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Friday

Linden Kemkaran

The joy of rescuing battery hens

They came straight off the back of a lorry and were placed carefully – top to tail – in three cat carriers, two hens in each. Broken feathers stuck from the air vents, bright, suspicious, amber eyes peered out. We drove them home, listening out for any squawks of distress, but they were silent. Bemused, exhausted, probably wearily resigned to whatever fate awaited them next. These former battery hens, who’d spent the entirety of their short lives living in metal cages no bigger than a sheet of A4, should have been on their way to slaughter These former battery hens, who’d spent the entirety of their short lives living in

Natasha Feroze

I’m glad my parents track me

Minor royal and former rugby player Mike Tindall was criticised this week when his daughter was spotted wearing an Apple AirTag, a £35 digital disc that can be tracked from a phone. This was apparently an invasion of his 10-year-old’s privacy (nevermind the fact the photo that revealed his daughter’s accessory was taken by a press photographer).  I have over 15 people on Find My Friends, including my parents I really don’t see what the fuss is about. Plenty of people happily sign up to allow their friends and family to track them in real time. There is Snapchat Maps, WhatsApp location, Life360, Google Family Link and GeoZilla  – the

Wednesday

Philip Womack

In praise of anachronisms

Do you know what an anachronism is? They’re very clear in cultural terms: Shakespeare’s clocks in Julius Caesar, for example. But in historical terms, it’s a different matter. When His Majesty King Charles III was crowned, the online scoffers were quick to mobilise themselves. One enthusiastic Jacobin tweeted that the enthroned, orbed and sceptred sovereign was ‘insane’, an ‘anachronism’. Out the scoffers troop, reliably, at every State Opening of Parliament. (And quite right too: mockery is a vital part of a successful polity). ‘How Ruritanian!’ they sneer (not quite grasping that the Ruritanians were copying us. And also, er, fictional.) The jeerers usually finish by wondering why we can’t be

Jane Robins

In defence of true crime

I recently listened to a 13-part podcast called Who Killed Emma?. It’s a gripping piece of work – a BBC investigation into the murder of 27-year-old Emma Caldwell in April 2005. Emma was a heroin addict and a prostitute on the streets of Glasgow. She was strangled and left for dead in a remote wood. Is it so terrible to be interested in these killers and their deeds? I don’t think so I’d recommend the podcast to any fan of true crime. And I’d also expect the scorn of those who deplore this highly successful genre. People who are inclined to say things like: ‘How can you be so voyeuristic?

Melanie Ferbreach

Why I adopted a retired guide dog

While ambling along a quiet beach with my husband near our home, our attention was caught by a water skier in the distance. As we stood watching him zip at high speed across the bay, we were interrupted by a gentle nuzzling at our legs. My husband and I were being greeted by a youngish black Labrador who then stood stock still, gazing up at us. Although we recognise many dogs in our area, we hadn’t seen this fine-looking companion before. Given his keenness to make our acquaintance, we said hello and patted him, trying to discern his message, before a woman arrived and apologised. No need, we said. The

Tuesday

Caroline Gold

My battle with Alexa

My first brush with Artificial Intelligence was the Furby – that hideous speaking Gonk with eyes that blinked. You could hear the cogs turning. It felt basic, even for the 2000s. My techie ex got it for me as a birthday present. Like babies, this infant technology responded to clapping. It was weird and dull. Having exhausted its repertoire, I discarded it beside the sofa. One night, weeks later, we were sitting together and heard the whirr of its eyes opening, and it just said, the once, clearly in its strange little voice, ‘Boring’. We laughed. That was as good as it got. Alexa is not sexy like my old

Nigel Jones

Nobel winners are strange. I should know, I’ve met three of them

To meet one winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature would be seen by most bookish nerds like me as a real privilege; to meet two as extraordinarily lucky; but to enjoy extended encounters with three is surely very heaven. Such, however, has been my fortunate fate. The Nobel Prize for Literature is the world’s most prestigious – and, as it comes with a hefty cash bonus, the second most lucrative – award for fine writing. Inaugurated at the dawn of the 20th century by the Swedish industrialist and inventor of dynamite, Alfred Nobel (to atone for a lifetime manufacturing munitions) the prize is one of five awarded annually every

John Sturgis

I’m glad my wife had a medical emergency at sea

My wife had already been given morphine and they had just topped her up with ketamine. She was now so high she didn’t seem even to know where she was. And this was probably a good thing, given she was strapped to a stretcher on the rear deck of a ferry in the Bay of Biscay, 100 miles off the French coast, and about to be hoisted some 75 feet into the night sky to a helicopter that was struggling in an increasingly stiff wind. I asked her what the flight had been like. She said she had been so out of it she thought she was appearing in a

Friday

Penworthy

A tip for my favourite flat handicap of the season

My favourite flat handicap of the season is the Club Godolphin Cesarewitch at Newmarket on 12 October. I have a good betting record in the race but this year the ante-post market is complicated by the fact that the brilliant Irish trainer Willie Mullins has entered no less than ten horses in the race. As always, the Irish runners, particularly those from the Mullins yard, are likely to have a big say in the outcome of this marathon contest which is run over two miles and two furlongs, and which therefore attracts lots of dual-purpose horses with decent hurdling form. The main problem is that Mullins keeps his cards close