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.
It is rather corvid, the ring-neck’s cry – suggestive of an intelligence more knowing than we expect from most birds.
I wouldn’t claim to have an exhaustive familiarity with Bowie’s oeuvre, but then I don’t need to.
It’s oft remarked that Britain is the most CCTV surveilled country in the world but I wonder if we may be the most repulsive one as well. Why else all the pigeon barbs?
Come with me to my magical memory island. On second thoughts . . . just leave me alone
Chi-pôte-lay isn’t only frequently mispronounced. It’s also continuously misconceived.
I stand outside La Belle Équipe on the corner of the rue Faidherbe and the rue de Charonne staring down at the great tattered mess of handmade cards, poesies, rotting bouquets wrapped in cellophane.
My wife had booked us all in to a showing of the latest Bond film at the IMAX Cinema at the Trafford Centre. “Why the Trafford Centre?” I taxed her. She looked at me as if I were a complete ass, but refused to enlighten me.
Kulturkampf wing of the class cleansing directed by Gauleiter Osborne et al they may be, but there's something compelling about the bearded cereal poltroons.
I would argue that Spectre, despite all its aerial gymnastics, also has a subtext dug deeply into the built environment.
There should be some way of apprehending the wondrousness of even our most banal transports. The alternative is everyday murderousness.
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