Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.
Public relations flacks should understand this much: any old Prince Harry can take a well-organised trip into the wilderness, but the true contemporary adventurer strikes out for the known.
The idea we might be the repositories of buried traumatic memories is integral to psychoanalysis – so the SRA panic had a ready-made audience in people primed to accept notions of repression.
Disraeli ate at Simpson’s; Gladstone, too; and George Bernard Shaw was a regular habitué until his greasy beard wavered too close to the spirit lamp on the carving trolley.
Smoke draped a decent veil across interior vulgarities, while softening our loved ones’ hateful features. Designated smoking areas are an abomination.
If I make any oath of alliegance to honour my mother's nationality, it's to the American pancake, not the president.
What’s most galling about listening to the swinish squealing of our £70K-per-annum senators is how blissfully unaware of their behaviour they seem to be.
In the early part of the last decade Manchester became the hot spot for Ageing Labour’s take on urban regeneration.
Snap, crackle and pop is really this: the snap of our bones on the wheel of fate, the crackle of our skins in the fires of damnation, and the apoptosis that awaits our mortal cells.
A complex repertoire of psychosocial behaviours has been built up over the past two centuries in order for it to be possible.
We are so used to outsourcing our sense of direction to Google that it takes only a flat phone battery to lose ourselves completely.