Alec Marsh’s latest novel, Cut and Run, is published by Sharpe Books.
Admit it, the joy of driving is a myth – in Britain at least. Drivers who talk about the thrill of getting behind the wheel should ask themselves, when was it that they last really enjoyed driving somewhere? Because the grim truth is that unless you are on an isolated country road miles from the nearest speed camera –
How do you feel about 17 May, when the next major set of lockdown restrictions are due to be lifted in England? Are you looking forward to going out to dinner with friends inside an actual restaurant, or are you breathless with anticipation at the prospect of hosting your first, legal, dinner party for as
Those with a watchful eye might spot something this week (or next) not seen in a while. And I’m not talking about a freshly poured pint, or the sight of your forehead after three months without a barber’s care. Rather, as England and the whole of the UK, begins to ‘open up’ after the third national lockdown,
Why is anybody offended by Piers Morgan? That’s the point. It’s his job to be offensive. It’s his job to say out loud what many in society are thinking but lack either the courage or the platform to voice. He is the Wat Tyler of the Whatsapp age. Now of course you won’t always agree
Naming a child turns out to be one of the hardest things you can do. The secret to nailing it is to avoid choosing something outlandish or freakish at one extreme – but then sidestep the trap of settling on something profoundly mundane at the other. Unless you are a rock star or a tech
The office, as we once knew it, is dead. Zoom has killed it; the digital genie is out of the lamp. What most of us didn’t realise before Covid – back in April 2020 – was that the closure of offices was final and that the daily commute may well be confined to the history books.
When’s the last time you wore a tie? Was it yesterday? Are you wearing one now? Somehow I doubt it. After all, why should you, sitting there in your home office or spare bedroom, or sitting room? Of course there was a time, if you’re a male reader, that you would have worn one every
Whichever unappealing candidate wins the US Presidential election next week, one thing seems to be pretty certain: they are almost certainly going to be one-term presidents. If he’s elected, ‘the Donald’ will be a 74-year-old incumbent come 2020, so even if he turns out to be a much more effective president than most would predict at this juncture,
As the Russian aircraft carrier Admiral Kuznetsov finally nears the eastern Mediterranean, with a trail of ugly black smoke belching from its funnels, it’s a fitting moment to acknowledge some credit where it’s due. For the waves created by President Putin’s flagship as it passed our shores – before steaming into further controversy in Spain – more than endorse the Cameron government’s
The prospect of becoming plain old Mr Green again may be troubling ‘Are-you-staring-at-me’ Sir Philip Green less than we might imagine. Because compared to the other problems facing him, his knighthood is arguably pretty small beer. Take the value of sterling: since the Brexit vote, the collapse in its fortunes has sent the currency tumbling in value by as much as 20 per cent. Then if
‘It’s important for those of us who are foreigners to stay out of the US elections.’ So said the mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, with due propriety during his visit to America last week. Unfortunately he then added: ‘I hope that the best candidate wins and I hope she does win with a stomping majority.’
There is no humbler reminder of Britain’s diminished place in the Universe than the sight of hostile aliens from Mars choosing to commence their assault on Planet Earth in New York City – rather than at the strategically vital Surrey towns of Dorking or Woking, as H G Wells had originally conceived it in The
The latest official lists of the 100 most popular boys and girls’ names in England and Wales confirm the dominance of the Old Testament as well as the Edwardian ascendancy in the hearts of our nation’s newest parents. With the Calebs, Jacobs, Noahs, Samuels, Alfies and Freddies, the names given to boys in 2015 read like
‘Super-rich foreigners are “forcing” the old money elite out of London’s prime postcodes.’ So declares London’s Evening Standard newspaper – confirming what the rest of us knew anyway. Indeed it was in the Spectator three years ago that I pointed out that central London was turning into Venice – a zombie city devoid of actual life
Unseemly as the public blood-letting between stand-up comic Joshua Howie and his apparently less-than-absolutely-fabulous mother Lynne Franks undoubtedly is, it nonetheless sheds light on a powerful tension at the heart of many of the nation’s families. Because whatever you think about self-proclaimed ‘Golden parent’ Howie’s motivation for decrying his ‘awful parent’ mother (not very much if
Does the Olympics medal table reflect more than just sporting prowess? If you take a look at which countries have won the most golds since the first modern games in 1896, it certainly looks that way. Without exception, the winning nations are either those running the planet – or the ones who were about to try. In fact,
In his essay, Politics and the English Language, George Orwell famously exhorted writers to be cautious of allowing ready words or prefabricated phrases to affect whatever it was he or she wished to articulate. ‘Let the meaning choose the word, and not the other way about,’ he wrote. Seventy years on, Whitehall Mandarins have spoken. ‘We
Turkey’s President Erdogan is already facing international calls to respect human rights in Turkey following last weekend’s failed coup. Now he’s also being encouraged to champion the rights of Christians living in the country as well. The call is coming from the Anglican Church’s venerable man in Istanbul, Canon Ian Sherwood, who for 28 years has
[audioplayer src=’http://traffic.libsyn.com/spectator/TheViewFrom22_30_January_2014_v4.mp3′ title=’Alec Marsh discuss the death of the big middle class family’] Listen [/audioplayer]The future Mrs Marsh and I wait outside a small Victorian terraced house for an estate agent. It’s a familiar Saturday scene, especially in W7 — the last London postcode before you reach Middlesex and an area I formerly classified as
Queuing to gain admittance to the pavement of Westminster Bridge on a ferociously hot Sunday afternoon recently, I found myself trapped. Pinioned by a road to one side, a stall selling models of Big Ben and snow-dome Buckingham Palaces to the other, and bordered by the great bronze statue of Boudicca, I was caught in
