As a teenager in the 1970s, I ranged on Saturday afternoons across the ravaged industrial-revolution landscapes of the West Midlands, arguing politics, progressive rock and religion with a gang of similarly precocious, shandy-fuelled ranters, on a succession of free public transport options. We deserved to be beaten soundly by strangers. And often were. But we…
The American businessperson Jennifer Arcuri was a beneficiary of more than £126,000 in public money, £11,500 of which came from a City Hall-funded agency during Boris Piccaninny Watermelon Letterbox Cake Bumboys Vampires Haircut Wall-Spaffer Spunk-Burster Fuck-Business Fuck-The-Families Get-Off-My-Fucking-Laptop Girly-Swot Big-Girl’s-Blouse Chicken-frit Hulk-Smash Noseringed-Crusties Death-Humbug French-Turds Johnson’s tenure as mayor of London. On 24 September, a…
In the late 80s I used to do standup at a Soho club called Raging Bull, run by the young Eddie Izzard. At half-time we shared our dressing room with male strippers from The Paul Raymond Carnival of Erotica. They would sit naked in their chairs, casually chatting and masturbating, but not for pleasure, merely…
‘Everyone will have the food they need,” declared Michael Gove to Andrew Marr last Sunday, denying both the lies of Project Fear and the hysterical, biased, ill-informed and suppressed research of his own department. On Tuesday, as the Commons camera drifted past Ken Clarke, I saw the Brexit cheerleader Iain Duncan Smith picking his nose…
I always maintain that I take on a persona when writing columns for the Observer: that of an adopted man, from a relatively normal social background, who is an obvious victim of imposter syndrome. I don’t so much write the columns as transcribe them. The adopted man stands at my shoulder, just out of sight,…