Who created and propagated the lie that London is unfriendly? Find them and make them pay £8 for an artisanal loaf of bread right now.
Seriously, though, I’ve lived here for 22 years and it’s the one prejudice that never wavers. There is, I think, an investment in the binary narrative of the good north (which includes Scotland, which I come from and love) and the evil, unfriendly metropolis that is London. Can it really be the case that everywhere outside London is like Coronation Street — warm, amber nights in the pub with your neighbours — and that London is filled with a transient, materialistic and monosyllabic populace?
Er, no. How much you warm to a city depends on many things, including your own circumstances, how much effort you make and whether you have nice neighbours.
I’ve lived all over London and have always found it friendly. Where I live now is a supportive community that shares ladders and makes cakes for one another. Last week two mums took my daughter on consecutive playdates so I could lie in a dark room and stare at the ceiling for five hours, feeling utterly overwhelmed by life.
I’ve lived in Glasgow, Bristol, Nottingham and Manchester. Two I found friendly; two I did not. But my experience of neighbours outside London whose only interaction with me in a year was a note on my windscreen saying, “Move your crappy car” is apparently not enough to puncture the myth that any place outside London is always going to be nicer. It’s the law.
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What’s in a name? In my case, a minefield
On Monday, before everything went into meltdown, a photo of Nadhim Zahawi, the education secretary, was used by a newspaper to illustrate a story about Sajid Javid, the health secretary. Javid tweeted it with a “thinking face” emoji.
The bants that ensued between the two colleagues was funny and clever. Without demanding anyone be vilified or sacked, they drew attention to something that happens a lot. Lenny Henry was once confused with Ainsley Harriott by ITV. Shashi Kapoor died and the BBC showed pictures of two actors who were very much alive. There’s a long list.
It’s not the worst thing in the world but it’s not a good look either. A lot of people are strangely incompetent, too, with funny foreign names like mine. When I interview people on the radio, they rarely say my name, but they do say my co-presenter’s. I think all those “A”s throw them.
Then there are the ones who confidently call me Aasmir. My favourite is the interviewee who thought my first name was Aasmahmir and said it four or five times, by which time the production team were weeping with laughter. To this day I get texts from them addressed to Aasmahmir Mir.
Newman’s view
• I’ve been bingeing on custard creams and series two of Jennifer Aniston’s The Morning Show on Apple TV+, set in an early-morning television studio. The script, which deals with harassment, #MeToo, the coronavirus and cancel culture, is razor-sharp.
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The other thing I’ve noticed is the hours the characters work. Now that I’m also working on a breakfast show, I understand the side order of craziness that getting up at 3.10am adds to your work and life. The piercing alarm in the dead of night; the hot shower in a cold bathroom; the creeping-around as you leave for work. In the office we laugh hard and crack a million jokes, full of manic energy; by the end of a four-hour show we’re all drained and can barely string a sentence together.
At 10am fresh-faced colleagues clip-clop into the office looking uncreased and human. At 6pm we’re all feeling ratty, like toddlers. At 8.30pm, as many are settling down for a night in front of the telly, we are asleep, preparing yet again for that damn alarm. I love my job but — wow — those hours make you crazy. That’s my excuse anyway.
Back to our student daze
In the 1980s I watched University Challenge with Bamber Gascoigne firing impenetrable questions at thin-necked students in terrible jumpers. I never thought I would one day sit on a panel of fellow students and hit a button invoking a voice saying, “Bristol Mir!”
But I did. Jeremy Paxman now, terrifyingly, presides over the Christmas edition, to which they invite not-so-clever university alumni. Fond memories were exchanged of Bristol nightclubs. Fond memories, too, of the day I found out I was going to Bristol and had to get the road atlas out of the car to find out where the heck it was.
