The former Beirut hostage on the pleasures of fishing, memories of revolution in Paris . . . and say
There’s a strange light outside. It hangs high up in the sky, is impossible to look at directly and is making everything bright. When one turns the lights on in the Hovel, they make no difference. I ring round a few friends and do a little poking about on the internet.
The narrative that homophobia in football was primarily responsible for his death forms a dauntingly
Olympic mascots, the next D-G and getting revenge on Jeremy Vine
For rain to be proper rain, it has to be moving and to keep moving — just like the tramp Alice Oswal
Regular readers of this column with long memories and for whom time hangs heavy may remember that one of the recurrent problems of my life is my inability to do accounts, send invoices, keep receipts and, er, pay taxes on time. I am not proud of this.
I am walking past the charity shop when I see something in the window.
An email is forwarded to me: it’s from Newsnight. How exciting! The government has just announced a minimum price for units of alcohol, and what with my having written an opinion piece for the Guardian decrying the policy before it was even announced, they want me on the show.
Sober, blameless, virtuous even - for I am doing the washing-up - and another glass breaks. Down to four now, which is still acceptable, just.
“My policing was nothing but activism – it had to be”
I am wandering around the Hovel, looking for a book.
Muslim men bring 12,000 brides to Britain each year. That leaves their female peers with a dilemma —
How the OkCupid website, started by four Harvard geeks, used statistics to unearth its users’ secret
Well, there go the good times.
The tall man in front of me blinks shyly from beneath a white side-swept fringe - or at least, as shyly as anyone can do dressed in white leggings so tight I could tell if he had varicose veins.
An email arrives from the chief executive of a magazine that went bust last year owing me £750. I might have mentioned this before. Well, it has been weighing upon me.
An email from one of the editors at the New Statesman.
At a swanky literary party - they still exist but they are few and far between - I am introduced to two charming girls who appear to be in their mid-teens.
Willpower is probably starting to ebb from that New Year's resolution to cut down on alcohol. Why? Because you're fighting your natural inclinations: intoxication is a basic human drive.
I wake up on Sunday with a hangover so bad that I feel profoundly altered inside. There have been fundamental realignments of a sinister nature. I have a sudden, vivid image of my liver.
Another year, another final pair of digits on the file marked "terror about financial matters". Not that there's anything that I can do about it, except work, and that for little more than peanuts.
A purple flyer pops through our letter box: "It's time to play," it says, which, to a sensitive ear, sounds like a catchphrase for a Hollywood serial killer.
The likes of Fassbinder, Godard, Pasolini, Tarkovsky, Wajda and Visconti were once seen as essential
I awake, not exactly refreshed but pleasantly woozy, after my first afternoon nap.
“Ageing women get axed from TV, so where’s your role model?”
Why foodies are getting excited about foraging
Well, you can't stay in London every single day of your life, you'd go mad, and so I accept an invitation to go to Perthshire with H -- . Not that
Is clothes browsing inside refurbished shipping containers in east London as hip (and non-corporate)
Leafing through the St Andrews Citizen the other day, I read a piece about plans to dig up a patch of wild ground - the local preservation trust described it as "an eyesore" - and make it into a "community garden".