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Join the Royal British Legion!

One of the things I really regret is that I didn’t spend more time down the British Legion with my dad. I was a bit snooty about it, I suppose. All those ex-squaddies talking about the army and playing darts and having a pint or two.I was an indie-kid, heading to university to read English. I preferred Camden to Greenford. But now I’d choose the Legion any day. And if more us don’t then you might see your local club closing as a result of the cheap pints at a local Wetherspoons. I realise now that the old British Legion clubs and the Legion itself is of such importance that

Julie Burchill

Why British women are so unhappy

I must admit to being somewhat taken aback on reading – in a new survey by the Hologic Global Women’s Health Index, whatever that is when it’s at home – that we women of Blighty are sadder and more ‘stressed’ than our sisters on the European mainland. Odd because I’ve always found us a cheerful bunch; after all, we were churning out the Carry On films, graced with Babs Windsor’s lusty chuckle, while French, Italian and Scandinavian film actresses were all looking like they’d lost a fiver and found a euro. Being jolly has for some time been seen to be the mark of a peasant But apparently, of the

AI is coming for artists

It’s a famous theme in science fiction: the idea that, one day, humanity and the thinking machines will somehow go to war. It’s the narrative spine of The Terminator films. It’s implied in 2001, A Space Odyssey. You can find it in Neuromancer, The Hyperian Cantos, Ex Machina, The Creator and I, Robot (the Asimov stories and subsequent film). In one of the fundamental texts of sci-fi, Frank Herbert’s Dune, this apocalyptic conflict is given a name: the ‘Butlerian Jihad’. Personally, I’ve always dismissed the concept of Butlerian Jihad as fanciful, even as I accept that Artificial General Intelligence – machines as smart as the best of us – is

There is nothing common about the northern lights

It was 10.45pm and our film had just finished. I checked my phone and saw a friend claiming he had just seen the northern lights — in Wembley. It had been trailed as a possibility, but I hadn’t given it much credence. Not with the light pollution inside the M25, surely. You’d need to head up to the Chilterns at least, and even then be incredibly lucky.   But I dashed to the back garden anyway. The night sky certainly had an unusual clarity, almost shimmering, and you could clearly make out the whole of the moon behind the shining crescent. But no colours. My Wembley pal must have mistaken the glow

Four bets at Chester and Ascot

There is so much to like about Chester’s three-day May meeting ending today: a unique course with an atmosphere to match, quality racehorses, highly-competitive contests every day and much more besides. If you have never been to the Cheshire track situated on the outskirts of this cathedral city on the River Dee, put it on your to-do list now because it will not disappoint. I have already put up one tip for today’s big race: the Chester Cup (3.40 p.m.). Zoffee, suggested at 16-1 a week ago, is less than half that price now and, in theory, he should benefit from his number one draw.  However, he tends to be

Women will be disappointed by the Garrick Club

Perhaps it was the anachronistic use of the term ‘gentlemen’ that finally put paid to the idea of the gentlemen’s club. If only these illustrious institutions had thought to rename themselves ‘cis-male inner-city safe spaces’, we probably wouldn’t be looking on aghast as another centuries old tradition is summarily flushed down the memory hole. Strange that it’s taken the perpetually peeved a couple of hundred years to twig that gentlemen’s clubs were exclusively designed for… oh never mind, it’s a tough one to fathom I know, especially for all those highly educated Garrick club members who have just voted 60/40 in favour of admitting women, thereby abolishing one of the

My mother’s peculiar approach to death

Back in February, a friend forwarded me a profound and joyous article written by Simon Boas about his terminal cancer diagnosis. (I knew Simon a little at university, where he was both much cleverer and much cooler than me). Originally published in the Jersey Evening Post, it’s since been reproduced here, and seems to have, as they say, gone viral. In the age of mindless clickbait, where cute animal memes and chest-feeding men dominate the internet, it’s reassuring that something so beautiful, which mines the fundamentals of human existence, still resonates. And does it with such humour and grace and intelligence and warmth that while Simon is devoid of bitterness, it’s

Gus Carter

The paradox of a novelty doughnut

There are moments when you realise the world is a more complicated place than you had previously thought. I had such moment earlier this week when I saw a new doughnut at a concession stand in Hammersmith station: a Krispy Kreme x Pretty Little Thing doughnut. Sure, you could probably get one in a town the size of Padstow. But invent it? The only possible connection between the two companies I can think of is that their lines of business often invite the same prefix: fast food and fast fashion. Beyond that, I’m at a loss. And yet there the doughnut sat, a pink ring with swirly purple bumps and