Jeremy Clarke

A friend at our karate club, Colin, does bondage and ‘water sports’ pictures and sells them to a web porn site called ‘After Midnight’. When I spoke to Sharon in the pub the other night she said she’d done a shoot for him. She was pleased because the £75 he paid her had gone towards

We were supposed to report to the Household Cavalry barracks in west London at 8.45 but didn’t wake up, in south London, with a crucifying hangover, till nine. I’d been sick in the taxi on the way home, and when I went to put on my suit found that a good deal of it was

If my boy asks me for advice about his future employment, I’ve always recommended that he might think about a career in sport, war or capitalism. Forget Art, I say. Art is best left to neurotics. And though it can be a tempting career move in early adulthood, forget manual labour, too, I tell him.

Sunday afternoon and I was going home with that ‘making love and walking home alone’ kind of feeling. A blowy Sunday afternoon and the high street strewn with litter. What I really fancied next was a nice cold pint of lager. Lately, I’ve switched to Fosters, and Fosters and I are still in our honeymoon

The moment I heard on the radio that Dr Atkins was dead, I was in a caravan next to the beach at Polzeath, in north Cornwall, eating tinned spaghetti on toast. Me, my boy, and my boy’s half-brother were there for a fortnight’s surfing – well, body boarding anyway. On three consecutive days in the

At our first terrier, lurcher and ferret club show of the new season, I was stewarding the ferrets again. I always get given the ferrets. I’d rather steward the terriers or the lurchers, or even stand at the gate taking the entrance money. But when the stewarding jobs are allocated at our pre-show meetings, no

I couldn’t sleep. I turned over again and opened my eyes. Her Majesty the Queen was there, as usual, between me and the 105-year-old lady I’m sleeping with at the moment. Her Majesty is sitting in a high-backed chair with floral brocade pattern. In the background is an arrangement of slightly out-of-focus crimson and yellow

Bored witless, I go into town with no particular intention other than to get out of the house. I think about going to the pub but each one I look in is empty. The streets of the town are empty, the pubs are empty and I’m empty. The only place with any sign of life

Goodness it was cold here last week. I was sitting by the fire reading an old newspaper when a robin flew past and alighted on a framed sepia photograph of my grandfather. My grandfather loved birds: he kept quails and finches mostly, and once he had a tame jay, so it was an apposite choice

The tax man, a Mr Matthews in my case, rang the other day. He said, ‘Why haven’t you answered our letters for the last four years, Mr Clarke?’ I’d been dreading this phone call for so long that it was almost a relief. I wasn’t much of a letter writer, I told him, which is

To get to the nearest main road from here, you have to drive for five miles along a cow-shit-covered country lane. Two-thirds of the way along, where the lane is joined by a farm track, stands a wooden hutch on legs. More often than not, there are new-laid eggs inside. The eggs, lovely brown eggs

Last week Sharon’s brother makes an announcement. ‘Sharon’s down this weekend. It’s her birthday,’ he says grimly. On Friday night I’m in the pub early and in she walks. She’s wearing a crop top with a glittery number ’69’ on the front. Her boyfriend is expecting her round at his place, she says, pulling her

I’m living with Sharon’s younger brother Robin, in the house their Mum bought for them from her share of the divorce settlement. Other residents include Robin and Sharon’s father, Jim, who isn’t officially allowed on the premises and spends the night in his car; an extremely camp young man who says he is in love

Friday night I put a clean shirt on and went up the Griffin. On Friday nights the Griffin is taken over by bikers. You know the kind of thing. You go in and it’s all heavy rock, leather and the smell of skunk. The bikers were singing a song about the landlord on Friday. To

I went on the Countryside March in my capacity as vice-chairman of the South West Terrier, Lurcher, Ferret and Family Dog club and on a more personal note because I think it is supremely un-English for a government to try to make us good by an Act of Parliament. On the march I wore a

A Christian acquaintance sends me a typed newsletter once a month. She lives ‘by faith’ (no job) and at the end of her newsletters always invites me to contribute to her ministry either with my prayers or with a cheque. This month she praised God for a serious illness, which she thinks brought her closer