Monday

There had been so much speculation that had come to nothing in recent weeks about Labour and Tory MPs resigning the whip to form a new party that I was rather wrong-footed to get an email at 8am saying it was actually happening on the Labour side and I needed to be in central London in the next hour. The launch was a curious affair at a rented office space in Etc Venues – not quite the gravitas of the Social Democratic party’s Limehouse Declaration – and felt more funereal than celebratory. Still, it was definitely a result for Gavin Williamson and Chris Grayling, as the press attention on the Independent Group (TIG) meant everyone missed their latest embarrassments in the Commons. At defence questions, Private Pike couldn’t stop himself from doubling down on his threat to go to war with China – to the embarrassment of everyone on his own benches – and then appeared to be totally unaware that by voting for the Brady amendment he had actually voted against the prime minister’s own deal. Grayling couldn’t even bring himself to face his latest humiliation and just stayed silent while a junior minister tried to explain why Flybmi was the latest airline to go out of business. Presumably Grayling couldn’t quite believe there was a sector of the transport sector that had failed without his active intervention.

Tuesday

Full disclosure. The Bafta-winning documentary director Olivia Lichtenstein is a good friend of mine; even so, I can’t recommend her new film highly enough. Teddy Pendergrass: If You Don’t Know Me had its UK premiere at the British Film Institute this week. Like all the best films about musicians, this was about so much more than the music. Pendergrass is a soul enigma. Despite selling countless platinum albums, he remains something of a cult figure. And those who thought they knew him often found later that they didn’t. Told through family, friends, band members and archive footage, the film takes you from the segregation and gang culture of the early 1960s in Philadelphia to the corruption of the music industry, the excesses of the 1970s and the tragedy of the car accident that left him paralysed as he was poised to become one of the US’s biggest crossover stars. His life was full of many unanswered questions. How he slipped under the radar despite being the distinctive voice of Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes. The unexplained murder of his first manager and the mystery of his car crash: some believe his brakes were tampered with, others that his green Rolls-Royce was faulty. The most poignant scene was the interview with the singer’s shrink – “I wasn’t the best therapist, but I was the only quadriplegic therapist” – who, after Pendergrass repeatedly voiced his determination to kill himself, persuaded him to hold a funeral for himself first. When Teddy felt the love – and anger – of those around him, he chose to live instead. Please do see the movie. You will love it.

Wednesday

I’m feeling my age. My parents brought me up to believe a mattress was supposed to last you a lifetime. Or thereabouts. I think they both slept on the same one for most of the 50 years they were married, and as far as I can remember I have only had three. The first was the one I had as a child. The second was a distinctly unpleasant one that came with the cheap double bed I got when I left home. The third I bought with the money my father left me when he died 20 years ago. I kept quiet about it because both my wife and I thought £900 was a ludicrous amount to spend on a mattress. Almost from the off, my wife complained about it, insisting it made her back worse, but I bullishly insisted it was the world’s best – even though I too didn’t find it that wonderful – because I didn’t want to take the blame for having wasted so much money. Eventually, two decades on, even I cracked and we now have a new mattress that actually gives us both a half-decent night’s sleep, even if it hasn’t eradicated my anxiety dreams. But I now realise I’ve been living in an unnecessary state of self-deprivation, because I’ve discovered most other people these days seem to change their mattresses every 10 years or so. I’ve been living an old person’s life. I am my mother, who refused to engage with the internet and then complained she could never talk to her grandchildren.

Thursday

On slow days in parliament – and they don’t come much slower than the Thursday of a recess that has been cancelled to make it look like the government is doing something, but for which no meaningful business has been scheduled – I often pass the time by looking around the backbenches and seeing how many MPs I can name. There are a surprising number I can’t remember having ever seen before. In the five years I have been the Guardian’s sketchwriter they have done nothing to attract attention. It rather makes me wonder how they ever became MPs. Most constituencies – especially those that are safe seats – have highly competitive selection procedures, but it is hard to imagine these MPs having been impressive at the various rounds of interviews. Maybe the other candidates were even worse. I was reminded of this when Labour’s newly selected candidate to become the North of Tyne mayor, Jamie Driscoll, gave a TV interview in which he couldn’t manage a coherent sentence. Asked about Brexit, his best guess was that “we need a Brexit”. When the interviewer said he sounded confused, he only became more confused and was unable to answer whether he was for or against Brexit. The one-minute clip has already become a classic. Still, if Driscoll doesn’t make it as mayor, he has potential as a standup comedian.

Friday

When the treasures of Tutankhamun’s tomb were first on show in the UK in 1972 – the 50th anniversary of their discovery – I was 15 and my school organised a coach trip to see the exhibition at the British Museum. I’ve retained a fascination with ancient Egypt ever since. Twelve years ago we went on a family holiday to Luxor to see the Valley of the Kings – during which I was forced to take a terrifying hot-air balloon trip over the Nile (among many other neuroses, I also suffer from vertigo) with my 11-year-old son – and visited all the open tombs. Even though Tutankhamun’s is only an exact replica – the original is sealed to preserve it from being destroyed by exposure to light and contact with tourists – I still felt a sense of wonder at the achievements of a civilisation more than 3,300 years old. But in many ways the highlight of our holiday was a trip to the main museum in Cairo. Alongside the golden death masks, there was just so much other stuff that artefacts that in many other museums would have a room to themselves were crammed in next to each other. Mummies were literally piled up in every corner. The sense of history as a living connection to the past, rather than as a series of carefully curated artefacts, was incredibly powerful. So I’m thrilled it’s just been announced that the Tutankhamun exhibition will be coming back to the UK next year. I’m ready to be amazed all over again.

Digested week, digested: TIG-ers don’t jump. They bounce.