On board S/Y Bushido It has been three weeks of non-stop peregrinations in Greek waters, a mere bagatelle when compared with the ten-year quest of a certain tempest-tossed figure called Odysseus, which of course makes young Taki a rather dull sailor. No tasting of forbidden fruit, at least not too much, no growing drunk on
I hoped Joe was following me down the cliff path. It was unusual for him to lag behind. Normally he likes to lead the way. Perhaps he’d stopped off to self-medicate at the bank of tall grasses where he sometimes likes to browse and bite off a few individual stems, making judicious choices like a
As I exited the Today programme last week, my phone buzzed, indicating I had just received a text message. Which one of my friends was congratulating me on having just trounced another government minister? According to the LCD screen it was Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall! Hugh is an old Oxford contemporary whom I hadn’t heard from in
Not since Anita Ekberg cavorted in the Trevi fountain for Fellini’s cameras nearly half a century ago has the Eternal City seen a display of sensual aquatic superstardom quite like it. Federica Pellegrini was the undoubted galactica of the World Swimming Championships, bringing the capital, and the country, to a halt when she hit the
Q. I am feeling overwhelmed by the endless stream of sponsorship requests from friends, godchildren and relations, a lot of whom could write a cheque for ten times their target total without batting an eyelid. £15 — the most I could afford given the number of these demands on my overdraft — seems stingy especially
David Cameron innocently said twat on the wireless last week. He pronounced it to rhyme with hat, when it should rhyme with what. He hadn’t realised it was rude. It’s funny which words one can say and which one can’t. Mr Cameron seems to have thought twat was like prat, which seems to be acceptable.
