Uncategorized

Yesterday

Teresa Mull

Taylor Swift is the tortured voice of millennials

I gave Taylor Swift’s new album, The Tortured Poets Department (which I need to stop calling The Dead Poets Society) a cursory listen on Friday morning, a few hours after it was released. Maybe it was because I listened to half of the self-indulgent songs while walking my dog through a moody forest before I’d had any human contact that day, but for an hour and five minutes (I haven’t made it through the extended Anthology yet, which adds 15 extra songs), I was entranced. Tortured Poets poignantly captures the collective one-third-life crisis we millennials are experiencing together. What Swift doesn’t acknowledge though, is what we all really need: it isn’t more romance, but religion. Taylor Swift

Tanith Carey

Confessions of a competitive dog owner

Defeat stares me in the face every time I walk down my north London street. Decorating the knocker of a house a few doors along is a blue rosette announcing it’s home to the winners of the street dog show. Whenever I go past with my cockapoo Honey, she is nonchalant, barely bothering to stop for a sniff of the doorstep. I, on the other hand, am still seething – because until that sunny day almost two years ago, Honey had been undefeated. She was a champion, if not at Crufts, at least on the local dog show circuit where she has racked up certificates, rosettes and vast supplies of

Melanie Ferbreach

Writing a will isn’t easy

It’s generally considered sensible for adults of sound mind to make a will. Many don’t bother. It’s a nuisance. They’ve scribbled their straightforward wishes in a letter at home. They think they’re too young. They’ve told a confidant their final wishes. Or they believe they have nothing to leave, or make assumptions about who’ll automatically inherit their estate, rendering a will unnecessary. It’s not easy to convince a court to deviate from someone’s written last wishes The topic of making a will is sometimes taboo. But given humans’ mortality, even those with modest means and no family would be wise to write a will, if only to take control of

Tuesday

Leyla Sanai

I was the NME’s squarest journalist

Before I went to medical school I had a hip alternative life. In the 1980s, as a 17 year-old schoolgirl, I wrote for the New Musical Express. My friends assume I had a great time with sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, but the truth is I was such a cautious Carla that I didn’t touch the former two at all, and I scurried off home to be in bed immediately after each gig I reviewed. Each time they gave me a rolled up bank note and left me to snort in private, I blew Part of the reason was because I had strict parents. My dad was a benevolent

Melanie McDonagh Melanie McDonagh

The young are missing out on a proper breakfast

More proof, if it were needed, of the gastronomic generation gap. It seems one in ten young persons has never had a full English/Irish/whatever cooked breakfast and one in five only has it once a year. They are, of course, missing out on one of the pleasures of life. The cooked breakfast and afternoon tea are, with pudding, the great contribution of these islands to food. As to what constitutes a good breakfast, I refer you to what I consider the perfect cookery book: The Cookery Year, published by the Reader’s Digest in the 1970s. There, Theodora Fitzgibbon, a wonderful Irish food writer, briskly summarises it thus: Porridge or cornflakes

Alexander Pelling-Bruce Alexander Pelling-Bruce

What happened to the London bus?

To understand Sadiq Khan’s tenure as Mayor of London, you need only ride one of his buses. Eight years of repeating that he is the ‘proud son of a bus driver’ have not yielded a single improvement to the experience of travelling by the famous red bus. In fact, many things are worse.  she suggested I couldn’t have lived in London for very long and then burst into tears Tap your card and find your way to one of few seats unsullied by chicken bones, unfinished soft drinks and disposed of vapes. Sit down and endure the tinny sounds your fellow passengers deem acceptable to broadcast from their handheld portals

Monday

Robin Ashenden

A love letter to the Fiat 500

On visits to the continent as a child, what struck me was the strangeness of other European countries. Going to France or Italy, pre-internet, you cut off your connections to the outside world, and even got the British news a day or two late. People ate horse meat, tortellini in brodo or croque monsieurs, and the kids drank Orangina and watered down wine. The smell of black tobacco smoke – dignified and with a kind of ancient wisdom to it – seemed to permeate every public building. But what you also noticed was the cars – Renault 4s on the Riviera, Citroen DS-23s in Paris, and in Italy, overwhelmingly, the

Mark Solomons

What Beatles critics don’t get

Not everyone likes The Beatles. That said, trashing cultural icons is a modern phenomenon amplified by social media and done, largely, to attract attention. Yet whether you hate them or love them (yeah, yeah, yeah), their influence on pretty much everything pop music has offered since is, surely, undeniable. Sixty years ago they left an indelible imprint on both music and film that continues to this day. In April 1964, John Lennon and Paul McCartney sat down in a hotel room and wrote a song to accompany the title of the band’s first (and best) feature film, ‘A Hard Day’s Night’. The song itself is typical of their early output. A sugary