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.
Poor old Tommy-baby. His entire oeuvre, when you stop to consider it, seems like an illustration of Dostoevsky’s dictum: “The more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular.”
When it to comes to putting stuff in your mouth, only the spoon will do.
Our licence fees pay – in part – for two hours of lackadaisical nostalgia and lazy nature-gawping.
I’m not agin’ marathon-running, but I do slightly wonder what it’s all about.
I know the concept of this column is that I eat the sort of stuff that we all eat and comment on it, but there are limits.
I’d had to remain on the “sun deck” because the dog wasn’t allowed in any of the cabins, and if we leave him alone in the car he hotwires it and attempts to drive away.
“One rerun – it was one rerun of Friends! You can’t prove I’m thinking about it all the time!”
The bistro chip, with its author or workmanlike authenticity, casts a spell of happy, socialist reverie - and autosarcophagy ensues.
The first toilet I got to was of the robotic variety, and the automatic door was broken – confirming all my unease – but the second was of the traditional type, so I shuffled happily inside.
At the Heart of Darkness is an unthinking trust in institutions. How else do you explain the Portsmouth Sinfonia?
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