Welcome to assisted dying
‘Welcome to assisted dying – or to give it its correct title, the NHS.’
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Wednesday
Das booth
Dad’s never been happier
‘Dad’s never been happier than since he found out about doomscrolling.’
He wants a seat at the table
‘He wants a seat at the table.’
It’s quite crowded in here
‘It’s quite crowded in here.’
HS2 bat tunnel
We need a cat lockdown now
I have always marvelled at the attitude of cat owners who point to bloodied arms or dramatic scratches and explain – with docile, almost apologetic acceptance – that Jasper or Bella just got a bit annoyed. It was all the human’s fault for patting them in the first place. Violent animals are a form of domestic abuser and should be treated as such. Why would anyone allow something to attack them – or their children – rather than simply removing the animal from their home? Sure, they are unlikely to maul you to death, unlike the technically banned XL Bullys, but it’s a different story for wildlife. Domestic cats, the
My own personal peasant
It was when the peasant didn’t move for the second hour that I became suspicious. I was in an ultra-expensive hotel in southern Thailand. It was built to resemble a sequence of exquisite villas from some ancient Thai dynasty, arranged around tropical gardens and meadows. I was staying in my very own, beautiful, teak-and-mahogany mini-palace, which came with a grand piano and butler – all the usual things I’d come to expect as a luxury travel correspondent. Yawn. The only thing really unique about this five-star hotel (they tend to blur, eventually) was the fact my own villa, the best of the best, the jewel in the crown, came with
Britain is facing a rubbish crisis
We have a pied-à-terre in Soho, which is convenient when I am in London, even if the street outside our tiny house is sometimes a little raucous at night. The neighbourhood is lively and fun, but my visits come with the difficulty that, in Soho, so far as I can tell, there is nowhere to dispose of your rubbish. I saw recently that Bristol City Council wants to limit collection of its wheelie bins to once a month. In much of Britain, it is already fortnightly. But at least they have wheelie bins. Westminster doesn’t allow wheelie bins in Soho; the pavements are too narrow. I assume this is the
Tuesday
Anxiety is good for you
These are some of the things I worried about this morning. Should I brush my teeth while drawing the curtains, to save time? Should I get out of the bath at 7.40 a.m. or 7.45 a.m. to be fully clothed for the Tesco home delivery between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m.? Should I instantly pick up the coat hanger that fell off the door handle as I left my bedroom or wait till I return this evening? These are mind-staggeringly boring things to think about. They’re even more boring to write down. That is the life of the worrier: a new worry dropping into the brain roughly every five seconds.
Of course my dog sleeps with me
It’s 4 a.m. and my German shorthaired pointer, Percy, is lying on top of me. This isn’t a giant infraction on his part. Percy and I have long shared a bed. We start the early evening as we always do – me reading and he beside me at my invitation, the light on his side of the bed is on too, in case he wants to read as well; something German perhaps, like Thomas Mann. Later, when I decide to go to sleep, I turn out both of our lights and we glide off – his paw often in my hand – into the great unconscious. At some point during
How Star Trek invented DEI
Values. Whenever some poor soul gets cancelled, sacked, scalped etc., there’s almost always a bland, impersonal statement from the institution carrying out the scalping. In third-person corporatese, from the moral high ground, such pronouncements will conclude with the sentence: ‘The comments of Person X do not align with the values of Institution Y.’ Where do these mysterious values originate? From which particular pile of decomposing matter were the spores of these holy secular values spontaneously generated? Frankly, for a lot of this, I blame Star Trek. It seemed so innocent back in the day, this story of the crew of a massive space warship in the 23rd century. (Hilariously, the
Monday
Keep your paws off our cats!
It’s open season on cats. Last month the Scottish Animal Welfare Commission (SAWC) floated the idea of ‘compulsory containment of cats in vulnerable areas’, and added that in some new housing developments felines could be banned altogether. The report prompted a deluge of what I am going to call catphobia, for no other reason than that I’ve always wanted to coin a new word. There is an existing word for fear of cats (ailurophobia) but this isn’t that. What’s emerged since the SAWC report was published has, rather, been more like what I might call, if I were woke, a form of anti-cat racism. But that would be silly, and
Love is blind? The truth about dating with a disability
Dimly lit bars are great first-date venues for most people: the seductive ambience, the candles, the gentle clink of a martini shaker. But they couldn’t be worse for a visually impaired dater such as myself. I was born with ocular albinism and nystagmus, which renders me blind in one eye and severely partially sighted in the other. Yet, stubborn to the end, I have persevered with sepulchral bars for well over a decade now. The results have been mixed. I’ve sat down next to the wrong woman when returning from the bathroom, got lost on the way to the very same bathroom and, on one occasion, spilt an entire Bloody
Confessions of a ‘gazunderer’
‘John’ has a dirty little secret – one so shameful that he has insisted on anonymity in order to tell his story. Last year, while in the process of buying a three-bedroom family house in Whitchurch, Hampshire, the 42-year-old office worker committed an act which, while perfectly legal, could kindly be described as ruthless. ‘We made an offer for the house, a bit below the asking price, and it was accepted,’ explains John. ‘But over the weeks that followed we started to have second thoughts. A few friends and family members were surprised at how much we were paying for the property. ‘It got to the point where I was
In defence of lard
It’s somewhat risky to make the case for lard for a publication whose cookery columnist is the author of a book on butter. But so be it. Because lard has generally been at best overlooked and at worst openly maligned, and that is madness. The cost of cooking oils has rocketed in the past couple of years – sunflower oil has trebled in price, olive oil doubled. Butter is much dearer too. Yet inexplicably no one has suggested lard might step in to save the day. The cheapest pack of butter at Tesco will currently cost you £1.99. A block of lard is 50p. It has long been a slight
Sunday
Lost in Mexico: in the stumbling footsteps of Malcolm Lowry
I had been kicking my heels in a dusty two-star hotel on a dual carriageway in Leon, central Mexico, for days. One afternoon, I spotted a battered old English language hardback in a junk shop window: Under the Volcano by Malcolm Lowry. I had read the book before, half a lifetime ago, in maybe 1985, when I knew nothing about Mexico, failed relationships or alcoholism. Almost 40 years later, with a more than working knowledge of all three, I felt better placed to appreciate Lowry’s 1947 masterpiece. With nothing else to do or read, I bought it. I haggled the shopkeeper down to 100 pesos – about £4. Barely 24 intense hours later
Saturday
What happened to children’s hobbies?
Do kids still have hobbies? Maybe hobbies isn’t quite the right word. What I mean is a passionate interest in something fairly adult, something more than playing with toys. For example, a child might get precociously into theatre or birdwatching or medieval history and have a first taste of adult enthusiasm for something. I was into magic, meaning conjuring tricks. This seemed the most interesting thing about the world, the clear pinnacle of its complicated cultural array. Why wasn’t everyone fascinated by the fact that it was possible to perform acts of seeming wizardry? The magic bug bit me when I was about 11 – who knows why. Maybe it
Friday
Four bets at Ascot and Haydock
Evan Williams has not got as many ‘Saturday horses’ as he once had but he remains a trainer that I like to have on side when he targets some of the bigger handicaps. The form of his stable, with the Cheltenham Festival less than a month away, is good and he had a double at Hereford earlier this week with horses priced at 17-2 and 6-1. I am hoping he might have a winner or two at Ascot tomorrow as well because he brings two of his decent handicappers to the Berkshire course from his base in the Vale of Glamorgan, South Wales. PATRIOTIK, who will be ridden by the
