The estate agent is apparently honest, very polite and utterly upbeat. "Oh," he says, surveying the dilapidated property we stand in. "This is
Every year, I'm surprised by the number of people who make it back from their holidays. I always half-expect to get calls from friends or
Did kidult culture spawn kidult restaurants, or was it perhaps the other way round?
Bradford's Pakistani community predominantly originates from the Mirpur region. In Britain it has re
I stumble downstairs on a muggy, sultry morning to find, miles from his natural habitat, an adult bull walrus asleep on my sofa.
It is the morning of 13 September 1759. On the Plains of Abraham, just outside the walls of Quebec City, Britain is losing its great gamble for world power.
The Prime Minister has suggested that Britons should holiday more in the UK. But for the middle clas
In the second part of her series on social care, Victoria Brignell describes the challenge of recrui
In the face of Mac-owning fervour, I retreat behind my trusty PC.
I have become half-obsessed with Steven Moffat's excellent updating of Sherlock Holmes for the BBC. At the time of writing, I have seen only the first two episodes, back to back, but am very impressed.
It’s lazy to assume that our health and happiness are moulded more by genetic inheritance than by th
Sweets and batteries by the tills - isn't that the way of it? And Good Housekeeping, too.
It’s time male scientists stopped hogging all the power in experimentation, funding and research and
The equalities minister, Lynne Featherstone, wants us to embrace Mad Men’s curvy secretary Joan as a role model. Wrong choice, right idea.
The Yorkshire Wolds make for an unimpressive horizon. Middling chalk downland that struggles north from the Humber for 40 miles, they fail to be truly noticeable at any point between the M62 and the coast.
Will Self and Nick Lezard visit a no-nonsense Leicester Square restaurant.
The school holidays. Jesus wept. Because booking things months in advance is not exactly my strong suit, this involves schlepping back and forth between the Hovel and the family home in Shepherd's Bush.
The phone rings for some time before the man behind the reception desk picks up the receiver, listens and then says abruptly, "No, they are not ready. We did say ring for your results on Tuesday. Today is Monday."
To Toy Story 3 with the children. I know enough by now about my own state of mind and the efficiency with which the good people of Pixar can churn the human heart, so I am bracing myself.
Were Stieg Larsson to return from the grave, he'd need a sack of banknotes on his back in order to h
The weather is being a bit silly right now, alternating between rain and brightness, but I am holding on to fond memories of last week's mini-heatwave.
This, then, is how we take our leisure when the sun comes out in 21st-century north London. We are at the canal, where the Victorian architecture rots and crumbles and a crowd has gathered to soak up the sun and alcohol.
To the new doctor down the road. Until now I have resisted registering there on the grounds that . . .
At the time of writing, I have 28,777 followers on Twitter.
Andy Burnham's remark that electoral reform was a "fringe pursuit for Guardian-reading classes" is ironic, given that the editor C P Scott served as the Liberal MP for Burnham's Leigh constituency from 1895-1906.
"I'm tired. Go away."
“Sorry, give me a minute."
“I'll be with you in just a . . ."
“Sorry, I'm not quite myself today."
When spirits are down and the pubs are shut, nothing quite lifts the heart like a game of night cricket.
I often have a kebab, though not as often as I might.
The signs are that getting women into work creates growth and further employment . . . for other wom