Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.
One does not, for example, read a thoughtful column about Brexit only to stumble across the words, three-quarters of the way through, “And on top of this all, I’m not even Getting Any.”
Between football, Westminster and Brexit, there seems to be little good news at the moment. And now it looks like Linda is hanging up her apron.
A drink with her reduces me to a nine-year-old boy recounting his cricketing triumphs.
Lord, has the political sky been foul lately.
It is shut. I can see this from some way off. The familiar lights are dark, the outside tables no longer there. I press my nose against the window.
Where would I not go for £300? I struggle to think.
I’ve got to say something before the train doors open. But what?
I start the new season with red wine stains on my cap, a dodgy shoulder and a burnt nostril.
Normally when I hear an editor’s approach in public my instinct is to hide. Weirdly, though, this one seems to be complimenting me.
The small, red marks come from sitting at pub tables outside – and they herald the start of a joyous season.
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