What with the frenzied finales of Six Nations rugby, Cheltenham’s four days’ hooley, and my own ruddy all-day asthma, I had to miss John Jackson’s 70th birthday banquet in the Gay Hussar. I suppose in the old days the Manchester Guardian and the old Daily Mirror were some sort of soulmates, and certainly JJ and
Final curtain for rugby’s 2005 Six Nations tournament: Grand Slams, Triple Crowns, Wooden Spoons. Before England and France presumed shared control of the old competition a decade or so ago, a clean-sweep Grand Slam season by one nation was such a rarity as to be scarcely a consideration. Sure, the glistening Welsh team of the
Dear Mary… Q. May I humbly correct the advice you gave about the life-long friend who has developed an ‘unfortunate strain of body odour’? She is suffering from trimethylaminuria, a rare metabolic defect which causes a fish-like smell due to abnormal breakdown of choline. Simple blood and urine tests are available to confirm the diagnosis,
For me there was never a comedian to match Ireland’s Dave Allen, perched on his stool fastidiously flicking imaginary cigarette ash off his suit, drawing out a story with a sip of whisky and flaying with the laughter he provoked all those who set themselves in authority over us, from mothers superior to prime ministers.
To tell the truth, I am not a mad racing man, nor has betting much bothered me. Down the years I was dispatched often enough by the Guardian (then drearily prudish about racing) to keep an eye on the classics (as well as, I fancy, on the appetites and expenses of its wonderful, unappreciated racing
Dear Mary… Q. What can one give as a present to friends, in their fifties, who are getting married? Both have previously been married to other people and already have all the material goods they could possibly want. Like the Prince of Wales and Mrs Parker Bowles, the couple in question have been secretly in
On the face of it, Liverpool have the best chance of the four English clubs seeking progress in the European Champions’ Cup next week. They take a 3-1 lead back to Germany, but the away goal holds crucial significance and, wisely, no Scouser is counting chickens. Even more pessimistic should be supporters of Arsenal, Chelsea
Dear Mary… Q. My teenage daughter’s lifelong friend has over the years developed the most unfortunate strain of body odour, obviously unbeknown to her. It has become increasingly unbearable recently and presumably in her earlier years was either masked in infant fumes or more tolerable. Apparently the problem is widely discussed at school but no
Ginger Rogers did everything that Fred Astaire did, a show-biz historian once pointed out. Only she did it backwards. The feminists do have a point, and while women riders still don’t get a fair deal in British racing, Kempton on Saturday provided yet another reminder of how well women trainers take their opportunities. My hope
The opening two weekends of rugby’s Six Nations championship were listlessly lacking in panache or brio. England and France have been generally dire, pantechnicons juddering along on empty, while Italy and Scotland resemble my old prep-school reports: ‘tries hard with poor results’. With intermittent verve and a smattering of dandy Celtic dances, so far only
Dear Mary… Q. My daughter, aged 19, is proposing to take out a student loan in order to have her teeth whitened. It is not the borrowing of money I object to so much as the fact that her own teeth are not in any way discoloured. Please help quickly, Mary, as I am certain
If America can be associated with one shellfish more than any other, it must surely be the clam. I know that New England is supposedly the home of the clambake, but you can’t go far in any state without meeting clams in some form — raw in the shell, clam chowder, clam juice or that
I go abroad for a week and what do I find when I get home? That Ikea has been stormed by large chunks of Edmonton! I was absolutely livid, not least because I’m one of the people who, some time ago now, not only campaigned against the storming of Ikea, but also went on the
Not that soccer’s ubiquitous hurly-burly has remotely gone away, but its yawping volumes are even increased next week with the resumption of serious international stuff and the two-leg frenzies of the Champions League. Setting sail with various degrees of strut and confidence are Arsenal, Manchester United, Liverpool and Chelsea. Anticipation of the latter’s contest with
Dear Mary… Q. I like to attend parties if I am invited but, despite the fact that most of my friends are in their forties, they seem to have an unfortunate tendency to want loud music to be playing during these parties, even when there is no dancing opportunity. I find that this means I
Dear Mary… Q. I sent a thank-you letter for dinner to a couple whom I know only slightly. In the thank-you letter, I asked them to dinner. I have had no reply and the date has come and gone. Does this mean that they didn’t get the thank-you letter — in which case they will
One of Ian McEwan’s familiar set-piece exuberances in his acclaimed new novel Saturday — ‘undoubtedly his best’: Anita Brookner, The Spectator, 29 January — has neurosurgeon hero Perowne indulging in an intensely competitive game of squash with anaesthetist Strauss. The doc plays each desperately combative rally on the tightrope of his own mortality, as if
Off to the Gun, the Docklands gastropub. It’s a brisk walk from Surrey Quays station. Well, I say brisk but of course it is impossible to get anywhere briskly these days, what with the swarms of swarming immigrants swarming all over the streets and everything. They are everywhere. Everywhere! Indeed, just this morning I shook
Dear Mary… Q. I am becoming increasingly annoyed by friends and acquaintances who think it is acceptable to snort coke. At civilised dinner parties, we find increasingly that someone will bring it out in a pathetic attempt to show they are still young and groovy and rather good fun. Living in seedy west London and
Spring is springing …and the ancient rugby rituals are under way once more. Cardiff is en f