Italy is so civilised! Even at a mad dash
I sprinted through Milan station, speed-read the departures monitor without stopping, and arrived gasping on platform 8 with two minutes…
Watching the Persid meteor shower with Professor Brian Cox – lucky me!
‘How many people have you slept with in your life, roughly?’ she asked. We were lying in bed in the…
Have I killed my friend’s Jack Russell? Time to check Google
Toby goes to bed at 10 o’clock sharp every night otherwise he gets irritable. Toby sleeps on the bed always.…
When the going gets tough there’s nothing like an hour of rollicking hymn singing
On Saturday my boy had a mini-stroke at home, aged only 26. ‘You’ll have to give up smoking and do…
My glimpse into the brotherhood of bouncers
After Trev had mugged the mugger in the toilet we moved quickly on to another club. The Double O is…
Safety tip: don't try to steal Trev's phone
‘I’ve lost my phone,’ yells Trev. We’re in a club. He’s come charging on to the dance floor to tell…
In my opinion, Death Corner was a very safe place to stand
Watching the daily running of the bulls through Pamplona’s narrow streets online this week has given me a wistful pang…
The chemically castrated are useless at crosswords: true or false?
After hitting me with the cancer diagnosis, the urologist offered me the choice of a longer life in exchange for…
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…
