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.
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.
At first I couldn’t believe my ears, but then said “of course”.
My gratitude to my hosts-cum-landlords knows no bounds.
It’s perhaps not an ideal routine, and one that may owe something to mild depression.
The life has gone from it. I imagine this must be what looking at the corpse of a lover is like
“Would you mind if I put you on hold, please? I need to talk to someone about this.” I get this a lot.
I wasn’t pro-independence when there was a referendum on it, but now I’m here I begin to see the attraction, especially as England seems to have gone mad.
I tried this thing for the hell of it, even though I do not have a problem in that particular area, and one of its more remarkable side-effects was an increased flow of blood to the brain.
The last time she came, she took one look at the place and demanded to know where the Hoover was kept.