Monday

Theresa May’s attempt to show solidarity with the Scots by holding a Burns Night dinner at No 10 didn’t get off to the best of starts as the official invitation list contained a number of misspellings. Not only was the chief executive of Standard Life, Keith Skeoch, labelled as Keith Sceogh, the prime minister’s team didn’t even seem to know the names of three of her own Scottish MPs. Andrew Bowie became Andrew Bowies, David Duguid became David Dugauid and Ross Thomson became Ross Thompson. To make matters even worse, No 10 managed to get the names of the Scotch Whisky Association and the Scottish Rugby Union wrong. If just one name had been misspelled, then it could have been written off as mere carelessness. Just one of those unfortunate things. But to have made so many errors in a comparatively small list suggests something rather more deliberate. Albeit unconsciously so. As any psychologist would be quick to point out, no one makes that many easily avoidable mistakes entirely by accident.

Tuesday

The Financial Times’s exposé of the Presidents Club charity fundraiser was jaw-dropping in so many ways. From the shameless exploitation of women to all the men who were there but insist they left long before anything untoward took place. If these men are to be believed, there was no one left at the Dorchester apart from the hostesses from 10.30pm onwards. The Conservative children’s and families minister, Nadhim Zahawi, said that even though he didn’t see anything to give cause for concern, he left early because he felt uncomfortable. He must be telepathic. What also came to light was the secondary market in auction prizes. It turns out that the prize of tea with the governor of the Bank of England wasn’t something that Mark Carney had put forward as a gesture of support for the Presidents Club; rather it was one that the Bank had offered to a previous charity auction and which the winner couldn’t be bothered to take up. Given the choice of a quick cuppa with Carney to discuss monetary policy or watching the World Indoor Bowls championships on TV, the bowls had won hands down and the prize had been passed on to another charity.

Wednesday

Normally the Oscars nominations rather slip me by as I’ve never seen any of the films in contention, but this year I happen to have recently seen two of the ones in the running for multiple awards. While I’ve no problem with Gary Oldman winning the best actor in a prosthetic category, I fail to see what all the fuss about Darkest Hour is about. The whole film lapsed into absurdity when Churchill leapt out of his ministerial car to disappear into the underground so that he could hold a seminar with the ordinary men and women of Britain on the merits of appeasement during a one-stop ride on the District line between St James’s and Westminster. Thank God he happened both to catch the slowest Tube in London and bump into a focus group who were up for a fight, otherwise 20th-century history would have had to be rewritten. On the other hand, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri was a masterpiece of dysfunctional small-town American life. Gripping from start to finish with not a frame wasted. It deserves to win everything going.

Thursday

Who should turn up among the plutocrats and political and business leaders at the World Economic Forum in Davos than a rather aimless David Cameron. The former prime minister has done little of any value since he resigned as prime minister – there again he did little of value when he was prime minister – and has now become a professional hanger-on among the global elites. No doubt hoping to pick up a £650K one-day-a-week sinecure. The rightwing press pounced on remarks he was overheard to make that Brexit wasn’t a total disaster as a sign he had come round to thinking leaving the EU was a good idea. Not only did this seem to be rather clutching at straws, it was a total category error. The whole point about Dave is that he is incapable of taking any responsibility for everything. Especially for screwing up the country. So the most it is psychologically possible for him to admit is that Brexit was a mistake.

Friday

I can’t help feeling that Elton John is hedging his bets by declaring he is going to give up touring by announcing a 300-date world tour that lasts three years. That’s a long time in which to change his mind. Not that I blame him for deciding he wants an easier life. Or just a different one. The excitement of going on stage to sing Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting must begin to pall when you’ve done it countless times before over the past 45 years, your back’s playing up and you’d rather be catching up with Spiral on BBC4. Growing old with grace seems to be especially difficult for rock musicians, something the Rolling Stones have managed spectacularly badly. The young Mick Jagger and Keith Richards would have hated what they have now become. Only Leonard Cohen and David Bowie really seemed to manage the transition to old age with real class, but then there was always something timeless about both of them. But Mark E Smith, who died on Wednesday and went down fighting, just as he had lived, ran them close. My favourite story about the Fall’s lead singer was that he only agreed to appear on Jools Holland’s show on the proviso that the presenter didn’t accompany the band with his boogie-woogie piano. Respect.

Pictures of the week

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Dave: ‘... as the shed is surprisingly comfortable’ Photograph: Universal News (Europe)

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Monkeys: ‘You look awfully familiar’ Photograph: Handout/Reuters

Digested week digested: Dave in Davos