I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking at.
Putin needs Trump as badly as Trump needs Putin.
Some of you subscribe to these messages - if you do, I am very grateful. Thank you. And, should you, each time there is a new post, you'll receive an email like the one below. There is only one trouble with that. The email contains the text of the (initial) post, and so, the temptation … Continue reading Jun 18th – out of date messages, and up to date posts.
Not very long ago, in a manuscript for a novel, I wrote (of scientists, but meant by it boors stinking of self-rectitude) Wait ’til they realise that there wasn’t a Big Bang, and that our particular part of the cosmos looks like it’s expanding outwards, while the real explanation is that everything around it is going in the other direction. Like cancer on an ageing corpse. They won’t say sorry, though, – they’ll just say, “We’re even cleverer now.”
Consider this for a rule change: there has to be clear air between the attacker and the defender.
In Emily, moments of the absurd provided telling glimpses into the humour and recusant nature of the protagonists, in this, it feels like the writer has provided cameo roles for his favourite jokes.
And only then do the scales finally fall from their eyes, as they are forced to acknowledge the likely provenance of the strange umami flavour of the apero-snacks that had been served with their introductory two-for-one Prosecco package on arrival.
Its pin-striped, bowler-hatted, serious looking men, constantly exchanging chits of paper with each other to no ultimate purpose, evokes Dickens' circumlocution office.
I became the only man in history to be sacked from the position of hostage. It’s hard to extract the positivity from that. The joy of uncommon individuality rarely endures.
Only a few years ago if you failed in an attempt to kill yourself, you were prosecuted and sent to prison, now you’re given a cup of tea, and a leaflet to read.
I’d go out to a Genesis track, or Led Zep, or something equally shite so that you had no regrets about leaving the earth and all its mediocrities. Then you’d just have to hope that you died before having to listen to it all the way through.
Dickie White's Diary 