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 occurred to me that the only possible summation would be a paraphrase of Dr Johnson’s infamous remarks about female preachers, which is to say, I was amazed not so much by the Who playing well, as that they were capable of playing at all.
It’s an all-you-can-eat buffet and soup kitchen combined.
The question of whether being institutionalised helps the mentally ill cannot be engaged with on these terms. Being crowded together with a lot of distressed people is always distressing, no matter how sane you may be.
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.