The Brixton where I once sought hash and Red Stripe has gone missing
I hadn’t been to Brixton in decades. Railton Road, the front line of street dealing in our day, is now a desert of affluence.
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Nicholas Lezard
Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.
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My footwear choices are a protest against encroaching old age
The mother of my children pointed to my shoes and said, “This is what mutton dressed as lamb looks…
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With little left to be proud of in this country, at least we still have county cricket
A cricket ground bathed in sunlight is a wonderful sight; I would have been happy with any result.
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I understand the concept of paying bills promptly but I still struggle with them
I don’t know what the moral here is. I mean, the moral of this column is constant: “Don’t be…
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Asparagus is the sexiest of vegetables, so I can’t bear to eat it alone
This year there is no one to see a little rivulet of butter running down the chin, to be…
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My new glasses darken in the sunlight and put my money worries in the shade
My mother’s nine millionth birthday celebration is at an intimidatingly expensive steak restaurant, but I’m playing it cool.
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The Great Doormat Heist diverts me from my impending flat inspection
The place is not a shambles but it doesn’t look that different from the time it was deemed unacceptable.
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I lack most things in life, but have somehow acquired a third Swiss Army Knife
Of all the things the universe could have chosen to materialise on my bedside table, something I already have…
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I make sure I never run out of phone charge, so why do I run out of money?
I wonder if I became less reckless in my financial affairs I might stop dreaming about flying to Brazil…
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