On my way out of Red Fort, in Dean Street, I bump into a young woman wearing an elaborate shawl who tells me enthusiastically that she has recently had the good fortune to be appointed deputy media controller for a new public relations firm called Jam.
I see that Boots is going to create some stores that are devoted to men's cosmetics.
The journey I have been commissioned to make by Channel 4 throughout England (with a detour to the Outer Hebrides) is finally over.
I had my head half inside the freezer compartment and was meticulously dividing the number of ice-cubes in the tray by six, when Sally grabbed me round the shoulders and, with a breathy urgency that threatened to defrost the Ben and Jerry's Vanilla Fudge, told me to forget the after-dinner whisk
One of the ducks that wanders around just outside our front door had nine ducklings a few months ago. Everyone loves ducklings. Little bundles of golden yellow and dark brown fluff and emitting not a horrible, loud quack but a little peeping sound.
On every newspaper that I have worked on those in charge have been worried about fucking. The word, you understand, not the activity. At the Independent, Andrew Marr was always saying that there was far too much fucking, shitting and pissing going on in the paper and it had to stop.
My own feeling was that the stifling weather and the rather modest status of the speaker would keep the numbers down, so it was heartening to walk into the upstairs function room at the Marquis of Cornwallis last Monday and discover more than a dozen people already assembled for the first meetin
Is there something about becoming middle-aged that makes you - me, that is - cry more? I don't mean that I break down in the street or when people shout at me down the phone. That's one of the great benefits of being a freelance writer, sitting alone at home.
Following the election of Tony Blair, British liberalism's leading journalists were, it is fair to say, beside themselves.
It is difficult to keep up with the rapid degeneration of Caribbean society into the most appalling violence. I wrote here some time ago of a friend and colleague. Tim Hector is his name.
It's one thing to persuade your boss that he can walk on water, another to convince the voters, as Alastair Campbell found out when he took Tony Blair to the Eddisbury by-election. The great helmsman was very cross to find himself mobbed by shouting, fox-hunting Tory demonstrators.
I was sitting quietly at my desk three months ago, wondering whether to finish a longish article on English identity in Prospect or get back to spring-cleaning the grill pan, when the editor of the Library Gazette rang to ask how I'd feel about writing for the September edition
He is Norman Mailer's white negro: hip, materialist and a guru to poor youngsters. Tim Westwood prof
A strange and unnerving phenomenon is occurring all around us, something that no soothsayer ever predicted. It is eclipse snobbery.
Drifting, mid-morning, through the hurly-burly of Brixton recently, I was disturbed by high-pitched voices spouting rhetoric about guns. The statue of Henry Tate, the sugar baron of the Caribbean plantation, dominated the space outside the Ritzy cinema, where a meeting was taking place.
The cabinet musical chairs game has plainly got out of hand. At the last count, five ministers had declared they would not be moved.
Helen Mandible rings up in the middle of Question Time to give me the exciting news that her first novel has been accepted by Heinemann and to ask if I mind terribly that she's devoted part of the second chapter to the night I couldn't get it up at Selby Fork Travel Lodge.
There was much to look forward to last weekend. An old friend - Kate Gifford, ex-wife of the radical lawyer Lord Gifford - was 60 and she was celebrating at the Brockwell Park Lido in Brixton.
The Kennedys may be a monarchy but they are wholly American in style. By Cristina Odone
Chiantishire may be the new Labour idyll of choice. But it has protection rackets, tax avoidance and
Drugs and vases. For these two things, I have seriously considered abandoning a lifelong principle. I have actually considered private health insurance because, having been in hospital for the past week, you get neither enough drugs nor enough vases.
I have, at long last, been invited to speak at a literary festival. The organisers have asked me not to name the precise venue lest I pre-empt the public launch, in September.
The guns are blazing, for sure. Here in Brixton on a hot summer's day, a young man on a motorcycle attempted to execute another who was sharing a basketball court with two dozen black youths. He was the latest victim. Just around the corner another boy was murdered two weeks ago.
There is a principle of evolution that Richard Dawkins explains using a comparison with climbing a mountain. Once you have chosen a ridge heading towards the summit, you are stuck with it.
Huddersfield is not a place to mess with, even if it wasn't the birthplace of J B Priestley.
You can do amazing things from beyond the grave. Look at Nostradamus, posthumously making our skin crawl with his apocalyptic forecasts. Or Stanley Kubrick, dead and buried, but still making our flesh tingle in anticipation of the opening of his film, Eyes Wide Shut.
She can report from a war zone or the lobby. But punditry is for the guys, and letting her edit is a
Once, many years ago, Werner Herzog heard that the German film critic Lotte Eisner was gravely ill. By his account, he decided that the best contribution he could make to her state of health would be to go and see her instantly. But that wasn't enough.
Drive down an American highway and, at five-mile intervals, your view will be blotted out by Mount Rushmore-sized billboards featuring a four-eyed geek posing in a scarlet velvet suit.
On 17 June, the Guardian published a letter by Ben Bradshaw MP, a new Labour bomber. "In one radio discussion I did with [Pilger]," he wrote, "he even suggested the refugees were inventing stories of massacres." He demanded my apology.