RIP, Bob Hoskins – extraordinary actor and, by all accounts, decent cove. In a wider sense, Hoskins's death raises fresh questions about his legacy as a working-class actor – in that he actually got to leave a legacy, in the form of a canon of remarkable and (crucially) varied work spanning 40 years. Jump forward a few decades and how many British working-class actors will have had such chances?
When people comment along the lines that we will never see Hoskins's like again, they are rightly referring to his acting, but it could just as easily be a statement about his class. Outside designated zones such as soap-land, or whatever Shane Meadows, Noel Clarke or Paul Abbott might be doing, working-class actors are becoming practically invisible, the ghosts of the industry, rarely getting the opportunities truly to prove themselves.
While this has been pointed out before, it is too swiftly forgotten and naff all changes. I find myself looking out for the likes of Johnny Harris, Eddie Marsan and Daniel Mays, or Maxine Peake, Lesley Sharp and Holli Dempsey as a keen birdwatcher might strain to catch a glimpse of the rare spotted sandpiper – and these rank among working-class actors who do work. The increasing dominance of performers of a certain type, from a certain background, combined with the financial difficulties of developing and sustaining an acting career mean that the hard-up are gradually being faded out of the picture.
This is not even including black British actors who, to our national shame, usually have to decamp to America to attempt a meaningful career. Back in Blighty, you could become paranoid that working-class talent is being actively blocked. The truth is more mundane but just as frightening – the working classes are being routinely sidelined, overlooked and forgotten, almost demoted to extras.
Despite this, working-class actors don't tend to bitch and whine, even when they have every right to. When Rob James-Collier (Thomas in Downton Abbey) explained that he found it difficult as a working-class man to afford to train as an actor, it was refreshing to hear him speak up. Usually, the complaints come from the other side, best typified by Benedict Cumberbatch's risible whinge about typecasting and British class obsession. The caveat is that Cumberbatch and the likes of Damian Lewis, Dominic West and Eddie Redmayne are talented actors. But surely this doesn't mean that they, and others of their ilk, should be the only type of established mainstream actors?
Even when something "gritty" comes along, all too often, the roles are taken by actors slumming it or as they might put it, "showing their range". This class-osmosis rarely operates the other way, with working-class actors poshing-up, or getting to show their range. This situation is all the more galling because luvvie-dom, for all its sins, used to be magnificently class-blind, with freaks, misfits and outsiders, from all walks of life, traditionally managing to find a safe haven in the arts.
Some might say, well, so what, we've got the issues such as the NHS and food banks to think about – who gives a stuff about the careers of people who pretend for a living? There was a time I might have agreed, but now I see it as all coming from the same toxic place. The dehumanisation of a class is about more than grinding away at their jobs, education and health. It's also about the erosion of their spirit, voice and hinterland. In this way, it's horrifying that the working classes appear to be being "bred out" of key branches of the arts; at the very least priced out. So the fondest of goodbyes to Bob Hoskins: he was fortunate to live in an era where his talents could shine.
Ooh, la, la. Monsieur has gone too far
French etiquette expert Stéphane Bern has accused Pippa Middleton of wearing a false bum at a certain royal wedding. Bern claims that Ms Middleton wore padded underpants as she needed her bum to look its best on the big day.
Frankly, I was unmoved by Pippa's raved-about derrière at the time and I stand by that. As far as I'm concerned – and I'm sure you want my definitive opinion on this – Pippa's rear has never, and will never, be as good as Beyoncé's. If there were a bum-off between Pippa and Beyoncé, Pippa would be bum-toast, no question. Obviously, other people would put forward different bottoms (Kim Kardashian/Kylie/Right Said Fred) but still, for most, Middleton's junk can stay in its trunk.
That said, it is clearly Pippa's backside in that bridesmaid's dress, and doubts should not be cast upon its authenticity. Any woman could tell you that Spanx, or similar, are usually involved on such highly public occasions, which, in his line of work, Monsieur Bern should know minimises rather than maximises the posterior. At the risk of straining Anglo-French relations any further, the point must be made – Pippa Middleton is clearly not guilty of faking her bum.
One egg and Nigel's shell-shocked
Was the attack on Nigel Farage in Nottingham the first really decent postmodern political egging? We've seen eggings before, which had their moments, but usually they are marred by anger, recriminations and fisticuffs. (Are you listening, John Prescott?) This one was pure comedy gold. Instead of hitting back, Farage scuttled back to his car, where he sat, crying for "Mummy!" and sucking his thumb, according to a highly dubious and definitely fabricated source.
The protester, Frederick Glenister, held up a sign reading "Ukip – sad scared old men". This wasn't amusing, but it at least contained more accurate and up-to-date information than Ukip's manifesto.
As for the egging itself, it was exquisitely timed, hitting Farage as soon as he exited his car. The egg connected well, leaving a pleasing mess, with superb crushed-shell coverage, a robust trail of bright yellow yolk down the back, and a splattering of albumen over the lapel. Despite high public demand, slow-motion coverage is sadly still not available.
After the incident, Glenister (who's been charged) said that Farage should be pleased because the eggs were British. How thoughtful; it's not often you see such good manners and attention to detail from egg-throwers.
Strangely, Ukip were not as pleased as you'd think. Farage and his entourage seemed somewhat short of their signature bonhomie as they retired to a hostelry, probably to drink beer out of old-school dimpled glasses, pretend to know how to play darts, whinge about media liberal bias and bottle out of significant byelections – basically an average Ukip night out. Never mind them, this was a fine political egging – well done to all involved.
