Irkety irk


From a pleasant weekend at home, whence I had dragged my leaden bones. That cold turned into a full-on virus-gloomer, bleaky bluesville. Oceans of self-pity sloshing about with snot in such awe-inspiring quantities that it seemed impossible for one small head to produce. So went home to be fed royally and enquired after, jacking up the nose hoots and chin wobbles if ever I felt the solicitude tailing off.

Anyway, the only fly in the ointment of a weekend at home is the Saturday/Sunday Timeses. I loathe them. Not the news bits – they’re fine, all two sections of them – and the Culture bit’s great. But the rest of it is tripe. And the worst offender is Giles Coren. Silly, meretricious, narrow-minded and cruel in this weekend’s offering alone but – and this is unforgivably worse than all of it – so banal. Alternative remedies are crap? Bloody hell. Just what we need: Clarkson lite. God knows if he can do anything at all, and I don’t like to see anyone out of work, so the best hope is for him to go back on the telly with Sue Perkins. Just as long as he lets her do all the talking.


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