Monday

The Cambridge classics professor Mary Beard has come in for a fair amount of scepticism for saying she works a 100-hour week. Admittedly this does equate to working more than 14 hours a day, seven days a week but each to her own and I see no reason not to believe her. Rather, I am in awe of her productivity and mental health. Just about the only thing I manage to do for 100 hours each week is worry. In fact I might manage more than that because I also seem to worry in my sleep as I have anxiety dreams almost every night. I can rarely remember what I have dreamed; only that I wake up each morning still feeling tired and with a sense of dread. I then reach for my phone to check my emails and the news and realise that things are actually as bad as I had feared. Thereafter most days are spent playing catch-up, trying to stave off the feeling I am somehow failing at life and that everything is taking so much longer than it should. General elections are a particular nightmare because there is so much going on that there is every chance of me being in the wrong place at the wrong time and missing the big story of the day. There’s also a great deal of travel involved, which means I manage to waste yet more time. I am so neurotic that I have to get to the station at least 45 minutes early as I am so anxious about missing the train. If I could work for just 40 hours a week with Beard’s level of application, I’d get so much more done. This one diary entry, that would take most other writers about 20 minutes, has taken me well over an hour. QED.

Tuesday

This election has definitely been the most depressing I have ever covered. Both for the quality of debate and the wilful disregard for the truth by politicians from all parties. Remember back in 2015 when David Cameron promised us “Chaos with Ed Miliband” if Labour got in? Most of us would happily settle for that level of chaos right now. Yet today marked a new low in the campaign. It began with the chief rabbi attacking Labour for the poison of antisemitism within the party and saying he feared for the moral compass of the country if Jeremy Corbyn won the election. What was so obviously needed was for the leader of the Labour party to apologise for not having done more and to promise to be more transparent in dealing with cases of antisemitic behaviour. But Corbyn just could not bring himself to say sorry. Presumably because he isn’t. Later that day, shortly after the Muslim Council of Britain had condemned the Conservative party for institutional Islamophobia, I went to a speech in Bolton where Sajid Javid, the Muslim-born chancellor, initially claimed that no one in the Tory party leadership had ever been been accused of Islamophobia. It was gently pointed out to him that Boris Johnson had indeed been accused of exactly this, but Javid was unable on seven separate occasions to say whether he condemned the prime minister or would himself be happy calling Muslim women letterboxes. He also professed to be not bothered that the independent inquiry into Islamophobia that he had insisted every candidate sign up to in the leadership debate was going to be watered down into a general inquiry into racism. It was abject. Antisemites to the left, Islamophobes to the right. Take your pick.

Wednesday

I wrote last week of my despair last week at the sacking of Mauricio Pochettino and the appointment of José Mourinho – the Anti-Poch – as manager of Spurs. Call me fickle but seven days on and some of my antagonism has dissipated. Not just because of the two wins and qualification for the Champions League but for the manner in which they were achieved. There was something reassuringly Spursy about the way Tottenham tried to snatch defeat in both games. Against West Ham we had gone 3-0 up only to spend the last 20 minutes doing our best to lose the game, while against Olympiakos we had dozed off for most of the first half to allow the visitors a two-goal lead. Mourinho is clearly going to have his work cut out to turn Spurs into as boring a team as all the others he’s ever managed, and it would be nice to imagine that this time he had met his match. That there is something about the Spurs setup that can’t be coached into metronomic negativity. The perfect flaw that shapes the club’s identity. Obviously the “Special One” has been on his best behaviour since he arrived at White Hart Lane, going out of his way to lovebomb the fans, praise the new stadium, lionise Lord Harry of Kanester and cuddle up to Dele Alli and the ball boys. And, just as obviously, it will all end in tears a year or so down the line because it always does with Mourinho. But with my psyche already in a fragile state, right now I’ll take my footballing comforts a day at a time.

Thursday

With the deaths of Clive James and Sir Jonathan Miller, the country’s laughter and IQ levels have decreased significantly. Back in the late 1970s, me and some of my more feckless friends would stay up every Saturday night and get totally wasted. Then sometime around 5am we would head to Victoria Station to get the Sunday papers, just so that we could read James’s TV column in the Observer. Having killed ourselves laughing, we’d then go home and crash out till sometime on Sunday afternoon. He was the one writer we all had to read. James single-handedly turned TV criticism into an art form, mixing intelligence with comedy. His memoirs were also pure joy, as were the columns he wrote for this paper in which his anxiety at shortchanging the reader by not having died appeared to deepen each week. On TV and in print, he was the Man with the Golden Voice. Miller was also something of a legend, as there was almost nothing he couldn’t do better than anyone else. I loved his early comedy and writing, but it was his gifts as an opera director I came to appreciate most. His Mafia Rigoletto remains one of the most exciting and fully conceived productions I have ever seen. I first saw it during its opening run at the English National Opera in the early 80s and went back to see it many times in countless revivals over the years. The last time I saw it was about five years ago and I happened to see Miller standing by himself in the foyer. I went up to tell him he was a hero of mine and to thank him for all the joy he had given me. Miller was polite but slightly bewildered, while my wife was acutely embarrassed. I felt it was the least I could do. I only wish I had had the same opportunity to tell James how important he had been to me.

Friday

Having typed “Lucie Rie ceramics” and “US first edition of The Great Gatsby in dust-jacket” into Google and disappointingly come up with nothing under Black Friday deals, I gave up early on my online shopping as there wasn’t much else that I really wanted. I had two emails offering me new shoes, but I have real problems finding anything that will fit as one of my toes has become deformed into a hook ever since my knee replacement became infected and I had to have a second operation to clean it out, so I will pass on them. And though I’d love a bigger and better TV, my wife would kill me if I got one. So that would be rather self-defeating. Also, apart from anything else, a recent survey has found that a large majority of Black Friday deals are actually more expensive than they were from the same seller some months previously. Tatler has also helpfully published a list of festive status symbols that everyone must have if they want to be part of high society. The first is a 6ft Nordmann Xmas tree. This actually feels rather restrained. I’ve no idea whether we had a Nordmann – I always get ours from a local street market – but my kids always used to insist on an 8ft giant that took up most of the living room. Tatler also thinks you should have a deer roaming around your front garden just to liven things up, but I’ve decided against as it might eat the banana plants, echiums and agaves that are now wrapped up in their winter fleeces. However, I have splashed out on the recommendation for the £104,000 Tiffany advent calendar. Because every sucker occasionally deserves to catch an even break.

Digested week digested: Boris in meltdown