I had this week’s column nailed by Tuesday teatime, 36 hours ahead of the deadline. Boris Piccaninny Watermelon Letterbox Cake Bumboys Haircut Inconclusive-Cocaine-Event Wall-Spaffer Fuck-Business Get-Off-My-Fucking-Laptop Johnson was the gift that kept on giving. Piccaninny’s fans had complained that as the neighbours who called the police to his screams-and-swearing-filled flat last Thursday self-identified as Remainers…
Images of physical retribution against hated political figures have, rightly or wrongly, been part of the holy fool’s comedic arsenal since the dawn of human civilisation. Effigies of the sparkler-toting anarchist Guy Fawkes have been burnt every November 5th since 1606, while a 17,000-year-old daub on the wall of the Grotte de Niaux in south-west…
Last Monday I attended the worst family dinner I have ever experienced. It honoured a visiting American with whom we were barely acquainted, but were somehow obliged to entertain. A few years previously our guest had suggested on a radio show that, despite thinking she was “crazy”, he could have “nailed” my late mother. She…
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to hear what would be said at our own funeral? When Michael Gove attends next month’s An Evening With Michael Gove, at Westminster’s Emmanuel Centre, the backpedalling Brexiteer will emerge with some idea of the tone of his forthcoming political obituary. An enterprising promoter should reboot the night as Michael Gove…
The March to Leave is a sparsely attended, fortnight-long, 200-mile protest ramble, aimed at securing Brexit, a trembling parliament its final destination. I wanted to see it in the flesh so I could tell my grandchildren “I was there”, before taunting them with descriptions of toilet paper. Nearly three years ago, during the week of…