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“The only fire department on a university is the one that sends emergency vehicles when an alarm sounds.”
Scenes at Keleti station in Budapest conjure up echoes of past brutality towards Hungarian Jews, and the uprising against the Soviets in 1956.
Commons Confidential is back - and it's just in time for the Labour leadership result. . .
“I have never thought that my life could be nearly as interesting as what my imagination could make of another’s life.”
Title yourself “Mx” on your gas bill, because small acts of linguistic rebellion can change the world.
Before we trust Cameron on drone strikes, we should try to establish some facts. These are hard to come by.
Upwards of 30 Labour MPs would be prepared to defy the anti-war Jeremy Corbyn and support military action.
Industrial-scale murder, state collapse and huge displacement on Europe’s borders have destroyed old certainties.
George Osborne’s mission to capture and reshape the centre ground.
Salman Rushdie’s Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights and A Strangeness in My Mind by Orhan Pamuk.
Bill Clegg’s first novel – longlisted for the Man Booker Prize – is a reminder that anything could happen to any of us, at any time.
On Andy Beckett's Promised You a Miracle: UK 80-82, a long view of an often misunderstood decade.
Everything Is Happening by Michael Jacobs and The Rape of Europa by Charles FitzRoy.
The director comes across as both hypersensitive and unnervingly frank in The Blue Touch Paper.
The film shows how Pasolini located spiritual salvation in unremarkable lives.
The Story of the Lost Child is the final instalment in a literary phenomenon. But what does its elusive author really believe?
Mosley was coming over as the most clubbable man in the universe. Not a peep from Jeremy Vine.
The adaptation was – quite a rare feat, this – at once clichéd and anachronistic.
Let it rot, and keep your little microbes happy.
One imagines that the abilities of 47,000-plus employees sitting around on beanbags and drinking really good coffee could have been put to better use.
“. . . genuine golden Tories, one; water-on-land Tories, one; hugging Tories, one. . . "
You do need at least two syllables, preferably three, which is why English supporters shout ING-GER-LAND when they are at WEM-BUR-LEE.
Pictures of Palin were everywhere. Sexily posing with animals she’d killed. Her appeal, people kept telling us, was that she was “normal”.
That song I abandoned back in 1987 because it didn’t sound very good? It still doesn’t sound very good.
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