To my bed, with the curtains drawn and a cold, damp flannel pressed to my eyes. Fury, I have discovered, brings with it many of the symptoms of migraine: pain, nausea, fatigue.
TV has spoken; the printed word has had its day.
A St Valentine’s Day wish to take the law out of romance.
A visit to the accountant. I like my accountant. She's jolly and good and she finds my extraordinary financial incompetence amusing.
Men have so many words that they can use to hint at their own sexual power, but we have just the one. Let’s use it and love it.
A new year and a new hamburger - for is the hamburger not elemental? Is it not like the two hemispheres of the earth, seamed by
the biota? Or possibly two robust thighs, between which is pressed beefy virility?
Persuading poor people to stay married eases the strain on housing stocks and provides a modesty slip for inequality.
Well, it wasn't too bad in the end - Christmas, that is.
In the 1970s, the Buddhist teacher Chögyam Trungpa coined the phrase "spiritual materialism" to describe the pervasive western habit of consuming far-flung religious practices as lifestyle accessories rather than techniques fo
What are the limits of free speech?
My usual resolutions for each New Year are simple: to eat and drink more, and to exercise less. In this way, I have either the smug satisfaction of keeping my resolutions, or the personal benefit of breaking them.
A headline caught my eye in a London paper in the run-up to Christmas: "'It's safe to swim in Red Sea,' says tourism boss." Given that four tourists had been mauled by sharks and a fifth, a German lady, had just been killed, i
There are many waymarkers along the winding trail of a man's life, but few can be quite so dismal, so minatory, so like unto a psychic gibbet from which a rotting corpse twists in the mephitic breezes from the nearby abyss as
It will probably come as no surprise to regular readers of this column that it has, to put it mildly, mixed feelings about Christmas.
Find out what Laurie Penny, Roy Hattersley, Kevin Maguire and others are hoping to achieve in the ne
In "Little Gidding", T S Eliot wrote:
. . . last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
In 2011, I'll be learning Cantonese.
Oddly enough (for a reviewer), my chief resolution is to read more.
I don't think I've ever kept a New Year resolution but it's not for want of trying. The intention is usually strong, on 31 December at least, but winter's a grim season so it's hard to start afresh in brass monkey weather.
Mine is to make no New Year resolutions. Deciding on a new course of action purely because a digit on the calendar has changed strikes me as frivolous and feeble-minded.
For the past 12 years my chief New Year resolution, when I have been moved through sentimentality or pressure from friends and family, has been to finish my book.
From this point forth, I will only snog men who own at least two pairs of shoes, and who have not lived for more than one week in a skip in Camberwell.
I had a little taste of political activism in 2010, and I liked it.
1. I'd like the Milibands to become once more the best of brothers, remember the good old days at Haverstock Comp and unite to launch a campaign to remove the charitable status of public schools.
To clear out my cupboard, boring, to lose half a stone, boring boring, OK, a whole stone, I know, don't go on about it, to get rid of my Amstrad PCW and the two Victorian printers and the three prehistoric fax machines, yes I
I don't understand the point of New Year resolutions. Why would you need to wait until the 1st of January to do something, or to stop doing something?
My hope, and indeed expectation, for 2011 is that Ed Miliband will set out the principles on which the Labour Party's policy is to be based and thereby re-create a genuinely social-democratic party of conscience and conviction
In her final column for the New Statesman, Victoria Brignell reflects on what it has meant to write
Within a Budding Grove, with its hint at the similitude of erectile clitoral tissue and burgeoning plant life, is the somewhat suggestive translation of Proust's À l'ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs given by C K Scott Moncrie
A visit from this magazine's own excellent young writer Laurie Penny, who has come for a natter about what it's like being kettled and to watch me drink my customary bottle of Shiraz while she sips from a glass of cider and, l