No sense or sensibility from the two Mr Darcys

Itook the chair last week at an extraordinary general meeting of the Genuine Friends of Jane Austen – not to be confused with all the other bodies purporting to be admirers of that author.

We met to discuss sending a message of solidarity to the Brontë Society, which has been suffering lately from a bad case of infighting.

Difficulties arose when we debated the wording of the motion and whether it should say that we “hold out the hand of friendship” or “salute” or “take note of ”. For some reason this turned into a vote of no confidence in my chairmanship. I was called a cryptoDickensian and an Arts Council lackey and I was accused of adopting a disrespectful tone when reading out the agenda. I vacated the chair but my successor could not be agreed upon, so the rest of the meeting was chaired by an empty chair.

The usual dispute between the Modernisers and the Traditionalists was complicated this time by the arrival of the Purists, who are the most fanatical faction and are led by Mrs Windscale, the manageress of the gift shop. You need to know that she has fallen out with Mr Perkins, the Moderniser who does the teas. (Mr Perkins, apparently, made an uncalled-for remark about Sense and Sensibility.) Two members who had come to the meeting dressed as Mr Darcy each raised a point of order calling on the other one to be barred and, when told they could not raise points of order from the floor, went out and shouted through the window. At this point the whole of the executive committee abruptly resigned, complaining that they were not appreciated. Someone tried to read out the minutes of the last 17 meetings and something was thrown; I think it was a cake stand of the type that Jane Austen may have used. The police were called, but were not admitted after they failed to name four Jane Austen novels. After a vote of no-confidence in the empty presiding chair, we managed to adjourn the meeting until next week in the pub car park at 11pm. Once again, we are told that a daily bowl of porridge is just the thing to help us live longer. This time, it is scientists at Harvard who are praising the power of those whole grains to fight off heart disease and cancer. But don’t think you can get away with one of those just-addboiling-water packets nicely flavoured with apple, blueberries and cinnamon; the Porridge Standards Agency has strong views on what can claim to be an authentic porridge.

First, it must have the texture of the roughest, hairiest tweed jacket and second, it must, ideally, be the colour known as “gravestone grey”. (See the PSA booklet for a colour chart showing other acceptable shades of grey.)

Far from being a food that can be dished up in a couple of minutes, proper porridge should have been gently heaving and plopping in the pan for about three weeks. True porridge connoisseurs say it ought to be cooked on an open grate in a pan which has been handed down to you by your granny.

As for consistency, it must be so thick that only the hefty Scotsman pictured putting the shot on those Scott’s porridge oats packets would have the strength to stir it with the caked wooden spoon. As the family sit down to enjoy breakfast they will all be wondering who will be the lucky one who gets the solid lump.

Anything on it? You must be joking. Coarse salt is sometimes allowed, but if you permit yourself the merest thin trickle of black treacle, be prepared to be called a sissy. Goodbye strippergrams, paintballing, go-karting and quad-biking. It is claimed that stag parties are becoming less raucous and boozy and more sedate. The modern groom and his mates still nip off to Amsterdam, but now they head straight to the Rijksmuseum. Nowadays they prefer group activities and something improving, such as cooking classes or life drawing or a bracing fun run. Probably there’s quilting and origami, too.

So for the next stag do you attend, you may find that Geoff and Dave and the rest of the boys have booked a private room in a nightclub for some fine wine and good conversation, but you may be amazed to see four young women, obviously strippers and wearing not very much, bursting into the room. Then the men’s shocked gasps turn to shouts of delight as the women slip into stylish evening gowns, whip out their instruments and sit down to play a Haydn string quartet.