New Yorker
The joylessness of Joan Didion
Gstaad Joan Didion, who died last December, took herself extremely seriously. American writers tend to do that, especially those…
You'll tire of the wackiness and the whimsy: The French Dispatch reviewed
The American filmmaker Wes Anderson has an apartment in Paris and has always yearned to make a French movie but…
The Literary Disco podcast made me want to throw my laptop at the wall
One of the stranger things that happened in the period just before lockdown was the sudden disappearance of audiences from…
If Jeremy Corbyn gets in, then I’m out
To London for much too brief a visit: a marriage, lunch with Commodore Tim Hoare, and a look-see for a…
The Spice Girls sang about empowerment – better than the #MeToo whinging
The recent news of a Spice Girls reunion will, I suspect, be greeted by some former fans with nostalgic longing…
President Obama’s ‘secret’ lunch was no secret to me
The Metropolitan Club in Washington is so close to the White House that President Obama chose to walk there for…
Sidney Blumenthal: peddler of tired old clichés about British politics
I remember Sidney Blumenthal from my time in Washington in the late 1980s when I was there as the first…
The fraught business of seat surrender
I remember the first time that someone stood up and offered me a seat on the London Underground. It was…
An Episcopalian vicar made me warm to the principle of women joining gentlemen’s clubs
In 1993, when I was living in Manhattan working for the New Yorker magazine, I was chosen as ‘distinguished visitor’…
I’ve been sacked more times than I can exactly remember. It teaches you nothing
The Oldie magazine — of which, until otherwise advised, I appear to be the editor — runs an occasional article…
