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.
I happened to walk into a shop near Richmond Park and found scores if not hundreds of withered and skinny dicks dangling from the ceiling.
It may be because London’s docks have migrated downriver that the city has so little psychic involvement with its own far-eastern hinterland. . . or not.
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.
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