The Matthew 'Tyrell' Appreciation Society AGM...

Not sure how familiar you will be with the wondrous 'Alan Whicker Appreciation Society', and for all one knows it may have lapsed now that its eponymous hero is largely retired from view. But even if not you will rapidly get the picture - and picture essentially it was if not is - of men who loved to mimic the Great Man's style, from smart blazer and immaculate flannels, to buzzing voice via a trimmed yet compelling moustache.

It was parody of sorts, but affectionate tribute the more to someone was who was unique but of a type, of a type yet also sui generis. The cultivated Brit. who could travel the world, observe its strange ways with humour and appreciation, could convey with but a lift of an eyebrow his astonishment at its peculiarities as seen from the abiding Home Counties perspective, and yet treat it all as a modern marvel not to be missed for all the tea in China. (Monty Python tried a spoof, but it could not work as they were not kind in their intent.)

For those in the know, there could as easily be - and should be if not - a 'Matthew Tyrell Appreciation Society.' Who he, you might ask? And if you were to do so I would have to acknowledge first that he is probably not he at all.

For all that one does know is that he is the due husband of the wonderful Miss Rebecca Tyrell, journalist and scribe; and as she is the due daughter of the late John Tyrell, racing commentator sans pareil, one has to assume that said spouse actually carries the name of another bloodstock lineage altogether.

You see my point I am sure.

But leaving aside the current vagueness of the man's full name, why should one wish to honour him with his very own Appreciation Society? For the sound reason that he is a voice of modern masculine unreason. A man who hordes logs against the Apocalypse, a man who understands that the world is off to Hell in a handcart, yet will not accept that no one has noticed that the cart has a flat tyre that must at once be repaired. A man who will run alongside said cart trying to fix it as it trundles by. A man even who will carry this Cassandra-esque burden of prophecy with dignity for the sake of the family, yet will still let rip with the occasional public rant against the very madness of it all.

And what is that if not the epitome of all that modern British man could and should be - dedicated, dutiful, diligent yet also at the same time bouncing up and down with something between righteous indignation and hysterical ire at all he sees around him: a Knight of a new Round Table - established to do doughty battle against truly noxious foes - Sir Matthew 'Fawlty' Fortitude.

One used to read all of this from the pen of the fragrant Rebecca T. herself over at the dear Telegraph. But then she - and so of course did he - vanished from view. That was, sadly, that and no more for some year or more.

But now one has fortuitiously discovered that she - and of course he too - has pitched up at the ghastly Indie. One tried reading the wretched thing when it first appeared, if only to cock a snook at Rupert 'Mordor' Murdoch, but it couldn't take - drying paint possessing the more informative and interesting dynamic. Good to know though that the man continues to rant. For what else is a man to do in these mad, troubled times?