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.
The dog-bound hordes on the road to Cheshire got me thinking about this thing called love.
This is perfect comfort food for those who’re feeling vertiginous as they contemplate the giddy extent of the ever-inflating London property bubble.
We sought out the high point, and there it was: the panorama we’d been seeking.
Our generation is to blame – we’re the ones who took the avant-garde and turned it into a successful rearguard action by the flying columns of capitalism’s blitzkrieg.
I don’t know how I got this far without sampling the mush that sustains the Southern states.
In front of me was the most lurid tableau I’d ever seen: a vast glass case housing myriad individual little scenes from fairy tales, each one illustrated by posed figurines and ditsy bits of model-making.
Will Self’s Madness of Crowds column.
At Sonic, the shtick is meant to be that the food arrives “at the speed of sound”; and the novelty in the late 1950s was that punters ordered their burgers and via speakers they could drive right up to.
Usually my mother didn’t mind me filling my metaphorical trouser bottoms with earthy words, but in Florence she’d seen vermilion and struck out, ensuring that for me, for ever, the city would be associated with violence.
The Madness of Crowds column.
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