X

Create an account to continue reading.

Registered readers have access to our blogs and a limited number of magazine articles
For unlimited access to The Spectator, subscribe below

Registered readers have access to our blogs and a limited number of magazine articles

Sign in to continue

Already have an account?

What's my subscriber number?

Subscribe now from £1 a week

Online

Unlimited access to The Spectator including the full archive from 1828

Print

Weekly delivery of the magazine

App

Phone & tablet edition of the magazine

Spectator Club

Subscriber-only offers, events and discounts
 
View subscription offers

Already a subscriber?

or

Subscribe now for unlimited access

ALL FROM JUST £1 A WEEK

View subscription offers

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating an account – Your subscriber number was not recognised though. To link your subscription visit the My Account page

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

X

Login

Don't have an account? Sign up
X

Subscription expired

Your subscription has expired. Please go to My Account to renew it or view subscription offers.

X

Forgot Password

Please check your email

If the email address you entered is associated with a web account on our system, you will receive an email from us with instructions for resetting your password.

If you don't receive this email, please check your junk mail folder.

X

It's time to subscribe.

You've read all your free Spectator magazine articles for this month.

Subscribe now for unlimited access – from just £1 a week

You've read all your free Spectator magazine articles for this month.

Subscribe now for unlimited access

Online

Unlimited access to The Spectator including the full archive from 1828

Print

Weekly delivery of the magazine

App

Phone & tablet edition of the magazine

Spectator Club

Subscriber-only offers, events and discounts
X

Sign up

What's my subscriber number? Already have an account?

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating an account – Your subscriber number was not recognised though. To link your subscription visit the My Account page

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

X

Your subscriber number is the 8 digit number printed above your name on the address sheet sent with your magazine each week. If you receive it, you’ll also find your subscriber number at the top of our weekly highlights email.

Entering your subscriber number will enable full access to all magazine articles on the site.

If you cannot find your subscriber number then please contact us on customerhelp@subscriptions.spectator.co.uk or call 0330 333 0050. If you’ve only just subscribed, you may not yet have been issued with a subscriber number. In this case you can use the temporary web ID number, included in your email order confirmation.

You can create an account in the meantime and link your subscription at a later time. Simply visit the My Account page, enter your subscriber number in the relevant field and click 'submit changes'.

If you have any difficulties creating an account or logging in please take a look at our FAQs page.

Coffee House

Pippa Middleton: truffle hunting, cowboy dancing and, yes, Kim Kardashian’s bottom

10 December 2014

10:16 AM

10 December 2014

10:16 AM

29021-0-2In The Spectator’s Christmas special, hitting the streets tomorrow, Pippa Middleton writes about truffle hunting, cowboy dancing in Wyoming and — as the Daily Mail has been quick to point out – Kim Kardashian’s bottom. 

Subscribe for just £73 — including a year’s full print and digital access and a free bottle of champagne.

A few days ago I went truffle hunting in Piedmont. It’s been a bumper year for white truffles in northern Italy — the best ever, according to some experts — thanks to climate change and an exceptionally wet summer. My guide was a brilliantly sharp-eyed Italian, Mario, whose dog Rex did the snuffling. Mario told me that dogs are better trufflers than pigs because pigs often eat the truffles before you can get your hands on them. We (or rather Rex) found two, and I have been devouring truffle since I returned; I’ve had it with scrambled eggs, mashed potato, pasta and even just straight onto toast. I didn’t think it was possible to get bored of something so expensive, but I must say I’m a bit truffled out, and my flat now smells of truffles. That’s what people call a first world problem, I know.

*****

I’ve just passed my Wine and Spirit Education Trust (WSET) advanced wine exam with distinction. I spent lots of time swotting up — quaffing, essentially, but with pen and paper to hand — and hanging out in an excellent little wine shop near my office called The Sampler. I tried to sneak in when no paps were about; it might have been a bit embarrassing if I’d been photographed repeatedly entering an upmarket offy for several afternoons running.

*****

[Alt-Text]


Anyway, I fancy myself as a bit of a wine expert now, and am contemplating taking a full diploma, described on the WSET website as ‘the stepping-stone to the Master of Wine qualification’. From party planner to sommelier — now that’s what I’d call career progression. I hear The Spectator has a very good wine club. Maybe I should sign up with a view to taking over.

*****

The church in which I was baptised is to close. St Andrew’s, Bradfield, is a handsome flint building, extensively redesigned by George Gilbert Scott in the 1840s, which sits in the middle of Bradfield College, a thriving public school. The school was originally founded to provide choristers for the church. Now the College is reportedly in talks to buy St Andrew’s from the Diocese of Oxford. I’m sure the school can be trusted to look after the property well; nonetheless the story makes me sad — passing of time and all that.

*****

Recently, in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, I tried my hand at western dancing. Wyoming is real cowboy country; the mountain scenery is stunning. Everyone wore cowboy boots and the men had big, non-ironic moustaches that curled upwards. It’s easy to get carried away with the whole free-riding atmosphere. My dance partner was about 80, and I did my best to keep up. But it turns out I have two left feet, at least as far as moving to rhythm is concerned. Embarrassingly, my cringe-inducing moves were caught on camera and posted on the internet. I now worry I’ve dashed my chances of making it on to Strictly Come Dancing, which is a shame as I’ve just bought a military-style costume like the famous one worn by Cheryl Cole in the video of ‘Fight for this Love’. It includes a pair of satin slip-leg trousers, V-body leotard and fingerless gloves.

*****

I am an enthusiastic, albeit rather amateur, salmon fisher, and recently I was thrilled to catch a ten-pounder — my first English catch, too, on the river Tyne. I used a fly called ‘simply red’, because I’ve always been a secret fan of Mick Hucknall and his vivacious ginger locks. What wonderful names we give these little fish lures: ‘wee monkey’, ‘hairy mary’ and ‘posh tosh’. For a spinning rod there’s even a ‘flying condom’.

*****

Christmas is coming fast, and I’m feeling full of cheer. Nothing better than a bit of biting cold outside and fun indoors. Best of all I like to do the crossword while listening (and singing along) to carols on the radio. Does that make me old? I’d already bought most of my presents online well ahead of ‘Cyber Monday’ last week. Like many women, I tend to buy far too many things and then return about two thirds of them by post. It’s strange how consumer culture now means that we buy things before making the decision as to whether we actually want them. Men are different — at least the men I know are.

*****

No year is complete without a bottom story, and the ‘Rear of 2014’ award undoubtedly goes to Kim Kardashian, after her posterior exploded all over the internet last month. I must say that mine — though it has enjoyed fleeting fame — is not comparable. But the Kim butt story did make me pause. What is it with this American booty culture? It seems to me to be a form of obsession. Kim’s aim, apparently, was to break the internet, but I’m not sure she’s going the right way about it.

Give something clever this Christmas – a year’s subscription to The Spectator for just £75. And we’ll give you a free bottle of champagne. Click here.


Show comments
Close