Christ was born in a barn. This proves that he came for all humankind, as well as reducing his parents’ options for witty off-the-peg verbal critiques of him should he leave their front door open. Bearing Christ’s universality in mind, on Christmas Day at lunchtime I made my guests stand to listen to a few…
There’s a new photo of Nigel Farage and the Reform treasurer, Nick Candy, who partied through the pandemic at Lord Shaun “Bum and Boobs” Bailey of Paddington’s Pissedmas disco with a load of dancing Tory spads in horrible Christmas jumpers, meeting Elon Musk at Donald Trump’s Mar-a-Lago document storage unit slash vanity art display mausoleum.…
I read Andrew Michael Hurley’s new novel, Barrowbeck, in preparation for co-hosting Tales of the Weird, a timely event on the folk horror genre at the British Library earlier this month. I’m not the most informed commentator on this literary subset by any means, but I am, after Mark Gatiss, one of the most famous,…
The presidency of Donald Trump contaminates everything that touches it, like dogshit on the end of a pointed stick. Be careful, politicians of the world, entertainment brands, and commercial properties, that you don’t get any on you. It stinks. On Monday night, one of my lovely rescue cats, having battled the cat flap into submission,…
The first time I saw the Cure was on 29 April 1984. The Birmingham Odeon show opened with a set from rural Worcestershire’s pre-Raphaelite goths And Also the Trees, whose early albums remain a guilty pleasure, and about whom I once sent a self-aggrandising letter to ZigZag magazine. The Cure’s set drew heavily on the…