By Peter Hoskin. Follow Peter on Twitter.

my time at The Spectator, where I edited the Coffee House blog, there were few
things I enjoyed more than a trip to the basement. There, spread across two
rooms and collected in doorstop leather books, was every single back issue of
the magazine. 185 years-worth of fine thought, and even finer prose, to dip into when
the blogging became less urgent.

now, as befits the openness of the Internet Age, this is a privilege available
to all. The Spectator has just made its entire archive available online, and for
free. There are still some gaps and technical snags – which is why it’s
presented as a ‘Beta’ – but it’s already wonderful overall. As my former
colleague Sebastian Payne puts it in his blog
the whole endeavour, “The archive is a treasure

to mark the release of The Spectator’s archive, a change of pace for this
week’s Culture Column. Here are some of the pieces I discovered during my
forays to the print archives, and which overlap politics and culture, and which can now be read online. The excerpts below are just that:
excerpts. You can click on the links for the full version.

what better place to start than with the current Prime Minister? His musical
tastes featured in a 2008 article by Anne
McElvoy, on the “Jam Generation” of politicians:

“Take Mr
Cameron’s formative musical years, which could come from any self-respecting
leftie’s record collection: ‘“Going Underground”, “Eton Rifles” — inevitably, I
was one — in the corps — it meant a lot, some of those early Jam albums we used
to listen to,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t see why the Left should be the only ones
allowed to listen to protest songs.’ Is there nothing safe from the
expansionist New Tories? Cameron loves Kirsty MacColl’s ‘New England’ and adds,
‘I’ve got dozens of Bob Dylan albums. Some of his lyrics you can agree with . .
.’ Not ‘Blowing in the Wind’, I take it.”

for other serving Cabinet members, Michael Gove is one who has written for The
Spectator on numerous occasions, during his time as a journalist. I always liked
his brief
tribute to Christopher Lee
, calling for a knighthood that has since been given – and not
least because, as it notes, Mr Gove featured in a film, A Feast at
, with Mr Lee:

“On New
Year’s Eve I spent five hours in the presence of genius. A delicious Hogmanay
supper with friends was sandwiched between a matinee performance of
The Lord of
the Rings and a late-night viewing of the
Robin Hardy classic
The Wicker Man.
The undisputed star of both, whose brilliance never fades, is the wonderful
Christopher Lee. The pleasure of watching two great movies illuminated by his
presence was diminished only by the publication that same day of an Honours
List in which his name, once again, inexplicably failed to appear among the
list of Knights Bachelor. Lee is now in his seventies, and following the death
of Sir Alec Guinness he is easily our most distinguished actor, as worthy to
enjoy a knighthood alongside Sir Ian McKellen as his Saruman is to do battle
with the latter’s Gandalf. I cannot help but fear that it is his association
with Hammer’s House of Horror that leads Her Majesty’s advisers to conclude
that the dark lord of schlock should not be favoured with a knighthood. But not
only was Hammer a significant export earner when the rest of the British film
industry was mired in introspective mediocrity; Lee himself has come a long way
from Transylvania. Having acted alongside him during my own brief film career, I
can attest not just to the majesty of his craft, but also to the grace of his
person. He helped calm my butterflies and those of other inexperienced
performers with impromptu digressions on all manner of subjects including his
favourite cuisine — Danish. It was impossible to feel nervous when listening to
Lee explain, ‘There are no end to the pleasures one can derive from a herring.’
Or indeed from a prime old English ham.”

Mr Gove, George Osborne has also written for The Spectator, although more often in the books section, reviewing works
on American politics. As I remember it, those reviews rather dried up after a column by
Fraser Nelson
contained the line, “A senior financier
told me over lunch last month that he lost faith in the shadow chancellor when
he found that Osborne had reviewed a book about the Nixon presidency for The
Spectator in August last year.” Here’s part of that offending review:

“No one
doubts the cultural or political significance of the period, but the
flowerpower generation is now starting to collect its pension. As its places in
politics, academia, business and the media are taken by the generations who came
after, the debate has moved on. We talk now not of a permissive society but of
a broken one, of crack cocaine not purple haze.”

of haze, in 2000 Jasper Gerard looked into Tony
Blair’s time in a band

describes Blair and the band as ‘weekend hippies who were all clearly going to
be quite successful’. And yet, says James Moon (no relation to Keith), the
drummer in Blair's Oxford band, Ugly Rumours, ‘I never saw him with any drugs
whatsoever. Which I must say is more journalistically interesting than if he
had — particularly with that lot in the band.’ (Hint, hint, nudge, nudge.)
Another Oxford contemporary says, ‘His hair was virtually down to his waist but
I have no idea whether he took drugs. He was certainly into his band, but I
don't know whether he was interested in anything other than the music.’”

course, there’s a good helping of Boris in the Spectator archives, including
his defence
of P.G. Wodehouse
against those who accuse the author of Nazi sympathies…

anyone thinks P.G. Wodehouse was a Nazi collaborator or, as the
Independent described him last Friday, ‘a sinister character with extreme
right-wing views and even Nazi sympathies’, then that is a comment on the
catastrophic illiteracy of the age. There can scarcely have been a more devastating
portrait of a fascist than in Wodehouse’s
Code of the Woosters. You will recall the figure of Spode, the
would-be dictator, whose eye could open an oyster at 50 paces, and whose
followers went around in black shorts (‘You mean footer bags?’ cried Bertie. ‘How
perfectly foul’).

the magnificent climax of this work, Bertie rounds on Spode, who has been
behaving in an overweening fashion in the matter of the silver cow-creamer.
Yes, for once in his career of masterly inactivity, Bertie Wooster lets another
man have a piece of his mind. ‘The trouble with you, Spode,’ he says, ‘is that
because you have succeeded in inducing a handful of halfwits to disfigure the
London scene by going about in black shorts, you think you're someone.

hear them shouting “Heil Spode!”, and you imagine it is the Voice of the People.
That is where you make your bloomer. What the Voice of the People is saying is:
“Look at that frightful ass Spode swanking about in footer bags! Did you ever
in your puff see such a perfect perisher?”’”

review of, erm, a Filipino beauty pageant

“‘What is
your best physical asset?’ the compere asked mother no. 5.

Mother no. 5
had no doubt.

‘My best
physical asset ees my arse.’ And how! I said, and nudged my 12 year-old. ‘She
said her best physical assets were her eyes,’ said my daughter, bleakly. But
now mum 5 was leaving the stage to generous acclaim, and mother no. 6 tottered

Hurd’s review
of Boris’s dimly-remembered novel Seventy Two Virgins:

“I have read
somewhere that the friends of this author are worried. Apparently he is an MP,
a shadow minister, a performer on chat shows, editor of a weekly magazine, the
next prime minister but three — and now out pops a novel. How can he manage it
all? They need not worry. On the evidence I would guess that he wrote this in
three days, flat out day and night, finishing with the arrival on the fourth
morning of what with his Homeric education he would call the rosy-fingered

it comes to older politicians, it’s rather more difficult to find them
mentioned in connection with the arts, although there is this
, from 1948, on one of Winston Churchill’s books about painting:

“The main
contention is engaging, but I am afraid illusory. Painting is the ideal
distraction from worry and corrective of fatigue according to Mr. Churchill.
Everyone should try it; almost everyone could do it. I wonder. If so; almost
anyone could lay bricks or write
Marlborough or, for that matter, govern Great Britain. However, Mr. Churchill says
‘Difficult? Fascinating!’ And who am I to gainsay him?”

I shall leave you to snuffle around the Spectator archives for yourself. Please
do mention any discoveries in the comments section, below.