In this week's diary, Julie Burchill explains why she's returning to the shul – and her secret to good health.
Desire makes us feel fully alive, when even love can’t reach those unsafe spaces that make life worth living.
Imagine my disappointment when I discovered that we were the only souls in attendance at Brighton’s most depressing crematorium.
"Nutcracker", he said, looking back over his shoulder and winking at me.
Reading Abramović's memoir is rather like watching EastEnders: I didn’t learn anything about performance art reading, but I can't deny I had fun.
I was pretending to be a punk, a lesbian and a Jew, but at least I could be true to myself in this way. “I don’t kiss, I’m a Stalinist,” I’d often say.
People can be sniffy about jukebox musicals but in my opinion they are infinitely preferable to overblown and pretentious middlebrow stuff.
In a world in which chav-baiting is the norm, Nigel Blackwell nails the grotesqueness of the caring, sharing BoBos: the bohemian bourgeoisie.
Twenty years ago, Labour won a landslide on a tide of optimism. Where did it all go wrong?
Find out in this week’s New Statesman. Subscribe now from just £1 an issue.