This has been an awful week. Friends slid into death's dateless night. Nasher, one of a small group of mates who moved around together over 30 years, had suddenly contracted cancer. He seemed to be on the mend. He had convinced us he was.
Go to the mirror and take a long, hard look at that body of yours. Gone are the days when you thought it was a matter of "the headbone's connected to the neckbone, the neckbone's connected to the shoulderbone . .
The <em>Daily Mail</em> institution whose pen drips venom and strikes terror into the hearts of the
Although the members of our little group are rather good on the populist political implications of the fuel crisis and the pseudo-relationships engendered by Big Brother, we're not so hot when it comes to dealing with the death and terminal illness that overtakes our parents from time t
Sarah and Gordon Brown's party was the social event of the parliamentary recess. The ploterati assembled in what looked like a disused aircraft hangar in Southwark.
Every so often, one of the children will come up to me and say: "OK, now: shut your eyes and open your mouth." Or sometimes they say: "OK, now: shut your eyes and hold your hand out." Yes, a surprise is imminent.
Some weeks ago, Sky News asked me to be part of a panel that would question the new chairman of the Commission for Racial Equality, Gurbux Singh. Other panel members were to be Adam Boulton and Yasmin Alibhai-Brown.
Cherie Blair is finally to get her biographer. The film-maker Linda McDougall has signed up to write the book, which will be serialised in the Express. She has asked the first lady for her co-operation, and a frantic telephone conversation with Downing Street is under way.
I am addicted to reading obituaries. I don't want to sound like a complete and utter bastard, but just once I would like to read one that ends: "During his long final illness, he was self-pitying and cowardly, insatiable in the demands he made on those around him." I know I would be.
I am walking down the street and I pass a woman in a flowery dress, mouth stuck to an Evian water bottle. She bounces along, and some of the water spills down her chin. We stop at a pedestrian crossing and I spot a little saliva trickling out of the side of her mouth.
The ITN reporter in Sierra Leone described the killing by British troops of 25 Africans in their own country as a fine operation, an unqualified success. The rejoicing consumed the British media, which featured a coy appearance by paratroopers who had taken part in the massacre.
It was a typical enough Sunday morning: six of us sitting around in Geoff's backyard, reading our way through a mound of morning papers and trying to outdo each other's moans of exasperation.
Globalisation - Meet Douglas Daft, the non-American revolutionary at the helm of Coca-Cola
It is more than 40 years since Harold Macmillan stood on African soil and proclaimed the wind of change. It was not an act of generosity. Africa had bush-telegraphed revolt in pursuit of independence and of control over those raw materials that were so hotly chased by European imperialists.
Sarah has let us all down. Only a week after we had agreed that she would be a valuable member of our fortnightly dining club, she turned up at our planning meeting in The George and casually announced that she had decided to become a Christian.
Anthony Lane wrote in the New Yorker that the moment he heard that Speed was about a bus with a bomb on board which would go off if it dropped below 50 miles an hour, he gave an anticipatory grin. Some ideas are like that.
And then there was one. With Mo Mowlam announcing that she will step down as an MP at the next election, only Clare Short is left to stand out from the greyness that is the new Labour Cabinet.
What has happened over the Notting Hill Carnival, I think, is that an old script has been discovered in the archives, dusted down and presented as original thought.
For some time now, Stewart Hickman has been gripped by the absurd belief that he bears an uncanny resemblance to Harold Pinter.
He may be a white hat, a black hat, a phreaker or a script kiddie. But is he just a vandal, or is he
Last week, I mentioned that relations between Asians and blacks in Bradford were at a rather low ebb. In fact, it is much worse than that. There is much blood on the carpet. A group of Asians executed a black man: shot him and slung his body in a river, I hear.
After more than a year, the silence of those who wrote and broadcast the propaganda for Nato's "humanitarian war" over Kosovo remains unbroken: they who answered the Prime Minister's call to join "a great moral crusade" against a regime that was "set on a Hitler-style genocide equivalent to the
Dr Tony Sewell has concluded that "black culture", whatever that is, prevents young black men from succeeding in education. The good doctor is employed as a commentator by Choice FM.
After roughly 3,000 hours of intense tuition in such diverse pedagogic settings as a secondary school in Liverpool, evening classes at the City Lit and conversational practice with Martine in the privacy of my own home, I am now more or less able to make myself understood at the cheese counter o
What real influence does the voice of the centre left and Labour's favourite think-tank wield? The I
I don't know how many of you were in therapy ten years ago, but those who were might remember a projective technique called "Who Am I?".
Normally when people come back from holiday in the middle of August and ask if anything interesting has happened while they have been away, if anyone famous has died, it is difficult to think of anything apart from crop circles.
I wrote a few weeks ago that I had been invited to the farewell party for Chief Inspector Dalton ("Mack") McConnie, the resigning police liaison officer for Lambeth - which includes that insurrectionary turf, Brixton.
I'm due to be interviewed for a new post next Thursday.
A new biography of Edmund White, which has just been published, reveals that he works for only one hour a day. Bastard. Graham Greene used to write exactly 300 words every day. When he had reached 300, he just stopped, even if he was in the middle of a sentence.