Are you going to talk about football all night?
‘Are you going to talk about football all night?’
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Wednesday
At last some airdropped aid
You can’t blame everything on climate change
‘No Dylan, you can’t blame everything on climate change.’
Internet isn’t down
‘It’s OK, the internet isn’t down – the government have just banned it.’
I see you call yourself a “great white”…
‘I see you call yourself a “great white”…’
What large hand luggage you have Grandma
Squeeze you in
‘I can squeeze you in but you’ll have to be out by eight.’
But Geoff’s lived experience says the facts are wrong
‘But Geoff’s lived experience says the facts are wrong.’
Look up
RIP Tom Lehrer
Make teenage summer jobs compulsory
I’m of an age where a summer’s evening often means a few gin and tonics on my balcony along with cheese, olives and an Etta James soundtrack. But it wasn’t that long ago that the slow descent of the amber orb meant trekking into Chester city centre to catch a minibus that would take me to a shampoo factory on the outskirts of Flint. There, from 9 p.m. until 7 a.m., my job was to screw the tops on to bottles of shampoo and conditioner to a soundtrack of scatological invective from my workmates, broken only by a 2 a.m. canteen break for cigarettes and a semi-melted KitKat. I endured
I’m writing a novel without using AI – and I can prove it
Everyone’s seen stories about the creep of AI into art of all kinds. Recently the people behind the music-fabrication website Suno have been making outrageous statements to the effect that people don’t enjoy learning musical instruments and writing their own songs, so why not let AI do it for them? This is very new, very disturbing and very consequential. I could talk about graphic art and video and film-making, but you’ll know what’s been going on there. I’ll just cut to the chase and get to how AI tools are impacting and will continue to impact the writing of fiction. I anticipate a future in which human authorship will need to be proven. A
The other side of Yemen
In the western imagination, Yemen exists as a byword for terrorism and death. Its appearances in international headlines are flattened into a trilogy of suffering: Houthis, hunger, hopelessness. The civil war has dragged on for over a decade, leaving much of the nation in ruins. Life is punishing for the millions who navigate daily existence amid chronic instability. The Houthis – entrenched in the capital, Sana’a – continue to tighten their grip on power in the northwest. Their attacks on Red Sea shipping have drawn international reprisals and fuelled regional tensions. The Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Office still advises British nationals against travelling to the country. Yemen is not therefore
Tuesday
The competitive cult of the summer camp
‘Before you ask, Mummy, the answer is no.’ While this could be any number of conversations that I have with my seven-year-old daughter, this one has a particular tang. It is the thrice-annual bargaining round that I do in the run-up to any school holiday in which I try to get her to go to a kids’ camp. An executive at Goldman Sachs in equity sales does not work as hard as I do to seal the deal – but I fail every time. For a brief, prelapsarian period when she was five and more biddable, I had some success. I managed to get her into all manner of summer holiday camps in Oxfordshire: activity camp, Shakespeare camp, tennis camp, even God camp. You name it, I signed
Could you stomach being a food awards judge?
Rummage through any middle-class pantry or browse the shelves of an artisanal deli and you’ll spot a constellation of stars. One star denotes ‘simply delicious’. Two suggests ‘outstanding’. Three? ‘Exquisite.’ The stars are handed out by the Great Taste Awards, run by the Guild of Fine Food, which was founded by Bob Farrand in 1992. This year’s 14,340 hopefuls will hear how they fared today, with judging having closed earlier this month after 110 days of tasting across seven locations. Only 787 products currently hold the top rating. Belazu’s rose harissa paste, at about £5 a jar, is available from any good supermarket, and was awarded three stars in 2019
The subversive genius of Tom Lehrer
The greatest living American until this week has died at the age of 97. I refer to Tom Lehrer, the finest satirist of the 20th century. He’s the one who observed that satire became obsolete when Henry Kissinger was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. He was the genius who put the entire periodic table of the elements to the tune of ‘I Am the Very Model of A Modern Major-General’ (Gilbert and Sullivan was his childhood obsession). He was a mathematician who could be as funny about maths and science as about poisoning pigeons in the park (yes he did) or contemporary pieties (‘National Brotherhood Week’). If you haven’t yet
Monday
The ballad of broken Britain
In my corner of Bristol, alongside drug dealers, shoplifters and street drinkers, we now have our very own pyromaniac. They started small – an abandoned office chair, a clothing bank and an old telephone box – before moving on to bigger things. Half a dozen cars have been torched over the past few months, including two on my road, and, most recently, a derelict pub. The other Saturday, hearing a commotion outside, my wife jumped out of bed and flung open the curtains. The scene that greeted us was apocalyptic. In daylight, on a narrow suburban street, the arsonist had set fire to three motorbikes parked in a row, which
What I learned from running my own Squid Game
You know how this story goes. The cameras are rolling. The audience is cruel. You’re trapped in the game and the game is death and the game is going out live from the heart of the state of nature where empathy is weakness and you kill each other off until there’s only one left. What will you do to survive? Who will you become if you do? This is the plot of Squid Game, Netflix’s Korean mega-hit that just drew to its gory conclusion. It is also the plot of The Hunger Games, Battle Royale, The Running Man, Chain-Gang All-Stars and The Long Walk. We have spent several decades watching desperate people slaughter each other for survival to entertain
My Kafkaesque clash with TfL
When is a journey not a journey? The answer to this pseudo-Zen riddle, at least according to Sadiq Khan’s Transport for London, is: when the journey is one that the passenger intends to make but is unable to complete. Have I lost you? Allow me to explain. Recently I experienced yet again one of the regular service failures that haunt the London Underground generally, and its dire Circle line in particular. This saw me forced to abort my train journey at Notting Hill Gate to make the final leg of my intended trip to High Street Kensington on foot. Admittedly this can be a quite pleasant stroll, passing, as it does,
Sunday
The remote Spanish wine region that rivals Rioja
A.E. Housman once wrote that the English villages of Clunton and Clunbury, Clungunford and Clun ‘are the quietest places under the sun’. He’s almost right. I grew up in Clunton and the only place I’ve felt a deeper sense of quiet is Escaladei, a village high up in the mountainous Priorat region of Spain, which is home to the Cellers de Scala Dei vineyard. Getting there from Barcelona isn’t for the faint of heart, as the roads weave erratically along the hillsides. Driving there, I gripped the steering wheel tightly and drowned out my fears with music from a local reggaeton station. Once safely at the vineyard, Roger, our guide,
