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.
She doesn’t look like a sea worker; she looks like a primary school teacher, or the proprietor of a slightly over-chintzy tea shop in Worthing.
Nigel Farage is to walk from Sunderland to London in protest at something. I can’t remember what, but he is truly inspirational.
Having read up on it, I can tell you that silage is actually alcoholic.
How have they survived record-breaking low temperatures?
“I can’t sell you any whisky.” “But I’ve just seen a trolley full of the stuff.” “That,” she says, “is for the first-class passengers.”
Thank you, I said, for insisting on having children, I was worried that I would be a terrible father. “You were!!!” she replied, “but they love you so that’s all good.”
I should point out that doing the laundry here is no joke. In fact, everything is no joke here. Using the bathroom especially.
When you get into the noisy coach, though, your expectations are different. You resign yourself to pandemonium.
Could such nectar be? I had asked myself. Until then my life in beer had been the wasteland of fizzy, bland keg stuff.
Hands up those of you who live halfway up Scotland and don’t have central heating? Well, that’s sorted the men from the boys.