Vogue's gallery

THE more I read about Ruth Davidson and the more I chew on the stuff that comes out of her mouth – that's rather indelicately put, but you know what I mean – the more I think she's in the wrong political party.

The evidence: she's a passionate Remainer. She used to work for the BBC, which everyone knows is full of lefties and Momentum-ites. She thinks Donald Trump's potential visit to the UK is a bad idea. She thinks gay marriage is a good idea. And like most right-thinking humans she wasn't best pleased when Theresa May climbed into bed with Arlene Foster and the DUP. We can assume, then, that her opinions on other subjects – equality, diversity, the gender pay gap, Tony Blair, how risible Michael Gove's hug-a-tree routine is – match up with the opinions of most of those in the centre left.

Sure, there's some evidence to the contrary. Yes, she has been photographed riding a tank while wearing a Barbour. Yes, she likes dogs. But her pooch is called Wilson, and until she tells me otherwise I'm going to assume that's an homage to either Harold Wilson, a former Labour prime minister, or Woodrow Wilson, an American Democratic president who championed the League of Nations and once quipped that the Conservative Party – sorry, the Republican Party – hadn't had an original idea in 30 years and was filled with people who wanted to consult their grandfathers on everything. Sound familiar?

Now she has given an interview to the March edition of Vogue magazine – yes, that Vogue magazine – in which she talks about an upcoming “culture war” and name-checks a trendy new theory of political alignment which is all the rage at trendy left-wing dinner parties: the idea of open versus closed. It's a 21st-century update of left versus right, with open broadly meaning socially liberal and globalist, and closed meaning culturally conservative and isolationist. Tory, in other words.

“We’ve spent a long time believing there was a consensus about the idea of freedom and interaction and breaking down borders, and then suddenly they’re all being built back up again,” she tells Vogue. “That’s what I think the fight is going to be about, and I’m damn sure going to take part in it.”

Which sounds to me like she's on the open side of the debate – and this at a time when there's every likelihood the next leader of her party will be Jacob Rees-Mogg, a man who was born in the 1960s but who's closed up so tight he seems to be intent on living his life backwards. By my reckoning he's currently in about 1947, so Britain has won the war but isn't yet in Europe, England are still good at cricket, and homosexuality is just something Greeks do on old pots in the British museum. So as the old song goes: whose side are you on, Ruth?

Ecumenical matters

THE black leather Mastermind chair – now as wrinkled as the show's host, John Humphrys – is one of the most iconic props in British television, and those whose buttocks have clenched nervously in it over the years have treated viewers of the much-loved programme to an endlessly inspiring demonstration of knowledge and memory. In 2005, for instance, eventual winner Patrick Gibson stunned us with his deep knowledge of sitcom Father Ted, and what 2015 winner Marianne Fairthorne doesn't know about notorious 15th-century Italian noblewoman Caterina Sforza isn't worth spit. There have been many others like them.

As it turns out, Father Ted is a very popular specialist subject for prospective contestants, though not as popular as the subject which has now been effectively discouraged by the programme-makers: Harry Potter. In a Radio Times interview, producer Mark Helsby says that last year he received 262 requests to answer questions on JK Rowling's novel series and its film spin-offs. Of course only one person can do it each year, which means hundreds of people having to choose something else. Along with Harry Potter and Father Ted, the most popular subjects are Fawlty Towers (currently on Netflix, so easy to mug up on) and Blackadder (ditto).

At the other end of the scale, says Helsby, is pork, which one person requested as a specialist subject but which was rejected as being too broad. Other specialist subjects which have been turned down over the years reportedly include the banana industry, perfect squares, British cremation practice and routes to anywhere in mainland Britain by road from Letchworth.

One question I'd love to see answered on Mastermind has nothing to do with Harry Potter or Fawlty Towers and it's this: in the whole history of the programme, why is 1980 winner Fred Housego still the only champion anyone can ever name?

Fawlty logic

STICKING with Fawlty Towers – sort of, anyway – the German ambassador to the UK seems to have had the words of Torquay's most ill-mannered hotelier in mind last week when he told Brexiteers to stop mentioning the war. He didn't say it in as many words (he is a diplomat, after all) but in an interview given as he prepares to leave his post, the gist of Dr Peter Ammon's comments was clear. Brexiteers, he thinks, have a sense of national identity still rooted in the story of Britain standing alone against Germany. They keep banging on about it – and as far everyone in continental Europe is concerned, they aren't getting away with it.

The oldies-quake

DO you remember the “youthquake”? It was the name given to the apparent surge of support for Jeremy Corbyn among young people which powered Labour to second place in the 2017 General Election – but a second place that was a lot less, well, second place-y than polls had suggested it would be. As a result, “youthquake” was made word of the year by the Oxford English Dictionary. Previous winners have included vape, bovvered, simples and omni-shambles, so you can decide for yourself if it's an accolade worth having.

But now it turns out that as well as not winning the General Election for Labour, the “youthquake” wasn't much of a quake at all. According to data released by the British Election Study, supposedly the most accurate measure of electoral behaviour, there was no surge in youth turnout last year. In fact older people were still more likely to vote than young people, who in turn were more likely to stay at home eating crisps, streaming Netflix on their phones and brushing up on Harry Potter trivia just in case. So the much-vaunted “youthquake” was actually more of a tremble. A bit like the one you might just have felt at 6.25am on Boxing Day around Kilmore in Argyll and Bute – 0.6 on the Richter scale, according to the British Geological Survey's earthquakes page, my new favourite website. Probably rattled a few teacups and scared a few sheep, but truly seismic? Hardly.