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.
The ThinkPads operating in space have it easy compared to the ones I have owned.
Sometimes the artistic soul blossoms only in solitude.
People don’t half ask some silly questions when they think you’re staff.
You might lose your job, the company that owns the place in which you live decides it wants to make more money out of it, and then circumstance does the rest.
You can’t relax with a dog, the way you can relax with a cat.
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.”