Mary, Queen of Trolls

The women in David Cameron's Cabinet have been branded "an ugly bunch" by one of the Prime Minister's high-profile advisers. Retail guru Mary Portas said she could not bear to look at them and would relish the chance to restyle them and "put a bit of sex and glamour in there".

In an interview with Heat magazine, she said: "If I were PM I'd restyle all those women. I mean, the female Cabinet, what an ugly bunch." She continued: "Do you know, I could not look at them. I go in for meetings now and they do dress up for my meetings, but I just want to go, "Pleeease no, not that necklace, not that skirt'."

Ms Portas, known as the Queen of Shops for her retail makeovers, was tasked by the premier earlier this year with reviving the UK's high streets.

Drawing a contrast with the continent, she said of French women: "They're like, 'wow', aren't they? What do we have? I'd say let's just put a bit of sex and glamour in there." [Guardian]

The Daily Mail/Guido Fawkes crowd are always convinced that pronouncements like this are some kind of victory for them and constitute another blow against women thinking they're more then they are. Most women will of course greet it with a bored shrug and just carry on with whatever they were doing before, but still, the right-wingers have had a chance to crow and hoot and bark and how lovely for them.

However, if we simply take it as read that this tedious mugwump will wheel out pretty much anything that will draw attention to her (next week's Portas exclusive: “I always make sure my children are looking sumptuous when they leave the house in case today's the day they meet their first predatory paedophile!”), ultimately we're left with the far more important question of whether any politicians' time is better spent on difficult policies or on whether their accessories are in this season. And that's not a question I want answered by someone whose experience mostly revolves around fucking window decoration.

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I got into trouble with my driving [in 1904 when I was working in Paris], and it came about this way.

I was saying good-night to a very old friend I had taken home when a gendarme accosted me in the politest way and informed me: (1) that I had driven too fast; (2) that I had not stopped when told to (I had seen nothing); (3) that I had not a permis to drive; and (4) that I had no plaque d'identité in the car. Monsieur would be summoned.

Monsieur was indeed summoned. On the day I should have appeared, however, I had to go to England, so I got a lawyer to look after my case. I don't know what he said or did, but on my return I was informed I had been fined 250 francs and given two days of prison. Boiling with fury at this savage sentence I naturally appealed. Nothing happened for a month or two, then I was bidden attend the court. I had had rather a beefy evening the night before and was so late up I had to go without breakfast; but on arrival I found a case going on in which a type of crime passionel was being decided and everyone was a bit on edge. However, eventually my case came up. The court was most impressive, and the three judges in black robes looked rather like inquisitors. I was asked to explain. I did. One of the judges asked if I was English. This does not sound funny, nor is it a compliment to my French, but after the former rather tense trial the whole court rocked with laughter—to the great annoyance of the judges.

I got a very severe lecture, my fine was increased to 500 francs and the two days in prison stood. I felt very down-hearted. Two days in prison with no breakfast was a poor lookout. I tried to press 500 frances into the hands of various people, but it seemed to be no one's business to receive it. I waited to be taken to the cells, but again no one took the smallest interest in me. Thinking it best to have a meal, I left and went to my digs. Days passed. I imagined every policeman I saw was about to arrest me, but nothing happened. Weeks went by and eventually I left Paris and moved to London. There I received a slip one day telling me to present myself on a certain day to pay my fine and do two days in prison. I wrote back to say I really couldn't come over to Paris just to do two days of prison, but thought I might be in Paris in the autumn, when I would come along. Another chit arrived—“Present yourself on October 1st”. I replied that I could not guarantee the date. This time a letter came telling me to ask for a pardon. This I did, but my letter was returned—I had asked the wrong man. I was told whom to address and tried again. To this day I have had no answer, but the fact remains that I have never paid my fine nor done my two days in prison.

Lord Brabazon of Tara, The Brabazon Story (1955)

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Chemists! A question. Here Lord Brabazon is describing a thing:

There was in those days a strange form of tinned food which you cannot get now. In a balloon you naturally cannot use a flame and consequently you could have nothing hot, for it was before the day of the thermos flask. But there was some tinned stuff called "Calorit" which consisted of any food such as stew or soup or anything you liked hot, the tin being inside another cylinder. When you wanted to eat you made a hole from the outside to the inside cylinder, and I suppose water came in contact with some chemical, for if you left it for about a quarter of an hour it became so hot you could hardly eat it. It was the most remarkable of tinned foods and I could never understand why it disappeared, for it would be of inestimable value nowadays for people in motor-cars.

I can find only one other reference to Calorit, in an 1905 article on feeding soldiers. What in all likelihood was the magic ingredient that superheated? And is the reason for its disappearance, as I strongly suspect, that it was actually massively carcinogenic?

EDIT: Thank you all. I feel mildly enlightened. Glad to have been wrong about the carcinogenic thing, too.