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.
You can’t have a Wonderpass with a big lake of piss in the middle of it and half the lights not working.
You do not see men my age serving people any more - unless it is in the haberdashery department of John Lewis.
Ask not for whom the sinkhole gapes: it gapes for thee.
The fridge has become, literally, unhinged. What now?
The mirror is still there, though, into which I would, as Nigel Molesworth put it, gaze at my strange unatural (sic) beauty, and ask what purpose it served.
The Girl has outmanoeuvred me yet again, but then again I told my children that my main job as a father was to make sure that they turned out smarter than me.
How to stop young people smoking – put a bloody great curtain in front of the fags!
One imagines that the abilities of 47,000-plus employees sitting around on beanbags and drinking really good coffee could have been put to better use.
Thoughts on the Bachelor Condition: #2 in an occasional series. (Or number 300-odd, if we assume this whole column is an ongoing meditation.)
“I hate it,” I said. “I hate it more than I can say.”
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