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A few years ago, James Delingpole and I were two-fifths of ‘The Manalysts’ a clique of agony uncles employed by a women’s magazine. The idea was to provide five answers to each problem from five disparate standpoints. James was the trenchant intellectual, I was (supposedly) the metrosexual adman and the other three were a practising psychotherapist, a blokey builder from Essex and a gloriously camp hairdresser. The great fallacy about untidy people is that we’re always losing things A fair few of our correspondents were, unsurprisingly, complaining about a boyfriend or husband’s untidiness but I remember being struck by how many wrote in to bemoan the very opposite – the

Hotel restaurants have come a long way since they were dingy add-ons geared towards a captive audience, once the preserve of holidaymakers too lazy to leave the lobby. London is in the midst of a literal feeding frenzy of swish new hotel restaurant openings. The whole ‘dining experience’ – what is dining if not an experience? – has become a way for hard-pressed hoteliers keen to make a bit of extra cash. My dream has always been to live in a grand London hotel with every whim catered for. The dowdy old Dorchester, once a second home to reprobates such as Burton and Taylor, always held a particular appeal, even

It all proved too much for Mrs Ray. We were in St Kitts and Nevis for a week-long Caribbean break and on the flight over I’d wondered aloud how early each day it would be acceptable to start on the rum. I soon got my answer.  Having misguidedly checked in to the St Kitts Marriott Resort – a vast, half-empty hangar of a place complete with plump, elderly Americans whirring by on mobility scooters; an over-priced restaurant serving only that which was deep-fried; and a deserted poolside bar peddling watery rum punches and a casino that smelt of damp and despair – our spirits were further flattened by finding that

As I gazed upon the first circle of hell, otherwise known as Stansted Airport, I felt as though I was witnessing a microcosm of everything that has gone wrong with our hapless nation. Thousands of desperate flyers were left stranded across the UK earlier this week after what appeared to be another air traffic control cock up. The utter confusion seemed to reflect the growing ineptitude inherent in so many of our institutions, where despite huge leaps in technology, nothing works, no one is accountable and no one cares. As the delicate tendrils of civil society withered around me, the thing I found most unnerving was the reaction of my

If called upon to declare the seven greatest cocktails of all time – a Magnificent Seven, as it were – what would be your line-up? The struggle is less in naming seven than in sticking to so few. The ubiquitous gin and tonic must be on the list, of course, along with the Old Fashioned. And surely the Bloody Mary deserves a place… but can the Bellini be left out? And is it legitimate to include not one but two brunch cocktails, when we haven’t even mentioned the mighty Ms – martinis, mojitos, margaritas and Manhattans? We’re already past seven, and what about the whisky sour, the Negroni and the Long

This month’s dose of trivia and anecdote sees a Yorkshireman insulting an England cricketer, the young Beyoncé training her voice in an unusual way, and Keith Floyd taking revenge on a table of diners who’d made one of his waitresses cry… All three female Prime Ministers of the UK have had the same initials, albeit one of them with the order reversed ANSWER: The first of Elizabeth II’s prime ministers to be younger than her was John Major. Margaret Thatcher was six months older than her.