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Midwit machines are destroying thinking

First, a confession. Sometimes I go on a super-geeky site for dedicated weather watchers. It’s probably because I am quite manic depressive – and British – and definitely because I adore warmth and despise dank. That means I can be tipped into doom by anti-cyclonic gloom or lifted into ecstasy by a decent heatwave. Whatever the precise cause, this mild obsession has made me a long-term member of that weather forum, where we natter about polar vortices and the ‘Beast from the East’ like meteorological trainspotters. Over the years I’ve got to know the other forum members pretty well, despite never having met them; we banter and bicker and sometimes

The moral case for alcohol

Another day, another warning about the perils of alcohol from a body that should know better. The World Health Organisation, which just a few years ago was prescribing solitary confinement as the cure for our ills, has recently announced the preferred level we should be drinking every day: zero, zip, nada – not a drop. Last week a Professor Nutt – nominative determinism in action if ever I saw it – was a little more generous. He suggested we would be safe with ‘one glass a year’. He was joined last weekend by a dreary columnist in the Financial Times, who said he took up drinking at 30 but wishes

What could be better than an English county show?

A smartly dressed, bowler-hatted man and a lady in a fascinator – both of whom would hardly look out of place at Royal Ascot – stride into the pigsty with clipboards, while a white-coated man (looking a little too much like a butcher) seeks the views of a small crowd of adults and children on the qualities of four physically impressive swine. This is the delightful eccentricity of the English county show – part agricultural competition, part funfair, part entertainment, part craft fair, part trade show, part society occasion, and part food and drink extravaganza – that provides an unrivalled insight into the complexity of modern Britain’s rural economy and

The shoplifters are winning

It was when I saw an entire crate of orange juice exit my local supermarket that I knew something had died. The Artful Dodger school of shoplifting has officially been boarded up, its artisan poachers and pilferers as redundant to the modern world of thieving as swag bags, eye masks and soft sole shoes.  There’s no longer any attempt at discretion or skill when it comes to shoplifting in my nearest Co-op in south London. The thieves don’t enter in trench coats and furtively peruse the aisles. They stroll in, take as much as they can carry and walk out again, knowing that the worst punishment they face is being

Are you tough enough for the school run?

Nothing in life prepares you for the school run. In theory, on paper, it ought to be idyllic. What could be better than feeding a nutritious breakfast to your nine- and five-year-old, before scrubbing their cherubic upturned faces and combing down their buoyant hair, and then helping them get dressed and out to the car for the short drive to school, whereupon they can skip through the gates happily to education-land? Instead, it’s a Thursday morning – by which point the week has taken its toll – and you find yourself shouting ‘GET YOUR SHOES ON’ for the 30th time at the sort of level that would be a serious

Lara King

Inside London’s transport time warp

The illustration shows a smiling couple on a yacht, the wind ruffling their hair and the coastline receding into the distance behind them. Above it are the words: ‘Work out of London – get more out of life.’ Something from the post-Covid work-from-home era, perhaps, or Boris Johnson’s 2019 ‘levelling up’ election campaign? No – this is the work of ‘The Location of Offices Bureau’, set up by the Tory government in 1963 and abolished by Margaret Thatcher. The advert appears on the wall of a decommissioned Tube carriage that’s one of many frozen in time in a warehouse in west London. In the latest issue of The Spectator, Richard

Welcome to the golden age of conspiracy theories

There’s never been a better time to be a conspiracy theorist: government funded plans to dim the sun; a pop star embarking on a questionable space flight; supermarkets stripped bare after Spain and Portugal were plunged into a catastrophic blackout; Robot policemen on the streets of China; the US admitting to the existence of UFOs.  Like a lot of people my age, my gateway drug to the murky world of cover-ups was The X Files. For an hour each week, my young mind was exposed to alien abductions, secret societies, cannibal cults and paranormal phenomena. And my interest in the other worldly – and the people who wholeheartedly believe that

Who will stand up for swingers?

Is there any intrinsic problem with sex parties? Of course not. At least, not for those of us who believe in the liberal tenet of living and letting live. This tenet has been put to the test by recent events at Belair House, a Georgian pile in subdued Dulwich. Hired last month by the company Heaven Circle, which puts on ‘naughty events’, including ‘online parties’ (you can join with face blurred or wearing a mask), the event at Belair was very much offline, with 2,000 condoms provided, a naked fire show, plus ‘500 candles, 500 roses, two DJs, THE BIG BED, three playrooms, five performers, one shibari artist, one Domme,

Bets for France and Haydock

Jockey Kieran Shoemark and trainer Charlie Fellowes are two talented men who deserve a change of fortune. Shoemark lost his job as first jockey to John and Thady Gosden after being blamed for Field of Gold’s narrow defeat in the Betfred 2000 Guineas at Newmarket four weeks ago. Shoemark then rode Fellowes’ filly Shes Perfect to victory in the French 1000 Guineas at Longchamp, only for the three-year-old filly to be demoted from first to second for interference. To add insult to injury, the decision was appealed and despite evidence from both men that they had been hard done by, they failed to get the result overturned. On Sunday, Fellowes

Child stars and the curse of Harry Potter

A spell has been cast. Three children – Dominic McLaughlin, Alastair Stout and Arabella Stanton – have magically gone from obscurity to global fame, after HBO announced that they will be playing Harry, Ron and Hermione in the new Harry Potter series. HBO released a photograph of the trio, kneeling in the grass looking earnest, expectant, enthusiastic – and very, very, young. My first thought? Good luck to them, they’re going to need it. The fact that HBO felt the need to immediately disable the comments underneath its Instagram post shows the scale of pre-emptive scrutiny the project is under. The series itself is a huge risk, and with many wondering how

Flying has lost its charm

As someone who flies a lot for work, many of my moments of high blood pressure or ‘Is this really what I want in life?’ introspection take place in airports or on aeroplanes. I cannot – to put it gently – relate to the moronic practitioners of the ‘airport theory’, which involves turning up deliberately late for flights to get an adrenaline rush, and/or to make a sorry living off social media views. No, I’m there in good time, so it shouldn’t be a particularly stressful experience. And yet I’ve come to rather despise flying. It wasn’t always this way. Admittedly my relationship with flying got off to a slightly