The Spectator [UK] (10 October 2015)
The Spectator was established in 1828, and is the oldest continuously published magazine in the English language. The Spectator’s taste for controversy, however, remains undiminished. There is no party line to which our writers are bound – originality of thought and elegance of expression are the sole editorial constraints. The result, week after week, is that the best British journalists, critics, authors and cartoonists turn out their best work, to produce an extraordinarily wide-ranging title.
and there’s a whole bunch of stuff — pancreatitis, close exposure to ionising radiation, rabies, pregnancy, serotonin disease and liver failure, to name but a few. My suspicion is it’s either rabies or pregnancy because I exhibit other symptoms common to both conditions, according to the internet. I cannot abide drinking water, for example, which suggests that I might be hydrophobic, a key indicator of rabies. And when I see Fergal Keane, surrounded by Syrian ‘refugees’ — a putative brain surgeon
but as hedgehogs roam over a couple of miles they would almost certainly get eaten, and the hospital said ‘no’. Since badgers are nocturnal, most people don’t realise how – Executive airport lounges * easternairways.com ZK\Ʈ\DQ\RWKHUZD\" Sir: I have had the good fortune to attend the Last Night of the Proms twice, once in the 1960s (Sir Malcolm Sargent) and again in the 1990s (Sir Andrew Davis). This occasion, as everyone knows, is uniquely British, but in recent years the BBC has chosen
with the front wheels of their bicycles — something had to change, and it did. What also astounded me were the floors. St Petersburg has the most beautiful wooden floors in the world, many of them in the Hermitage. I wonder why Piotrovsky doesn’t The Hermitage evokes a remote despotism playing cultural catch-up, wanting things of every possible sort mention them. How I felt for those floors, trodden on by hordes down the centuries — and with no overshoes! But however many times I visited the
eternity, by a short spy thriller which he wrote in a few weeks for his own amusement. In August 1914 Buchan took a family holiday in Broadstairs, Kent; a duodenal ulcer was playing up badly and his doctor recommended rest. There he began his second ‘shocker’ (the first was The Power House), finishing it when ordered to bed again in December. The book’s dedication, to his friend and business partner, Tommy Nelson, defines the ‘shocker’ as a ‘romance where the incidents defy the probabilities, and
‘Oh this?’ he said, absent-mindedly. ‘Shoulder got pulled out again. Pushed it back in myself.’ I took the precaution of packing myself into a back protector. The look wasn’t quite as stylish as Liz Taylor but I could work up a pair of white breeches and a snazzy silk top. Darcy was led out to the mounting block and up I went. Perched like a pixie, I followed three jockeys out of the yard. As we hacked into the common for a warm-up, the female jockey in front turned to give me a tip. ‘You’ll find