From inside the restaurant, it looked like a cat had upchucked a hairball onto the window. It looked like that for just a few minutes before the maitre d’, high in his office over the gleaming marble cavern, noticed and ordered the window misted over at street level. Then all the diners could see was
Hello! Apparently, I have lots of readers on here I didn’t know about including my beloved workmates (hi again guys!) so I’m being very safe and nice and clean and all BBC on here. God bless and keep her majesty, long may she burn, erm, rule! SAFE TOPIC #1: Triple Salt LicoriceThis stuff is teh
So You Want To Increase The Amount Of Needless Spam I Get From Illiterate Numpties? Write several self-serving screeds on How to be a Games Journalist! My advice: grammar, spelling and wit are all I ask for. If you show the barest sign of literacy I’ll be really surprised. However, due to the high quality
I’d like to say sorry to anyone I’ve offended with my posts on here. I’ve been disrespectful and rude to my team members and unduly denigrated their talents. I’ve deleted the more offensive posts and I apologise wholeheartedly about any content that remains. I’ve made the mistake of treating a private blog as a private
Pentadact commented: Would this be a bad time to note that “lets” in the context of “allows” doesn’t have an apostrophe? I’ve recently got to reading two magazines more closely, one very mainstream and in-your-face, the other more niche and intellectual. I’m finding the mainstream one wins dramatically in the precision stakes. Almost everything on
I am so upset right now. I have just been listening to Letters from Guantanamo on Radio 4 and it has left me really, really distraught. It is a set of letters from Sami El Haj, a camera operator with Al Jazeera captured crossing the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan in 1999. He had dual
Following James Elroy’s wondeful study of a gruesome murder in 50s L.A., The Black Dahlia, crime hackette Lynda La Plante has written a money-spinning rip-off called The Red Dahlia, set fifty years after the first murder, timed to coincide with the release of the Scarlett Johansen movie and plagiarising large portions of its illustrious predecessor
A hop, a skip and a fortnight goes by, casting askance glances shoulderwise. Curious at glinting Fortnight’s eye, I call up my calendar and find that every day for the last month is heavily annotated, the little squares filled with digitals. Since the 14th Aout, I’ve been to Manchester once, to see the paternal side
I just went downstairs for yet another photoshoot, to provide comic characters for the magazine. As per usual, I supplied most of the outfits from my wardrobe (what does that say about my dress sense?) I was dressed up as a motty-style football commentator, with sheepskin and mike, glasses perched precariously on nose’s end. As
Myself: Begob!The Pissed People of England: What? Wherefore the irishisms?Myself: Agh, I’ve just got back from the Saint’s Row launch event which was lavish in the uttermost. The Pissed People of England: More so than the brothel-party in Paris? Than the Scarface binge in Madrid? Than the Wincle Beer, Cider and Spirits festival? (sotto voce)