I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking at.
We are still we, and we don't want lepers scaling the city walls.
Not his own work of course – I imagine that he was merely repeating a rebuke he’d received over his own illiterate submissions at work.
A style of lyric that exhibits two of the key failings which are a feature of many chart successes, to wit: a moment of pretentious teenage profundity; and a timeline that doesn't make sense.
It requires something that appeals to the appetite for profundity that exists in uneducated teenagers.
He faced me down with such unimpeachable authority, it brought to mind the eloquence of those Trump acolytes, under threat of being designated the next executive in charge of golfing-diapers perhaps, denouncing the election result.
Realising that he is powerless against a tide of invective from the opposition, he has had his own side criticise him, on terms, such that he can respond with a coherent message to them.
It’s virtually impossible to conceive of that approach when you live in the UK isn’t it? Our parliament is adversarial, as is the legal system, as is journalism. We are mad, aren’t we? We would rather have a row than be right.
For a moment I look at him in a different light – someone whose intense determination never to concede a point makes him a sort of gifted and diplomatic negotiator.
That’s the sort of attitude that can cure apostacy as deep set as mine.
‘Been furloughed?’ I ask, and Big Tooth nudges me under the desk to tell me that there was too much joy and hope in the question.
Dickie White's Diary 