Jimmy Nicholls is a journalist, writer of Poke the Bear, and host of The Right Dishonourable podcast.
The best pint you’ll ever have is whatever you can find at 5 p.m. on a Friday. But close behind, and available wherever there’s a willing bartender, is whatever your local brewery has a fresh keg of. That, at least, is what I’ll tell anyone who can’t make a speedy exit. I am a craft
Few things in life are more French than a dispute animée about holidays. While the Spanish enjoy an easy relationship with mañana and the Italians savour il dolce far niente (sweet idleness), the French will incite a riot over any threat to their leisure time faster than you can say faire une pause. It’s therefore little
At a time when quarterly economic growth in the UK is flatlining at 0.3 per cent, it’s good to learn that not every industry in Britain is in mortal peril. While their customers have seen better days, coffin makers report that the average casket width has grown from 18-20 inches to a girthy 20-24 inches.
It was a hairy situation. At a drab corporate dinner in a posh hotel basement, one of my fellow diners grew increasingly prickly. My publication had committed some slight against him – perhaps passing him over for one of our phoney awards, more likely misspelling his name. Unassuaged by my non-apologies, the fur was beginning
City dwellers across Europe will have noticed an ominous and growing presence on our streets, nudging cyclists onto pavements, looming over pedestrians crossing the road, and generally spoiling the view. It is gratifying to learn that we are neither going mad nor shrinking in the wash: cars really are becoming huge. The bonnets of newly-sold
Almost half of 16 to 21-year-olds wish they had grown up without the internet. A similar portion are even calling for a social media curfew, with a quarter wanting phones banned in schools, according to research from the British Standards Institution. Really? The truth is that Zoomers – those born between 1997 and 2012 –
‘Cash is king,’ grinned the bartender as he handed me two pints of dry cider at a music festival I attended several summers ago. Since I’d paid in cold, hard cash, he’d agreed to a discount suspiciously in line with VAT. With nearby food vendors struggling to connect their payment terminals to the internet and
