It is a chilly evening, the first really cold one of the winter, but the sixth frame of the snooker final between Higgins and Ding seems to have been taking all year.
I'm not altogether sure Christmas dinner is a meal at all, let alone a real one; rather, it is the focus of all the faith, hope and joy - as well as the transgenerational neuroses and psychic dyspepsia - that we load on to tha
We're way out west on the affluent edge of London and things are hotting up. On the lounge bar screen, men with thick necks slam into each other.
A nasty letter from Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs. By "nasty", I mean pant-shittingly terrifying: a £20-per-day fine until I sort myself out.
Weekend in the park, and the dads are out. They seem confused and a little unsure of themselves, as if they do not know what they are doing, and yet they do the same thing every Saturday morning.
I'm in danger of missing the deadline for this column, but I've got a good excuse: it's been delayed by a fire. Not, admittedly, a fire in my flat or,
Now that the plaudits are rolling in for Alan Bennett's play The Habit of Art, which imagines a meeting between Benjamin Britten and W H Auden, perhaps Bennett should turn his attention to another meeting that never w
Isn't there something odd about offering people a "talking therapy" to help them address their problems, but then delivering it in ways that involve no talking at all?
To Leicester. My geographical ignorance is so shocking that I have to go to Google Maps to find out where it is. It turns out to be almost smack in the middle of England. I really should know this.
The sun is shining as I write, but I have learned not to trust it. As soon as I step outside, it will start raining. This generally seems to have been the pattern of things for the past couple of years.
Recently, Britney Spears got into trouble for miming her way through shows. She'd sold her tour as a live performance, when in fact the songs are
“Ooohh." A noise goes up from the crowd of big kids looking at the shiny red sports car. The car is parked on a raised dais and a man with a microphone attached to his head stands next to it.
Good old Shirley. Just when you thought the glittery dresses and James Bond theme tunes might be on the wane, out she marches with an album full of new songs.
Take a deep breath. It's time to talk about stress. And the one thing we can't do is get stressed about it. But, oddly, as soon as I even think about stress, I feel stressed. Even the word is stressful.
An invitation to the countryside from C -- , who is actually an ex from my university days but has become a good friend again, even though she reads the Daily Mail. (I suppose it cuts both ways.
Trends in poverty and inequality since Labour came to power in 1997 fall neatly into three stages. In Labour's first term, there was growth in income of over 3 per cent each year after inflation for the median household.