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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.
Like many public figures these days, Burchill’s schtick is to say what she claims is unsayable, and get paid handsomely for doing so.
Watching Ridley Scott’s The Martian, I feel a sudden affinity with Matt Damon eating his umpteenth meal of the same old same old.
I am beginning to have those puzzling aches which make me feel my time is drawing rather nearer and swifter than I would like. And then I notice my hand has turned blue...
After me only two people have ever been inside my home, largely because it is rarely in a fit state to be seen.
A nasty story from the Prime Minister's university days has reminded me that it is a fallacy to expect progress in those younger than you.
I feel we all are in our own versions of Waiting for Godot. Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful.
This accusation is a problem that the observational, humorous or lifestyle columnist is going to have to run into from time to time...
In normal circumstances I would have never taken up my binoculars to peer at my neighbour, but, quite frankly, I needed the excitement.
Funny name for the Met Office to choose, no? It seems a bit… European. I’d have thought Brexit would have sorted that kind of nonsense out.
Ah, the irony! That I should be immolated by a bag advertising the very magazine that employs me!