Which is the most infamous bite in history? Surely Adam’s, but then the one Steve Rubbell took off Halston’s leg was far more expensive. Let me explain for you young whippersnappers who’ve probably never heard of these people. (Both died of Aids in 1990.) The bite theme is inspired by Luis Suárez, no stranger to
I’ve lately got into the habit of starting off a Saturday night out in a quiet pub at the top of the town. I like the draught Japanese lager and the ridiculous glasses it comes in. The pub is friendly enough, but I don’t get involved. I have two or three pints, nod thanks, and
Sometimes, the answer only becomes clear when you stop trying to work it out, and give in to the incongruity of things. I was buying some shopping at Sainsbury’s in Balham. I picked a check-out where the conveyor belt was empty and the cashier looked as if she was waiting for the next customer. But
I’m just back from a week in Italy where a grand political comedy playing in Rome has at least been some compensation for the poor weather and the general economic gloom. Giorgio Napolitano, the 87-year-old former communist who had been looking forward to retiring after his seven-year stint as President of the Republic, was not
People often ask how I get away with writing about my wife so often. Doesn’t Caroline mind being cast as the matronly foil to my errant schoolboy? I’d love to say that she perches on my shoulder, chortling with pleasure as she vets every word, but the truth is she never bothers to read any
Sachin Tendulkar did not have the happiest of 40th birthdays last week. The man who has been worshipped as a god in India for most of his career lasted only six balls, playing for Mumbai in the Indian Premier League, before being clean bowled by a young West Indian off-spinner who was only a year
Q. Flowers have arrived, allegedly from my boyfriend — but the bunch includes begonias and gloxinias, foliage tonged into ringlets, sheaths of cellophane and a large acetate ribbon. I am fairly certain the culprit is his new personal assistant. As they are in my country house, he won’t see them, so how can I, without
Exmouth Market is a small collection of paved streets near the Farringdon Travelodge, which specialises in monomaniacal restaurants and has a blue plaque dedicated to the dead clown Joseph Grimaldi. We are near King’s Cross, the least magical of London’s districts, and the early summer air chokes the dying trees. There are restaurants that ‘do’
‘A cab?’ said my husband. ‘Was the Underground out of order?’ I had been telling him about an interesting notice that I’d seen in a taxi, but he’d chosen to focus on thrift — never mind that I’d fought my way back from John Lewis with an extendable paint roller, a tray and 2.5 litres
