would be

irresponsible and 2) they

didn’t invite me. Would it have killed

them? I hardly get out. My old lady

posture is coming along nicely and I

have little social life, so sod it — I’ll do

it. But why limit the snitching to

counting people’s guest numbers with

a zoom lens? There is so much more

to the busy but always rewarding job

of being the neighbour from hell.

First, buy net curtains. No decent

busybody would be seen dead

twitching anything else. Also buy a

high-backed armchair so you can spy

in comfort. Carefully monitor your

neighbours’ supermarket deliveries,

ambling by the delivery van, arms

behind your back so that you can see

exactly how much alcohol has been

bought (this is not “mingling” but

surveillance). Remark on said alcohol,

perhaps saying: “Ah, celebrating later,

are we?” Do remark on other personal

Parrots

behaving

badly

Pet parrots are

being given up for

rehoming because their

squawking interrupts

Zoom calls. How sad.

But also sad to hear

that many parrots are

sexists. Yes, I’m afraid

so. Some cannot abide

women because they

are only used to male

owners. Ozzie at the

charity Problem

Parrots has been

returned many times

“due to his hate

for women”.

Two years ago I heard

of a parrot in Glasgow

called Alfredo who

happily belted out

Rangers anthems, yet

whenever a woman

approached would

shriek: “Show us

your tits.” Don’t

snigger. Sexism is

a serious matter.

These parrots should

be more like my

all-time favourite,

Barney the macaw

from Nuneaton, who I

have mentioned here

before. He lived at an

animal sanctuary and

during an important

civic event told the

visiting mayoress to

“f*** off ”. Then he

turned to two

policemen and the

vicar and said: “You

can f*** off too,

wankers.” See? That’s

more like it. Equal

opportunities abuse.

What men

can learn

from apes

been answered by

the urologist and

professional penis

expert (that’s quite

the business card)

Dr Piet Hoebeke.

He has said that

nature intended men

to sit down. “You don’t

see a gorilla peeing

standing up against a

tree, do you?” True, but

you don’t see it sinking

five pints of lager at the

Red Lion, then being

caught short on the way

home and spying a

Greggs doorway either.

But this will be music

to the ears of any

woman who has faced

the 2am wade through

the toilet flange lagoon.

Let us go the way of the

Germans who have a

name for it: sitzpinkler.

After all, humans share

97 per cent (ish) of our

DNA with apes, so it

seems natural to follow

their lead. Although we

also share 90 per cent

with the Abyssinian

house cat, so let’s pray

that’s not an excuse for

“twerk spraying”.

The pained and

puddling question of

whether men should sit

or stand to pee has

items being delivered. “Ah, Vagisil?

Wife still suffering from dryness, then?

That’s the menopause for you!” This

will not seem at all creepy or rude,

but merely like neighbourly interest.

A jotter will be handy when later

you are riffling through their bins

in the dark gathering evidence to

dob them in for unsatisfactory

recycling. Count those empty wine

bottles. Six polished off in one night?

Party alert or an indication that they

are alcoholics?

Either way, intervention is required.

If you find an unwashed yoghurt pot

or soup tin in the wrong wheelie bin,

show no mercy, even if the

householder has dementia. Rules are

rules and they should probably

be in a home anyway.

(If any of the

householders

shoot grouse,

however, let

them off

everything.

Ditto if they

have been

testing their

eyesight.)

Report

all parking

violations,

including

ambulances

that block your

driveway for five

minutes to save

someone’s life. Leave a rude

note telling paramedics that they are

selfish. You need your drive free for

spying. Keep an eye, by telescope if

necessary, on the young woman at No

6 and her “gentleman callers”. If you

suspect that coitus is occurring

(crikey!), feel free to knock on her

door with a handful of condoms and

remind her that some governments

(Canada) advise that intercourse

happens through a glory hole to avoid

face-to-face contact. Offer to help drill

a hole (it won’t be the first time). She

will appreciate it and definitely won’t

kick you in the knackers, then report

you to the police for being a sad old

pervert. In fact, do request that when

she is having sexual relations (crikey!)

she keeps the noise up. Well, you try

holding a glass to the wall, while

taking notes. Being a spy marshall is

a tough gig, but someone must do it.

Carol Midgley

The rule of six is a

snitcher’s dream, though

I say don’t stop there

Why the Posh

Often underestimated, the Sasha

Swires of this world wield soft power

— and they’re formidable. Here’s what

to look out for, says Shane Watson

O

MG! Is what we’ve

all been thinking as

we read extracts of

Diary of an MP’s

Wife by Sasha

Swire, the wife of

Sir Hugo Swire, a

former minister of

state for Northern Ireland in David

Cameron’s government.

Last week only the most up-to-

speed among us were aware of Hugo

Swire, never mind his glamorous wife.

Well now we are, and it appears that

they were one of just four political

couples (so both the Camerons told

her, independently, at one of their

soirées) that were welcome in the

inner circle. Not just that, it was

Sasha and Hugo who consoled David

and Samantha the night after his

resignation. It was Sasha and Hugo

who accompanied them to Polzeath

on that holiday (we all remember the

photocall, outside the café with the

bay in the background). There were

weekends at Dorneywood with the

Osbornes and with the Camerons at

their place in east Devon, parties in

the flat at 10 Downing Street, dinners

sitting on Boris Johnson’s right, and

now they’re all being served up

between the covers of her diary, and

frankly we’re all gobsmacked.

Not least because Swire has broken

the first rule as laid down in the book

of upper-middle-class behaviour,

chapter one. The country-dwelling,

husband-supporting, family-raising,

wildly social, fearsomely energetic,

rushed off her feet with all her

commitments, but uncomplaining wife

is the one who stands by her man and

keeps schtum. She’s the custodian of

secrets, mopper-upper of disasters,

a safe hostess in a storm. She may be

“feisty”, a top requirement of a country

wife, but she’s more conscious of not

straying into “bad form” territory.

Posh people are raised to be

suspicious of money (not the sort that

allows you to restore the tapestries,

the sort you get for selling your story),

and anyone you have to watch your

Ps and Qs in front of (that is, those

who are outside the club looking in).

So Swire has committed a double

whammy: she has gone public and she

has outed her fellow poshos’ most

private habits and conversations (such

as DC making jokes about dogging

and talking about sex all the time).

Still, in the end, what these diaries

reveal is not so much that Cameron’s

The PCW prides

herself on being

hands-on. She

is not squeamish

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