My time in the gutter taught me how much the homeless deserve our compassion.
“Step outside,” he spattered in my face, “and we’ll settle this right now!”
And I'm not just talking about the fact they've both been left with a old, wrinkly narcissist.
Raclette, cheesy crackers, baguettes – even ice-cream is just cheese in waiting.
In Tesco, I was struck by the presence of a paella ready-meal in the chiller cabinet.
Ben Wheatley’s screen adaptation of Ballard's novel brings its dry wit to the fore.
I swore I'd keep it for ever, but when I found the hideous thing in my study the other week, I followed "a different train of thought".
I have written before in this column about how deranging chain restaurants are. This week, I want to consider another egregious example: Patisserie Valerie.
Some people shudder at the thought of jellied eels, or blanch if an oyster approaches. Not I.
It is rather corvid, the ring-neck’s cry – suggestive of an intelligence more knowing than we expect from most birds.
I wouldn’t claim to have an exhaustive familiarity with Bowie’s oeuvre, but then I don’t need to.
The Zombie PM