Praise, insults, posh gin – and other perils of the book launch
Rachel Johnson, in last week’s Spectator diary, says that her husband says she only writes a book in order to…
Drugs, whipping, decomposing bodies and fighting in toilets: so that’s what Spectator readers get up to
Ninety-two readers (thank you!) sent accounts of their worst debacles on drink or drugs. I printed out each one and…
The vicar struck the first blow. And then he told us all a joke
Before delivering his sermon, the vicar said we must offer one another the sign of peace. He struck the first…
After the initial shock of my cancer diagnosis, I’ve never been happier
On Sunday morning, I was kicking a football in the back garden with my grandson. I had bought him his…
Call myself a Low life? You lot put me to shame
The entries are crawling in on their hands and knees for the ‘drunkest I’ve ever been’ competition to win a…
Outstrip Jeremy Clarke’s worst excesses and win an invitation to his Low life book launch
On 26 June there is a party at the Spectator office at 22 Old Queen Street to launch a paperback…
The ant mind is right up there with the medieval one
From somewhere in the tree canopy, a nightingale song. The virtuoso trilling and warbling, the underwater bubbling, the teetering on…
A tale of two cruises
I’ve been on two cruises before: one was fun, the other misery. The misery one was a late August cruise…
We could swear and spit, strangle and shoot people
The old fishing town faced the sea psychically as well as architecturally. Dressed as pirates, my grandson and I walked…
A fingertip symphony in a deeply rural French ladies’ hairdresser
Two stylists work at this deeply rural French ladies’ hairdresser. Christelle is a gorgeous 17-year-old point-of-lay pullet, so lithe and…
What’s On in South Devon gave me three choices: functioning psychotic preacher, bingo or a poetry evening
I’m such a constitutional lightweight lately that I’ve started looking on the website What’s On in South Devon for things…
A child in church! It’s a miracle!
To say that Oscar was warmly welcomed as he stepped through the massive oak door into a chilly House of…
The kindness of strangers you need the morning after
Spectator Life’s third birthday party was a glamorous affair. It had paps, pop stars and Pippa. One went in and…
One day the Condor and the Eagle will fly wing-tip to wing-tip
The pub was disappointingly empty, so I took my first pint of the evening upstairs, where some sort of New…
Football in front, infibulation behind
I’m watching Manchester City being taken to the cleaners by Barcelona on the telly, while at the table behind me…
My afternoon in a Gallic version of Betfred
For the Cheltenham Festival I received the customary tipster circular from my pal Soapy Joe. Soapy’s most convincing credential as…
Lunch with Max Beerbohm’s brother’s grandson
It’s a silly, chippy complex, I know, but I often feel, on the rare occasions that I am induced to…
Mahler’s Fifth is the perfect soundtrack to a tooth extraction
Frantic chewing of sugar-coated nicotine gum had caused my left lower molar to go irretrievably rotten, and the dentist finally…
The day an ancient and very wonderful sport died
Last week was the tenth anniversary of the last running of the English hare-coursing classic, the Waterloo Cup. I shan’t…
This shower head should come with a health warning
This hotel is brand new. One half is a university students’ hostel, the other an apartment hotel. Car parking is…
My grandson's getting into the rugby: 'Which one's West Ham?'
My grandson and I had a lovely hour-long swim at the leisure centre. We had the learner pool to ourselves…
My initiation into the fellowship of wine (I swallowed)
This month’s wine club lecture was on red burgundy. The members were settling themselves at two large tables when I…
The risks of being an Englishman on Burns Night
I’m rubbish at public speaking and detest it. Even the thought of reciting an English poem of my choice at…
Twelve miles of indefatigable misery
The taxi-driver wound his window one third of the way down and put a priestlike, confessional ear to the freezing…
My addiction to literary pilgrimage is akin to masturbation
The hotel and its bright tan prayer rug of a beach were one. In the early morning the distant image…
