JD's World

November 4, 2007

"It's pretty simple, when you think about it," he said. "You just need to have balls of steel."

"What? To make money? Loads of money? Off the back of people who have nothing?"

Then came the grin.

"Absolutely," he said. "Now tell me you don't want to learn how."

November 4, 2007

On Sundays, I like to be alone. I slink down to the newsagent, buy a copy of The Observer, then sit, and read, and read, and read, and read.

I do this because in my humble opinion, it's the greatest newspaper in the world.

It brings me my business, ny news, my politics, my travel, my favourite columnists - the lot.

But hey. That's just me. (And I am absolutely gutted that for whatever reason, Roger Alton, a man I have never met but have always wanted to work for - such is his clear vision on what a newspaper should be - has announced his retirement as editor).

But that's not the point of this post.

Victoria Coren, for those who don't know, is an extraordinarily accomplished journalist - broadcast and print - as is her brother, Giles, who writes, among other things, for The Times.

Their father, Alan, was by far and away a journalist, broadcaster, writer and - above all - brilliant, unmatched humourist of this generation. A genuine talent. A real man. And loved - really loved - by many people who possibly hadn't even heard of him.

I don't know Victoria: I never walked in such exalted circles. But I've always enjoyed her stuff, and, well, yes, always quite fancied her for it, too.

Today, she made me cry.

And this is why.

My condolences are cloaked too with my congratulations at a clearly brilliant man, his obviously talented children, and the joy they continue to bring to many.

Final note: Victoria, one more piece like that and I'll be banned from my local for being clearly insane, having sobbed like a fool. But well done anyway, and, well...

x

November 4, 2007

"It's just like turning off a light to you, isn't it?"

"No, no, not at all," he said. "Whoever enjoyed just turning off a light?"

November 4, 2007

Ipsism, noun
Masturbation

When they were about four pints in, and Zeds' accent was becoming ever more pronounced, he casually mentioned to Nipper, who was himself a little worse for wear: "I think I need a hip replacement."

To which the entire clientele of The Fishmonger's Grinder instantly replied in barber shop quartet-style unison: "We're not fucking surprised."