I'd lay odds that it was two-thirds of the way through the book and halfway down the left-hand page, but I'm still unable to turn up the paragraph in Martin Amis's superb Experience in which he talks about "writers" being people who are always hoping that everyone else will very shortly
What is the explanation for Alastair Campbell's persistent bad temper? As best I understand these things, he is engaged in a vicious battle with Peter Mandelson, the undisgraced Northern Ireland Secretary, for influence over the PM.
Deborah Bosley's New Statesman article a couple of weeks ago, about the horrors of living in the country, certainly touched a nerve. People have been queuing up ever since to scream: "Me too, I'm also being driven into alcoholism by the tediousness of rural England."
I thought it was outrageous. So did Roger and Helen. Sarah was an excellent researcher, but now came the news that her short-term contract would not be renewed. Something had to be done. Roger and Helen looked at me. Yes, I was happy to stand up and be counted.
My wife and I - I always have difficulty with that phrase. It makes me feel as if I should be cutting a ribbon or making a speech. "My partner and I" isn't much better. It manages to be coy, evasive and ambiguous, all at the same time.
A few days ago, the London Evening Standard introduced us to Lord Harris of Haringey, named by Mayor Livingstone as chairman of the Police Committee. His article urged us to welcome democracy in the organisation of the Metropolitan Police.
Former taxi driver and anarchist, the German foreign minister now has his own bold vision of a new E
The scene is Darlington station. The time is Friday morning. There are lots of policemen and dogs (none of them for petting) about, plus a number of government limousines.
Whatever happened to long illnesses?
There must be doctors all over the country contemplating the recent scandals involving cancer-test errors, incompetent gynaecologists and deluded surgeons, and asking themselves: "Could I be next?" It must be like one of those mornings when you wake up with your head pounding, your tongue dry an
They crossed continents, perhaps heard from their bunkers the prattle of different languages. They were signed, sealed and delivered dead.
The great American reporter Seymour Hersh is at war with the American military over his j'accuse in the New Yorker that a much-lauded general, now a member of President Clinton's cabinet, ordered his troops to fire on retreating Iraqis on the eve of the Gulf war ceasefire in 19
The curse of Tony is getting a bit serious. He is blighting the political futures of Downing Street apparatchiks, who fondly imagined that working at the court of the Sun King would be a passport to Westminster.
The backbone of the nation, they are formidably hard to fool and, above all, they hate to be talked
Charlotte has let us down. For more than ten years, she and "Mickey Boy" have been the very model of a modern marriage.
MPs are trooping into Downing Street two by two for a pep talk from the Prime Minister. He must be rattled. Backbenchers certainly are. The latest opinion polls have put the fear of Blair up them.
There was once a psychiatric patient at the Royal Free Hospital in north London who suffered from an obsessive disorder. This manifested itself as a compulsion to count the windows in the Royal Free Hospital.
I spent one Saturday last March sitting on a quad bike with my arms wrapped around a farmer called Frank. This was Gloucestershire at the end of the hunting season, and we - neither of us keen on horseback riding - were bumping along, up and down hills, following the Beaufort hunt.
Bernadette Gray-Little, an African-American psychology professor at the University of North Carolina, has concluded that low-income black teenagers, far from suffering a self-esteem problem, actually have higher self-esteem than their white counterparts.
Nobody is safe. Millbank's vultures are circling over the oldies in vote-fat seats ahead of the election, picking off the vulnerable with the promise of a peerage. The latest target, I hear, is Giles Radice, the plummy-voiced Wykehamist MP for Durham North. He may not be so easy to shift.
From tradesmen to trustafarians in four generations: a nose for business has turned into anxiety for
You know the scene. You're sitting with a few friends at midnight, after having drunk six times the amount of alcohol recommended by the Health Education Authority as a safe weekly intake, when an argument breaks out.
Last year, Anwar Ibrahim, the former deputy prime minister of Malaysia, was given a six-year prison sentence for corruption. He was also charged with sodomy, punishable by up to 20 years' imprisonment.
From all the TV previews and special supplements in the newspapers, I see that it's going to be a Big Summer of Sport. And of Pop Festivals. How nice. I'll deal with the pop festivals first.
Elitism, various government ministers have been telling us, is the albatross around our collective neck. It is preventing bright young people at state schools from fulfilling their potential, and bright young working-class kids from starting their own businesses.
Many many years ago, I used to swim regularly in the public baths on a council estate in Islington. One lunchtime, I noticed a well-built man in baggy swimming trunks diving into the pool and freestyling his way down the lane.
While away in the Caribbean, I turned my back on all communication with home. So I am unable to give you my opinions on the London mayoral elections and what they signified for blacks and Asians.
An interesting little cover-up has emerged in the wake of Ken Livingstone's defection to the After-Dinner Speaking Party. In the contest for Labour nominee for the London Mayor, candidates were allowed to spend a maximum of £1 per member.
I'm going to have to do something pretty drastic about my circulating. It's not long since I suffered from the problem of being unable to detach myself from other party guests.