Bob geldof

If cheating is the cancer of sport, losing has to be its halitosis. I stunk out the joint in Amsterdam last week, and even managed to be thrown (a first) for my troubles. Winners, for some strange reason, never have an excuse. Losers tend to. Mine is that my opponent was born after the war, whereas I was in an age group that was born before it. The rules are that one fights opponents within five years of one’s birthday, either way. My opponents were double that, but I should have registered an objection before the matches began. Some did and stayed out. I did not. I arrogantly thought I

I read in the Daily Mail that the hunt is on for an Isis terrorist camped out in Calais who is anxious to get into the UK so that he can kill everyone. Perhaps Bob Geldof could put him up in his London flat. Certainly the people at #refugeeswelcome should be agitating to have this chap given his papers immediately – he has important work to do and it must be frustrating sitting in that camp, seeing the white cliffs of Dover beckoning in the distance. Things might get so bad that he is forced to blow himself up in France. But just one Isis terrorist? You sure ‘bout that? Meanwhile, there

As everyone who has ever joined a club knows, Pugs is the world’s most exclusive one, its members ranging from German nobility and Greek and Danish royalty to the British upper classes, Indian nobility and American and Greek aristocracy. Plus Sir Bob Geldof and Roger Taylor of pop music royalty. Club rules prohibit membership to exceed 21, hence a titanic struggle is taking place, as I write, to fill the last two spots. We are, at present, 19 members. Last week in London, the annual Pugs lunch took place and I flew over for it from New York, despite running a temperature and suffering from flu. Mind you, it was

New York The poet was right: April is the cruellest month. We at The Spectator lost Clarissa Tan, my good friend Bob Geldof’s 25-year-old daughter Peaches died, and my oldest friend from prep school buried his son, one of the greatest athletes of his time, at the age of 42. There is something obscene about surviving the young, something only politicians like Tony Blair can do and still smile, and A.E. Housman got it right in his ‘To an Athlete Dying Young’. We live in a culture awash with talk about happiness and the pursuit of it. Thousands of books are published about it every year. Arianna Huffington’s opus on