A City of Beauty

'When you're presenting 'haute cuisine' you don't want the working class sticking its nose in it.'

Basil Fawlty, Gourmet Night

Fawlty has always been something of a hero of mine. I've seen all the DVD commentaries in which John Cleese explains, in his desperately analytical way, how so much of the humour of Fawlty Towers comes from the fact that the lead character is, to all intents and purposes, a monster. But I find myself sympathising with his plight more often than not. Of course, this may say more about me than I care to admit.

Yes, his actions are filtered through his absurd prejudices and snobbery but he is frequently surrounded by characters so obnoxious - Mrs Richards, the brash Americans, Nicky Henson's desperate 70s lothario - that his floundering in the face of circumstances elicits sympathy, even support. His diatribe at the collected guests at the end of the 'Waldorf Salad' episode - 'this is exactly how Nazi Germany started' - rarely fails to raise a small cheer.

But agreeing with the defiantly lower middle class Fawlty in his dismissal of the working class is poison, espacially for a guilt-ridden middle class radical like myself. Which is why I'm desperatly trying to skirt around the subject when thinking about our recent family holiday to the Isle of Wight and the aesthetic joy of our return to London.

Because it is beauty that is at the heart of this. The Isle of Wight was lovely, the people friendly if a little eccentric - an unlikely mix of fading white surf dudes and octogenarian middle ranking military types - the scenery and beaches spectacular. It was the ideal staycation, a perfectly formed British Family Holiday.

And yet....in the midst of such natural beauty there was so much that was ugly. And the ugly ones were us, the British on holiday. Badly dressed, badly made up, eating crap, drinking crap, settling not just for second best but for third or fourth best and not looking any too happy about it.

It's easy to assume that this is something to do with class or money or both. That would certainly be Basil's line: you can't expect the working class to appreciate the finer things in life; it's not their fault, merely a condition of their social status.

But I'm increasingly convinced that this is a matter of geography not class. London is a beautiful city. Not just the buildings and the parks and the river but also the people. They have a self-awareness, a desire to make an effort, a confidence to stand out as an individual, safe in the knowledge that the city will guarantee their anonymity.

And it appears it was ever thus:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p00t6fdl

Does living in London make you beautiful? Or does London merely attract the beautiful? I don't know. But whatever the cause, the effects cheer me on a daily basis.