Telling Tales, by Suzanne Moore.
As I sat in the cavernous and entirely empty dining room, delicately abstracting flesh-flakes from my perfectly poached cod, my only desire was that I could stay longer. Much longer.
Suzanne Moore’s weekly column, Telling Tales.
Ed Smith’s Left Field column.
Will Self: On Location.
In front of me was the most lurid tableau I’d ever seen: a vast glass case housing myriad individual little scenes from fairy tales, each one illustrated by posed figurines and ditsy bits of model-making.
William Cook was on his way to buy a ticket for “El Gordo” in a small town in Tenerife but changed his mind at the last minute. It’s a decision he’s lived to regret.
Usually my mother didn’t mind me filling my metaphorical trouser bottoms with earthy words, but in Florence she’d seen vermilion and struck out, ensuring that for me, for ever, the city would be associated with violence.
It’s taken me years to face up to the fact that, as Neil Finn so eloquently put it, everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you. Your own emotional weather.
It's easier than ever to experience surge pricing.
“Boris beasts”, anyone?
When David Stuart MacLean woke up in India with amnesia he assumed he was an addict who had overdosed. In fact, the only chemical he’d been taking was the prescribed antimalarial drug Lariam.
Smoke draped a decent veil across interior vulgarities, while softening our loved ones’ hateful features. Designated smoking areas are an abomination.
In the early part of the last decade Manchester became the hot spot for Ageing Labour’s take on urban regeneration.
If only you could still sit next to the pilot.
A picturesque anomaly near the airport, ever waiting to be submerged by the tarmac of runway three.
The Newsnight presenter hotfoots it to Euston from the BBC and unwinds with a glass of Scotch and some political gossip.
Look beyond your nana to the mysteries of sherry.
How much is the Bombardier-Crossrail contract worth?
This is the place to which the Beloved is committed.
In all civilised cultures there are patterns of social conformity that act to align the wayward individual with her conformist fellows as invisibly but irresistibly as magnetic waves arrange iron filings around a lodestone. In Los Angeles, not to drive is
It may surprise regular readers of this column, who have read me over the years animadverting on the follies of all aspects of the vehicular, to learn that I am a chronic speedhead
Caroline Crampton was stuck on a train to Edinburgh, forced to deal with the worst.
Nothing makes you question the nature of your inner life more than eight hours alone on a glorified bus with seatbelts, writes Holly Baxter.
Yo Zushi on Soho's New Evaristo Club, known to its regulars as Trisha's or the Hideout.
Alan White drifts through the British canal network. Barring some unpleasantness at a lock, it is a bucolic week.
Nicholas Lezard's "Down and Out" column.
Cyclists make 570,000 journeys each day in London – and every one of them could be their last.
Elizabeth Yentumi on nightlife in Argentina, which differs from the UK on more than just the time.
The author of a trilogy of studies on Italy, Tim Parks always keeps his ear to the ground, looking for the telltale nuance, the occluded revelation of national character.