Whenever I bicycle south from my Kentish Town flat into the middle of London, I go past George Orwell’s handsome old Victorian house – 50 Lawford Road, where he lived in the mid-Thirties. Until I read this glorious, beautifully produced book, I always thought of Orwell as a kindred spirit for choosing to live in my unfashionable patch of the city.

Jun 2009

Instead of a Book

Playing Away

Lava Palaver

Making Yourself At Home

Court Lore

Kindled Spirits

‘Gay But Not Screaming’

Set In Stone?

Oh What A Lovely Pile

Delusions of Originality

It Came, It Saw, It Conquered

Those Irritating Lefties

Why Ask If Shad Do It?

TV’s Socrates

Slumming It

Keeping Out the Joneses

Alphabet Soup

Sublime to the Ridiculous

Esprit de Corpse

Stateside Sniping

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