“It would be silly to pretend that models aren’t tall and thin”
Y'know, me don' see dat David Starkey much down 'ere on me manor, seen, tho' wevver it am because he be chi-chi man or foo-foo racist man me don't know.
The Westfield Stratford centre, backed by a former Israeli commando and touted as the future face of London by the likes of Boris Johnson, makes a mockery of the East End’s history of productive work.
What were they doing there? Apart from the questionable decision to spend up to £500 a night to stay in a straw hut strewn with a bit of rustic decor, why there? Why go on holiday so near to the Somali border?
Rosamund Urwin of the <em>London Evening Standard</em> on a week of whingeing bankers, trouble for t
Felicity Cloake celebrates a new and sophisticated golden age of the cocktail
The idea that everyone has a soulmate whom they are destined to love for ever is both implausible and cruel.
At Motherwell Station, there is a reception committee awaiting me - or is it some sort of posse, with me in the Butch Cassidy role? One . . . two . . . three . . . no fewer than six ticket collectors bar my way. Golly!
Reaching out to other human beings ought to be the easiest thing. Why do I find it so difficult?
Camilla Long on a week of sleeping with the Tories, relief for Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the meaning o
So, there I am, strolling towards Marble Arch Station from the north, passing the swanky Indian restaurant on Old Quebec Street and thinking that, thanks to some extra work I've got lately, I might be able to pay off a couple
In the 1980s, Silicon Valley was populated by lefties and hippies who dreamed of a computer revoluti
Every year since 1974, when I was 11, my father has bought me a copy of Wisden Cricketers' Almanack for my birthday.
I have always liked Pozzo's speech in Waiting for Godot when he says that the tears of the world are a constant quantity, and that for each person who begins to weep, another one stops.
"Ark!" We have a new resident at the Hovel: a fledgling seagull, who presumably fell out of the nest on the roof.
Here's a dinner for two with 1970s sophistication but modern-day products and prices: to start, a couple of prawn cocktails at £2.09 each; to follow, a brace of 8oz fillet steaks weighing in at £12.47.
Winehouse was never interested in the normal rules of female celebrity.
People are starving to death in eastern Africa - lots of them, and horribly. I awoke this morning to hear on the radio a report from a BBC man who had interviewed some of those streaming towards a UN-run camp.
I was meeting up with someone I worked with, ooh, getting on for 20 years ago and whom I hadn't seen for pushing 15. I was coming from Manchester; she from Soho, London.
Nathan Myhrvold was Stephen Hawking's researcher and Bill Gates's right-hand man at Microsoft. Now, he aims to reinvent the cookbook.
Birds Eye sold £7.5m worth of its Traditional Chicken Dinners last accounting year - and as these meals are made in the Republic of Ireland with imported chicken breast, "homestyle" gravy, potatoes and garden vegetables, I can
Tennis is not what it was. Now it's all about branding and the annual disappointment of Andy Murray. (Oh, Murray.
Evgeny Lebedev, son of a billionaire, owns newspapers, restaurants and a mansion near London. He bel
“Keeping a pig is great but Monster Munch are nice as well”
Another week has flown by and it's Sunday again. Not just any Sunday, though: Father's Day.
How British social history is written through our cookbooks.
Let's get to the point. Are there any lesbian bloggers out there who aren't straight, middle-aged, American men?
Sex is not the problem. Sexism is. Arbitrary moral divisions are being renewed between "innocent" women and "sluts".
A Sunday afternoon, and I am listening to Ligeti and wondering whether it was entirely wise of me to have invited the editor of this magazine for dinner.
My birthday. I have now reached the age Goebbels was when he died, although my achievements are fewer. And, thankfully, not in the same line. Still.