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Wednesday

Julie Bindel

Rules for my dinner party guests

I love having friends over for dinner, and like to think I’m rather good at hosting. And while I always strive for a relaxed atmosphere and dislike formality, there are a few hard rules that my guests should adhere to if they want a repeat invitation. Let’s start at the beginning. When checking on any foods you don’t eat, I am asking if you are vegetarian or coeliac, or if you have an actual allergy; what I don’t want is a list of your preferences. One person I invited replied telling me all about how, although she quite likes fresh tomatoes, she can’t eat them cooked, adding that she’d rather

Michael Henderson

The pretentiousness of the pop critics

Pop music criticism, said Frank Zappa, was the work of people who can’t write, about people who can’t talk, for people who can’t read. Half a century later and he’s still right. Although pop is essentially a juvenile art form – its clearest strength and most obvious weakness – that doesn’t stop reviewers pumping up performers as though Johann Sebastian Bach had decided to form an all-star band with Beethoven and Brahms. The Three Bs! Sign ’em up! The current pop reviewers for the Times and the Telegraph, Will Hodgkinson and Neil McCormick, clearly think they bear witness to giants. Like Pinky and Perky, these mature teenagers can trill ‘we

Tuesday

Alexander Larman

Farewell to Frederick Forsyth, the master of the thriller

If Frederick Forsyth had not existed, you would have had to invent him. Yet no novelist could have come up with as convivial, swashbuckling and lively a character as the thriller writer, who has died at the age of 86. Many of his millions of admirers thought him almost immortal, and over the course of a half-century career – which began in earnest with the publication of The Day of the Jackal in 1971 and seldom slackened thereafter – Forsyth produced a series of bestsellers that sold tens of millions of copies in dozens of languages. After briefly serving as an RAF pilot, he went to work at Reuters and

Robin Ashenden

Children’s TV was better in the 1970s

One advantage to being born in the 1970s was the sheer abundance of good kids’ TV on offer. This was the golden age between clunky black and white offerings like Muffin the Mule, and the creeping vapidity of later shows like Teletubbies or The Care Bears. It gave us Camberwick Green, The Magic Roundabout, Captain Pugwash, Mister Benn (and the Mister Men), The Clangers, Playaway, Hector’s House, Fingerbobs, Tiswas, The Muppet Show, Ivor the Engine, and Basil Brush – not forgetting the holy trinity of Mary, Mungo and Midge. Did we hit the jackpot, or what? As my daughter, aged 11, prepares to leave her own childhood, I’ve been rewatching

Sean Thomas

How a Luxembourg village divided Europe

I am in the most EU-ish bedroom in the EU. That is to say, I am lying in a refurbished room in the handsome 14th-century Chateau de Schengen, in the little village of Schengen, Luxembourg. From my casements, opened wide onto the sunny Saarland afternoon, I can see the exact stretch of the river Moselle where, on a boat floating between Germany, France and Luxembourg, the Schengen Agreement was signed in 1985. This was the agreement that sealed Free Movement as Europe’s defining ideal – one whose consequences are still unfolding. I’ve been in Luxembourg for a week, on assignment, and this week has given me an insight into why

Monday

Julie Burchill Julie Burchill

There is no dignity in dyeing

Growing up, like a lot of English girls, I was what was known as a ‘dirty blonde’. (An evocative phrase, the Dirty Blondes are now variously a theatre troupe, a pop group and a restaurant.) In the summer, I would put lemon juice on my hair and watch in wonder as it bleached in the sun; I mainly did it to irritate my mother, who found overly blonde hair ‘tarty’. When I grew my impressive rack and shot up to 5ft 8in at 13, what I thought of as ‘The Bothering’ started – grown men attempting quite openly to pick me up, especially when I was wearing my school uniform.

Sarah Fletcher

Are you in #ChronicPain?

The pinned post at the top of the r/ChronicPain subreddit is ‘how to get doctors to take you seriously’. The subreddit has 131,000 subscribers, and is a tricky community for outsiders to understand. People talk in acronyms (chronic lower back pain – CLBP, myalgic encephalomyelitis – ME, acceptance and commitment therapy – ACT) and have their own vocabulary (‘spoonies’ and ‘zebras’). There are flippant memes about muscle relaxants next to horrific stories of medical negligence. People report their condition being so bad that they’ve dropped out of school or are even unable to care for their children. We can imagine the feelings of grief – and, of course, the sheer

Matt McDonald

I’m a Strava addict

If a man runs through a forest but doesn’t post it on Strava, it didn’t happen. I won’t believe it, anyway: the athletic tracker app is my new addiction. The name is borrowed from the Swedish word meaning ‘to strive’. Users document their sporting activities – walking, kayaking, surfing, skiing – and share their adventures with their followers. Founded in 2009 by two Harvard graduates who met on the rowing team, the app has 150 million users. That’s small fry compared to Facebook’s three billion or TikTok’s 1.3 billion. But Strava is on the up, acquiring Runna, another fitness app, in mid-April. Strava syncs to your smartwatch, if you have

Sunday

Druin Burch

Respect thine elders

Before the arrival of strawberries, and not long after the coming of the swifts, the elder salutes the coming of summer after its own fashion: emerging from roadsides and hedgerows, gardens and wasteland, and scenting them with its blooms. Almost a century ago, Maud Grieve, in her 1931 Modern Herbal, said ‘that our English summer is not here until the elder is fully in flower, and that it ends when the berries are ripe’. At this time, when thorn blossom – which made our hedgerows look set for a wedding – has faded, the elder, like cow parsley, offers its own floral exuberance. Thrips, the insects which pollinate elders, are

Saturday

Nigel Jones

Walking, not working out, is the best exercise

These days almost everyone you meet is a member of a gym, and instead of attending church every week – as they did in days gone by – they make regular visits to these temples of the body beautiful: the new religion of our times. Yet despite these obligatory bouts of body worship, the general health of the nation – physical and mental – does not appear to be improving. The evidence tells us that obscene levels of obesity are at an all-time high, and everyone has heard stories of those struck down in the prime of life by strokes, coronaries or – most common of all – cancer, the

Friday

Penworthy

Bets for the Derby and Oaks

The unsettled weather forecast coupled with the number of leading horses who are untried at the distance of tomorrow’s Betfred Derby (3.30 p.m.) have increased the chances of a surprise result. The form of Ruling Court is rock solid but his victory in the Betfred 2000 Guineas at Newmarket came on good ground and over a trip of just a mile. Tomorrow’s contest over Epsom’s twists and turns will be over a mile and a half and it will be on much softer going than at racing’s headquarters more than a month ago. Ruling Court’s style of running and his breeding give every indication that he will stay 10 furlongs

Michael Henderson

The bitter end of bitter

‘Another pint of bitter, love, when you’re ready.’ To those of a certain age the request slips off the tongue like the opening line of a sonnet. A pint of bitter is as English as the first cuckoo of spring or the last rose of summer. It brings to mind a pub, the people in it, and that social phenomenon which binds us to those we trust – the round. And, of course, one pint may lead to another. Television adverts used to be full of jolly pint-swillers. Whitbread ‘Big Head’ Trophy Bitter was ‘the pint that thinks it’s a qua-art’. Tetley of Leeds, a big player in those days,

Mark Palmer

The awkward genius of Cole Palmer

My nephew Cole is either highly intelligent with a wicked but not easily discernible sense of humour – or he’s ridiculously thick. He’s not really my nephew, but I can’t help wishing he was. I always refer to him as a member of the family because he’s arguably the most interesting sportsman in the world right now – and one of the most naturally gifted footballers this country has ever produced. Cole Palmer is 23 and comes from Wythenshawe, Manchester. He’s mixed race in that his paternal grandfather, Sterry Cole, came from the Caribbean island of St Kitts and Nevis and emigrated to Britain in 1960 as part of the

Thursday

Steerpike Steerpike

Zia Yusuf hits back over ‘burka ban’

There’s trouble in paradise, it seems. Perhaps the most eye-catching moment at yesterday’s PMQs came when Sarah Pochin, Reform’s newest MP, stood up to grill Keir Starmer for the first time. The moment was heavily trailed by deputy leader Richard Tice, who promised it would be ‘interesting’ in a video on X. Pochin duly rose and asked Keir Starmer the following:  Given the Prime Minister’s desire to strengthen strategic alignment with our European neighbours, will he – in the interests of public safety – follow the lead of France, Denmark, Belgium and others, and ban the burqa? So, who exactly is speaking for the party on this? Lee Anderson, sat

Wednesday