Dare I encroach on James Delingpole’s TV territory and ask what has happened to Wimbledon? A crying jag in public would surely have embarrassed Baron von Cramm, a three-time losing finalist, not to mention Rod Laver, Roy Emerson and John Newcombe, all three multiple winners of the crown. Back in my time, Lew Hoad won
I’m at home watching the Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros’ ‘Man on Fire’ video on the laptop. Talk about uplifting. I’m watching with my earbuds in, and loving America, when the phone rings twice and stops. This means my boy hasn’t credit on his phone and wants me to ring him back. I stop
Farewell then TT, the two-tone bunny rabbit. Your name was not particularly innovative, but in every other respect I feel you had a good innings. You were found at the side of the road in a plastic box. Whoever left you had not even put straw in there to make you a bit more comfortable.
At the conclusion of the Wimbledon final, after Andrew Murray’s big girl’s blouse routine, I was tempted to tweet something uncharitable about men who cry in public. I don’t consider myself to be a stick-in-the-mud reactionary, but there’s something about men who turn on the waterworks that brings out my inner Sir Bufton Tufton. Whatever
There have been enough monsters after them — Denis Nielsen, Peter Sutcliffe, Harold Shipman, Fred West — but the 1960s Moors Murderers still arouse the greatest revulsion. Ian Brady and Myra Hindley didn’t murder as many people as those other serial killers: their victims were only five. But they were all children, sexually abused, tortured
Amid the weeping in SW19 last weekend, Andy Murray essayed what was a clunky if well-meaning compliment to his opponent’s longevity. ‘Not bad for a 30-year-old,’ he said. Shortly after, Roger Federer opined that he thought Murray might indeed win a Grand Slam one day. Probably deserved it, too. Unspoken seemed to be the thought,
Q. When we have people to stay for the weekend, each uses, I calculate, about 14 drinking receptacles a day: a glass at breakfast, one before both lunch and dinner and three at the table, plus five coffee or tea cups. There are five in my family and we often have ten people staying, so
I thought I would hate Bulgari. (At least they have stopped calling it Bvlgari). Ah, you might say, surely Bulgari, a tentacle of LVMH, the ‘luxury goods giant’ that makes rubbish for women too hot to work, but too bored to stay awake, does not belong in a restaurant column? Has Gold, who avoided being
‘I hope you’re not having a go at P.D. James,’ said my husband, looking up from Devices and Desires (1989), which I had just finished. I am certainly not, for I admire and enjoy the author. My article last year about mistakes in Death Comes to Pemberley was intended to raise the question of the
