Elon Musk and Donald Trump’s bromance was excruciating – no wonder it’s over | US | News

Imploding friendships are agonising. Being ghosted by a chum, exiled from your jolly gang of pals or informed by a mate you no longer make the grade causes pain on a par with bereavement. So acutely do we mourn our own long-lost friendships that we should go lightly on the schadenfreude when other people’s go up in smoke. We remember the horror of being ditched. It’s chilly beyond the pale. When our buddies are all merrily dipping corn chips in home-made guacamole and we no longer make the invitation list, existential despair kicks in with a vengeance.

We’ve just been treated to ringside seats at the burial of two high-profile friendships. Donald Trump and Elon Musk – who paraded and peacocked their soaring regard for one another, plastering their excruciating billionaire bromance across the world stage – have fallen out of love. We’re not surprised. None of us thought their love-in would last. They were not little boys competing with toys, but they might as well have been. Anyone who’s raised a toddler could have seen a schism looming.

The presidency trumps unlimited cash. Musk’s muscle would always be eclipsed by the Donald’s power and position. Before our very eyes, dewy-eyed infatuation morphed into insults, wild accusations and potentially libellous threats to each other’s reputations. We knew the love-in would end in tears.

Gentler, but far tougher on the heartstrings, are the revelations in journalist Sarah Vine’s searing memoir How Not To Be A Political Wife about the collapse of what she believed was a lifelong friendship with Samantha Cameron. It’s clear Vine still misses Sam Cam terribly.

Despite being made to wonder if the Camerons considered Sarah Vine and her ex-husband Michael Gove mates or glorified staff, Vine clearly loved Samantha to bits. With her nose pressed against the Cameron’s windows like the Little Match Girl fairytale, Vine can’t bring herself to utter a word of criticism of their cavalier excising of the Gove’s from their gilded coterie of privileged pals.

Sarah Vine is eminently relatable. She’s the eager beaver who’d do anything for her friend – turn up with fish pie, babysit, wash dishes – and now can’t quite believe she has been banished from the Cameron’s Camelot. If Samantha thawed and picked up the phone, Sarah would be on her way with a Le Creuset full of delicious goulash. Her book chronicles the rejection but leaves the door ajar for reconciliation.

Sadly, most of us can add our own bruised and buffeted stories to these two tales of failed friendships.

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David Beckham once rang me and gave me a right dressing down. Naturally, I thought it was someone pretending to be Goldenballs and told him to beep off but he called right back and made it clear he was the real deal. Then he gave me hell for making fun of his sons’ names. I didn’t take it lying down. “Come on,” I said. “You called them Brooklyn and Romeo. What did you expect? If you’d gone for Steve and John, I wouldn’t have had any material.”

Beckham may be portrayed as a tad deficient in the IQ department but he’s no slouch when it comes to unleashing a tirade of anger. Ever since then, I haven’t been a fully paid-up member of his fan club. So how do I feel about his knighthood? I wish him and Lady Beckham an almighty mazeltov!

Well done, Sir David, your gong is richly deserved. The man isn’t perfect, but he has done a bang-up job promoting the country, family, bee-keeping and the health benefits of sport and exercise. He’s feathered his nest(s) along the way, but what’s wrong with a bit of feathering? All told, he’s one of the good guys and it’s high time he enjoyed his just desserts. Just don’t expect Posh to tuck in – too many calories.

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When we asked viewers of Vanessa if life improves with age, we took a risk. What if all the callers were jaded oldies beset by ailments and disappointment? No-one wants a telly show to be a showcase for “Debbie Downers”.

Rather, it turned out to be a cavalcade of adventures and optimism. We heard from a 90-year-old belly dancer, who’d swung her hips to huge acclaim at her grandson’s wedding, a 103-year-old sky diver fizzing with enthusiasm after the experience, a 90-something tap-dance teacher who sent film footage leaping in the air like a young gazelle, and a 65-year-old fellow excited beyond measure to be marrying his 60 year old sweetheart next week in church, both for the first time, in a traditional white wedding with all the trimmings.

I couldn’t have asked for jollier callers brimming with positivity. Obviously I know getting older has its downside, but to hear my effervescent viewers, it certainly beats the alternative.

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If Meghan felt like twerking in the delivery suite to persuade her baby to make an appearance that’s entirely up to her but when she released the footage on Lilibet’s fourth birthday, she made an intensely private moment everyone’s business. She further fuelled the ensuing furore by posting footage of the family’s trip to Disney, a move that seems to cement the Duchess’ decision to open her family’s intimate experiences to the wider world.

The question is, of course, why? Most influencers do it for the dosh. It’s a Faustian pact. You expose more and more of your “private” life, attract legions of followers and flog them skincare products, dog food or pyjamas. It’s a trade. You forfeit a quiet life away from the camera and feature your children, dogs, kitchen island and PMT in return for cash.

This makes sense if you are trying to make a living, but the Sussexes are multi-millionaires. Harry inherited millions from his great-grandmother, grandmother and mum. Meghan herself made a few quid starring in Suits. They are not on their uppers.

They don’t need to peddle the same fare as reality TV stars. What’s more, they are trading on their royal connection, so why the need to appear relatable? It’s confused thinking – a little like Meghan launching a line of jam and then announcing they are halting production so that it doesn’t “annoy” the customer. Baffling.

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Vogue magazine announces that “chic is dead”. The concept of chic has, argues writer Lauren O’Neill, become a moveable feast. It’s whatever floats your boat, so what’s the point pursuing it?

She’s absolutely right and woefully wrong. Chic is the perfect white shirt teamed with the ultimate black cigarette trousers. It’s Grace Kelly in Rear Window, Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly, Jackie O in A-line Oleg Cassini and pillbox hat and Amal Clooney in Giambattista Valli at Venice Film Festival.

It is also your grandmother in a silk scarf pulled under her chin and huge black sunglasses, and your mother in a 1950s wedding dress and tiny matching gloves. It is emphatically not Kim Kardashian, even when dressed in Marilyn Monroe’s “Happy Birthday, Mr President” beaded sheath, nor is it Madonna or Stella McCartney.

OK, O’Neill has a point. My idea of chic is probably not yours. On the other hand, though, don’t we all recognise it immediately when we’re fortunate enough to see it?

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I savoured a sleepover with my six-year-old grandson AJ. He’s inseparable from his scooter and not allowed to scoot without sporting his helmet.

The scooter came upstairs, downstairs and in his grandma’s chamber. A small boy in protective headgear whizzing past your wardrobes at 11 pm is a most enlivening spectacle. Then came entertainment: board games, stories and a carefully selected film. A midnight feast heavy on Maltesers and strawberries was a soaraway success.

The conversation covered the Great Fire of London, what he might want to be when he grows up – an architect – and how important it is that everyone, including grandmas, only drink water. Eventually we both subsided exhausted, he in the nursery, I in my bedroom. At 2am he crept in for company. By 3am he had commandeered three quarters of my pillow, and I was hanging on to the bedpost for dear life.

I’m a touch bleary-eyed but what fun and frolics! I’ll start negotiations with his parents for an encore today.