Things can only get better…
‘Things can only get better…’
‘Things can only get better…’
‘If it wasn’t for Ozempic, I’d still be a fat cat.’
‘My political instincts are telling me this is a good time to launch a digital ID system.’
‘Fail him if he eats it.’
‘The uncontrolled numbers coming in does concern me.’
It smells, very badly. And even after decades of complaints, it seems Parisians still consider themselves too chic to pick up after their dogs. Taxis are a nightmare. The traffic makes central London seem like a village in Ireland. Uber drivers park as far away as possible from the designated pick-up point, fail to answer messages or calls, then charge a fortune in waiting time. The expense is phenomenal. For three coffees, one mint tea and a croissant that had the texture of a carpet slipper, I was charged more than £30. And don’t get me started on the coffee: if Paris is the home of café culture, shouldn’t it
The long-awaited sequel to the documentary (or ‘rockumentary’) Spinal Tap, which told the story of a failing British rock band’s disastrous American tour, opened this month to decidedly mixed reviews. Robbie Collin in the Daily Telegraph advised us to dial down our expectations to -11 (ho ho) for The End Continues, which sees the band reform for a final, contractually obliged concert in Las Vegas. Collin mused that for many aficionados the first half at least would put them in mind of a description of one of Tap’s early albums, Shark Sandwich, which ran to just two words: ‘shit sandwich’. Mark Kermode seemed pained at the comparison with the original
I used to think I wasn’t attractive enough to drive a Ferrari. I still think that, but you reach an age, like Lester Burnham in American Beauty, when you don’t care any more, and in that despair you can pull off anything. I am now exactly that age: the same age as the man driving the nervous-breakdown orange Lamborghini on the prom in Penzance. When I see him, I have to stop myself screaming the betrayed wife’s words to her adulterous husband in Moonstruck: ‘Cosmo, I just want you to know, no matter what you do, you’re gonna die. Just like everybody else.’ (‘Thank you, Rose.’ ‘You’re welcome.’) After swanking
For a long time it was handy dinner party fact that Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part One (2010) briefly filmed at my late grandparents’ house, and appeared as Hermione Granger’s house in the film. Even this required extensive exposure of my grandparents to Warner Brothers’ lawyers, the film crew and, of course, to young Emma Watson herself. Neither of my grandparents had heard of Harry Potter before they were approached, and throughout filming, they failed entirely to notice her, though there was some vague recollection of ‘that rather mousy girl’ from my grandpa, who was far more taken with Susan, the 60-something woman in charge of props. This
Goodness, isn’t there something a bit hoary about the notion that members of the Metropolitan Police may have to declare if they’re Freemasons? The idea has come up recently in the context of discussion on ‘declarable associations’ – those organisations you’re obliged to admit to belonging to if you’re a London copper. A spokesman for the Mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, who is in charge of the Met, has previously ruled out a compulsory register of Freemasonry in the force, but a spokesman for the mayor said improving standards in the Met ‘involves looking at organisations, including the Freemasons, and consulting to see if membership of these groups could call
Recently I’ve been bombarded with emails from people who apparently are keen to promote or market one or other of my children’s books. A few appear to have actually read a book of mine and to know the name of the characters, others clearly haven’t. What they all have in common is that the book in question was published some years ago. A favourite seems to be The Very Snowy Christmas, a picture book published in 2020. Carmen would like to make sure it’s ‘cherished, shared and remembered in the conversation of parents, educators and readers’. It’s ‘about legacy’, she says. Sarah seeks to connect my book to ‘curated reading
The name can’t help but invite mockery. When Sainsbury’s launched its ‘Taste the Difference’ range 25 years ago this autumn, I wasn’t alone in noting that the phrase almost begged for a question mark at the end. But the British public are (mostly) more concerned with dinner than with sarcasm. The Taste the Difference range now extends to more than 1,200 products, from Pugliese Burrata with Sunsoaked (sic) Tomatoes and Bacon Wrapped Halloumi Sticks with Hot Honey Drizzle to Anya Potatoes and Nocellara Del Belice Olives. I admit to having eaten most of the above products, despite being a keen ‘cook from scratch’ sort who loves to ramble around Electric
It’s relatively common, I find, when opening a newly purchased second-hand book for the first time, for something to fall from its pages. Most likely this will be a branded bookmark or printed stocklisting paper from the dealer who sold it. But it’s not unusual to find something more interesting, something belonging to the book’s previous owner. Apparently the singer Nick Cave donated 2,000 books to an Oxfam in Hove this summer, and new owners of his paperbacks discovered old plane tickets and Post-it notes tucked inside. We serial readers of actual physical books are constantly in need of bookmarks and will grab at anything to hand to use as
The thing that really fascinates me about solitude is the need to talk about it. The contradiction seems lost on people. ‘I must tell you about the silent retreat I’ve just been on.’ ‘It was so nice to just sit with my thoughts for a bit.’ Solitude is the new wild swimming: if you don’t talk about it, did it even happen? And I fear this habit is about to get a whole lot more irritating because the benefits of solitude – all fairly predictable – are increasingly being ‘studied’ and presented in quasi-scientific jargon. ‘It creates spiritual sustenance,’ writes entrepreneur and author Ari Weinzweig. ‘We need to recognise its benefits and see
I’m driving a dirt road in the wilds of central Sardinia. And I mean what I say by ‘wilds’. This rugged region in the sunburned Supramonte mountains was called ‘Barbagia’ by Cicero – i.e. ‘land of the barbarians’ – as even the Romans never quite managed to subdue it. Centuries later it became famous for bandits, kidnaps, local mafias – and casu marzu, the infamous ‘Sardinian maggot cheese’. I turn to my resourceful local guide, driver and interpreter, Viola, as she negotiates the olive groves and goat tracks. ‘Do you really think we will find casu marzu?’ My voice is slightly falsetto with tension. Viola turns: ‘I hope so, there
Early in 2020, inquiries for our speech-writing services were arriving in their droves. From Westminster to Washington, weddings to wine tastings, people needed our help. We cancelled our weekends and prepared for life without a mortgage. Covid gave us our weekends back. And all the other days. Yet when parties and events returned, a significant chunk of our clients did not. It was weird. But this wasn’t a vaccine complication, just a new player in the market. Previously we’d only had to win business against other humans. Suddenly, we were faced with a competitor able to provide speeches for any occasion in seconds. ChatGPT was doing to us what PornHub
Trainer Jack Channon knows what it takes to win Newmarket’s bet365 Cambridgeshire (tomorrow, 3.40 p.m.) having been assistant to his father, Mick, when the stable won the race three years ago with Majestic. Majestic, now seven and still in the yard that Channon took over from his dad at the start of last year, was 25-1 when he landed the race in 2022 and this is a race that throws up plenty of shocks. Two of the last five winners of the race returned odds of 40-1, one at 25-1 (Majestic) and another at 20-1. Those statistics suggest that, although the two horses at the top of the market, Treble
‘Prizes are for little boys,’ said Charles Ives, the American composer, ‘and I’m a grown-up.’ It’s a pretty sound rule of thumb. The prizes worth having are usually those which reflect a body of work, not a single achievement. Cary Grant, the greatest leading man in the history of cinema, never won an Academy Award. Neither did Alfred Hitchcock, who made a few half-decent films. They received ‘lifetime awards’ from the red-faced academicians, but those gestures merely endorsed William Goldman’s view that, in Hollywood, nobody knows anything. As Billy Wilder told the producer who asked what he had been up to: ‘You first.’ Nobody takes much notice of the Grammys,