Hugo Rifkind is a writer for the Times.
Call me a blinkered, moronic, mollycoddled idiot (seriously, I’m fine with this) but I only quite recently realised there was something intrinsically posh about skiing. Call me a blinkered, moronic, mollycoddled idiot (seriously, I’m fine with this) but I only quite recently realised there was something intrinsically posh about skiing. This isn’t because I grew
Spare a thought for the sons of dictators. Not a nice thought — that would be overkill. Still, spare one all the same. The dictators themselves are somehow easier to understand. Start out as a freedom fighter, get carried away, end up as a murderous tyrant dressed in a beret and a full-body lampshade. Fine.
My favourite document in the cache released by the Cabinet Office this week is the one that starts ‘Dear Muammar’ and ends ‘yours sincerely, Gordon Brown’. My favourite document in the cache released by the Cabinet Office this week is the one that starts ‘Dear Muammar’ and ends ‘yours sincerely, Gordon Brown’. Have you seen
Where does the Big Society stand on the screamers on the bus? We had one the other day. It was during the rush hour, and I was late to pick up my daughter from the nursery. It was a big lady, heavily upholstered in beige, dragging a trolley almost the same size which was upholstered
I’ve been trying quite hard to come up with some imagery for just how bad Ed Miliband is at being in charge of the Labour party. I’ve been trying quite hard to come up with some imagery for just how bad Ed Miliband is at being in charge of the Labour party. My best suggestion
I actually did read Tony Blair’s memoirs in 2010, despite having sworn on these pages, quite petulantly, that I would not. I actually did read Tony Blair’s memoirs in 2010, despite having sworn on these pages, quite petulantly, that I would not. The bit that sticks in the mind is his description of Millennium Eve.
Whenever I do pundit telly, which isn’t very often, I always want to answer every question by saying, ‘How the hell should I know?’ Only once, though, have I done so. Whenever I do pundit telly, which isn’t very often, I always want to answer every question by saying, ‘How the hell should I know?’
The defining commentary of this on-going financial crisis, for me, came from Gerald Hill of the Midlands, in a letter to the Times in March 2009. ‘Sir,’ he wrote, ‘I can now understand the term “quantitative easing” but realise I no longer understand the meaning of the word “money”.’ I’m with Gerald. Take the IMF
It’s the very end of George W. Bush’s second presidential term, and Dick Cheney comes to see him in the White House to talk pardons. It’s the very end of George W. Bush’s second presidential term, and Dick Cheney comes to see him in the White House to talk pardons. Specifically, Cheney wants a pardon
The first time I saw my name in print, in almost its own right, was in late 1997, after a person who was a friend, but isn’t one any more, called up Londoners’ Diary and told a young journalist who would later become a friend, but wasn’t one at the time, that I’d helped to
This morning, on the way up to my desk, I bought a croissant. In doing so, I immediately penalised almost everybody who sits anywhere near me, because I had one and none of them did. And I didn’t even feel particularly guilty about it. I’m a right bastard, me. And that’s not all. I came
Look, I get it. Look, I get it. I know how it is. You’ve got a lot on. You’re overdue a haircut, your parking permit is about to run out, and you got something from the tax man the other day, which you wrote a phone number on and took to work, and brought home
Do you think it might be possible to plot a link between the apparently vast pool of girls who dream of sleeping with Wayne Rooney for cash, and how rubbish The Vicar of Dibley was? I’m keen that we should. In general, in fact, I feel the rubbishness of The Vicar of Dibley should be
I don’t care about Tony Blair’s book. I don’t care about Tony Blair’s book. I’m sorry, but I just don’t. Unless I really think about it, it’s frankly quite hard to remember who the man was. He’s just become this pious lurking bit-part character in tedious books by other people that I’ve forced myself to
Did you know that David Miliband’s favourite snack is a Twirl? I learned this yesterday while trawling the various Labour leadership websites, desperate to find some reason — any reason — to care about any of it. In his photograph at the top, David’s odd grey patch of hair seems curiously prominent, in a manner
People don’t half talk a lot of dross about the burka. Or rather, the burka doesn’t half make people talk a lot of dross, about everything else. Nicolas Sarkozy, the four-foot-tall French President, has decided that his countrywomen don’t have a ‘right’ to wear the burka. Damian Green, our own, taller, immigration minister, has decided
You’ve got to hand it to Mel Gibson. When it comes to potentially career-ending outbursts of vile bigotry, there really is nobody better. As somebody posted on Twitter this week (there is increasingly little point in even trying to formulate this stuff yourself), ‘You’re a pretty hard-core ass when drunkenly yelling about Jews running banks
I once wrote a column about Camden Council, the total bastards, stealing my car. Never had a response like it. Lawyers got in touch, offering their services. Motorist groups wanted to sign me up. Readers wrote in, offering other tales of total Camden bastardy, or similar bastardy from elsewhere, and Tom Conti invited me round
This is going to be a wibbling and self-indulgent column, so don’t say you haven’t been warned. There are various reasons for this, but chief among them is the fact that I’m on holiday right now, in St Tropez. It’s possible that you already know this, if the Spectator overlords have decided to put one
You can’t trust the disabled. A lot of them are faking it. In the last year, there were 16,535 blue badges and 21,000 free bus passes cancelled by local councils, due to fraudulent use. Bloody disabled. They’re having a laugh. Imagine you were a local council. Don’t be squeamish. You can be a Tory one,
