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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.
Journalists are rarely paid what they're worth, and so my plans to buy a new teapot will have to be put on hold. Meanwhile, Giles Coren's Jaguar I-Pace has been stolen, again.
We’re living in an age where some professional sports lives are freakishly extended – each game becoming an automatic exercise in nostalgia.
When wounded, prepare to face innumerable microaggressions from a callous universe.
At the end of their degrees, my son and his friends are at a loose end, and he's keen for me, an old wreck, to meet them.
As I admire Sean Bean's manly locks, I have to admit that the thought of bowling wrist-spin is making me feel a little faint.
A sprightly step and a fairly steep downhill slope, and what do you get? A fall.
I am still unsure of what brought the relationship to an end, but maybe going out with the New Statesman’s own comedy Heathcliff isn’t much fun.
Even the sound of My Bloody Valentine playing live cannot compete with my alarms.
My team has now won the weekly Covid Arms quiz nine times. No, really: this is important.
I do not like this country, Bereavement. My drinks bill is through the roof and the language is an ugly mixture of howls and snivelling.