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Wednesday

G.V. Chappell

Confessions of a student radical

Recently, I was on my way to buy the Saturday papers when my ears pricked up. In the distance, I could hear the unmistakable sound of a protest: whistles, slogans, klaxons. I strained to make out what people were shouting, but, given the grim images recently beamed from Gaza, odds were, it was about the Israel-Hamas conflict. What had promised to be a typical day in suburbia was about to get more interesting. I imagined the ranks of police retreating under a barrage of missiles. The keffiyeh-wearing protesters surging forward, battering the coppers with their homemade placards. As the din grew louder, I wondered if I’d make it to the

Jimmy Nicholls

It’s last orders for craft beer

The best pint you’ll ever have is whatever you can find at 5 p.m. on a Friday. But close behind, and available wherever there’s a willing bartender, is whatever your local brewery has a fresh keg of. That, at least, is what I’ll tell anyone who can’t make a speedy exit. I am a craft beer bore. Dismissed as an early cause of the male midlife crisis, craft breweries have revolutionised beers. Where once you were trapped between mass-produced European lager and lukewarm old man ale, British craft beer has proved more flavourful than anything that came before it – and only occasionally in a bad way. You can imagine

Chloë Ferrari

The double agony of GCSE results day – with twins

Back in July 2009, at my baby shower, someone kindly gave me a little book on the benefits of having twins. Apart from the swollen ankles and the enormous bump I was carrying, I already felt pretty blessed that, at 35, I was only going to have to do the whole pregnancy thing once. I like efficiency and this route to procreation was right up my street – not to mention the fact that I only had to give up cigarettes, Brie de Meaux, gin and chardonnay for a single period of nine months. But I hoped there would be some other benefits as I was starting to realise that,

Tuesday

Julie Burchill Julie Burchill

I can’t help liking Bonnie Blue

Bonnie Blue is an It Girl. But she’s not an It Girl in the way we used to recognise them. Bonnie Blue is an It Girl because she’s written about as a thing, not a person. She’s an object, everything that’s bad about women, sex, modern life. She’s not really considered to be a human being, with hopes and fears and desires; her pronoun is It. But I can’t help liking her. I’m not lying, and I’m not trying to be controversial; I’m just really keen on honesty, and so few people are really honest, even – especially – when they identify as honest. My own trade, journalism, is rife

James Innes-Smith

The myth of the relaxing beach holiday

Picture the scene: you’re on a sun-drenched tropical island surrounded by azure waters and dazzling white sand. A lone palm tree casts shadows across your lover’s bronzed skin as you sip an ice-cold Campari Spritz. It’s a scene pictured a million times a day on Instagram feeds and the biggest holiday cliché of them all. But does the reality of an exotic island paradise live up to the fantasy peddled by popular TV shows such as White Lotus? T.S. Eliot wrote that ‘humankind cannot bear very much reality’. I would argue that humankind cannot bear very much fantasy either. Yes, turquoise oceans, sugar-white sand and tropical flora are all pleasing

Philip Womack

Goodbye to the letters of introduction

Re-reading Agatha Christie’s A Murder is Announced this week (it’s the summer holidays! I can relax like anyone else!), I was struck by one of Miss Marple’s wise pronouncements: And that’s really the particular way the world has changed since the war. Take this place, Chipping Cleghorn, for instance. It’s very much like St Mary Mead where I live. Fifteen years ago one knew who everybody was. The Bantrys in the big house – and the Hartnells and the Price Ridleys and the Weatherbys… They were people whose fathers and mothers and grandfathers and grandmothers, or whose aunts and uncles, had lived there before them. If somebody new came to

Monday

Sean Thomas

Why are the young turning to God?

There are opinion polls that are so striking they change history. Many Britons will remember the YouGov poll in September 2014. It was the first poll in the Scottish independence referendum campaign to show the Yes side ahead by 51 per cent to 49. That poll shocked SW1, panicked the Cameron government, and led to ‘The Vow’ – the last-minute promise of further devolution if Scotland stayed in the UK. And lo, ‘No’ scraped home, and Britain staggered on. Then there are polls that go beyond striking into ‘whoah, can that possibly be true?’ territory. Polls so unexpected they feel world-changing. The same company, YouGov, has produced just such a

Mark Solomons

Wayne Rooney is a disaster on Match of the Day

Match of the Day is back and, for the first time in a quarter of a century, without Gary Lineker. That’s the good news. Saturday night’s anchorman, Mark Chapman, is so much better than his smug, virtue-signalling predecessor. Perhaps it’s because he’s a professional broadcaster rather than an ex-player. This means he asks questions that fans want to hear answers to, rather than sharing some anecdote about when he was playing the game. However, not even this could save MotD’s return from being car crash TV. No matter how good Chapman is as a host, there remains a problem: Wayne Rooney. Now carrying even more timber than he did in

Druin Burch

Jeremy Clarkson changed my life

As a good left-wing lad raised by Guardian-reading parents who didn’t drive, I knew Jeremy Clarkson was tasteless and unpleasant. In my first year as a junior doctor, my surgical ward had one of his articles pinned to the office wall. It was off-putting to see his shabby name and a piece from a tabloid, but one day I read it all the same. As I recall, he’d had some minor scrape and written a column mocking the paramedics who showed up to help. He didn’t want two tinkerers who weren’t medically trained, he sneered. No, he wanted Michael Schumacher to drive him to hospital and a supermodel, sitting scantily