06 May 2008
Thanks to everyone who came to our May Day Riot on Thursday May 1st, during which we managed to roast and eat a pig on a traffic island in central London, without having asked for permission.
We had first attempted to roast the pig in the small park in Clerkenwell Close, behind the church, but the local vicar put a stop to that plan for merriment.
We then carried the hot pig and the two burning log baskets to Clerkenwell Green itself and continued to cook the hog there. We’d like to say “Thanks” to a local council man who could recognise the good spirit behind what we were doing and told us to carry on. At around eight thirty, it was ready, and we gave out hog roast buns with apple sauce to the assembled Idler friends, readers and local residents.
It was interesting to note that of all the authorities, council and police seemed to let us get on with what we were doing, but the church did not.
Anyway, you can read Stevyn Colgan’s blog about the event here.
I think it should become a May Day custom: gangs of rogue hog roasters roaming London and cooking up and doling out on the streets.
24 April 2008
I’VE JUST read a diary entry I wrote for 15th March, but never posted. It makes for rather depressing reading: “Sometimes I wonder why I bother. Children and wives wreck everything… the pony is just an expense and a hassle, and now we’ve got this new puppy. Do the children look after it and feed it? No. They’re stuck on the computer… Brave New World has conquered. I have lost. Goodbye.” Yes, it’s been a depressing couple of months. The English gloom never quite seems to clear. Occasionally, very occasionally, we are treated to a bright, sunny day, and all seems right with the world. But the next day, the gloom descends again. This bad weather combined with the sorry state of the nation makes for a miserable outlook. The bureaucrats attack from all sides. In my case, I have had another call from the pig police. You’ll remember that so far we’ve had a home visit, two phone calls and a letter from the Food Standards Agency. To add to this onslaught, I received a phone call in late March from Devon County Council, asking me what I did with the pig by-products, the heart and liver and so on. I said that we’d thrown it away. Also, we’d eaten the blood and the kidneys and made paté from the liver. The woman on the phone told me that by law we were supposed to have had the by-products transported to an approved incineration facility. A few days later, one hundred pages of bumf arrived in the post, various pig movement forms, record books and the like, and a list of the incinerator companies. None is local. I called one up and it appears that the cost for incineration would be £29 collection fee, plus 22p per kilo of waste. So that would total around £40 to £50. Well, the bureaucrats have done their job well. I am thoroughly dissuaded from ever keeping or killing pigs at home again. It all seems like far too much headache. Better go to fucking Tesco’s for my plastic-wrapped bacon and watch TV every night with my cans of Stella. That’s the modern British ideal.
THAT AWFUL dog Lulu, our neighbour’s Scottie, came round again yesterday. She yelped, whined and chased chickens, and that was bad enough. But then she did something worse. Earlier in the day two ducks had arrived, a pair or mallards. Delilah and I talked to them and told them we hoped they would stay. I said that they were looking for somewhere to bring up their fmaily. So we made encouraging noises, and the ducks stayed all day, waddling up and down the stream, and investigating the pond. Then Lulu arrived, saw the ducks, chased them, whereupon they took off into the sky, quacking noisily, and never returned. Thanks, Lulu.
THINGS in the vegetable patch are very slow indeed. The potatoes show no signs of sprouting. The broad beans have finally germinated and are about an inch tall. A few of the peas have emerged above ground, but only a handful. Some animal had dug up one of the pea trenches. The radishes and turnips have all germinated and are thriving: I really think turnips are a good bet. They are very easy to grow, delicious and unusual and also they’ve got that medieval vibe. Also the garlic is doing well: I put a load every foot or so around the sides of one bed, and they’ve all sprouted beautifully. Again, garlic is a very good bet as it’s easy to grow, deters slugs and should save you a lot of money. On the window sill I have sowed kale, leeks, marigolds, blauhilde purpple climbing beans, courgettes and a variety of squashes, the seeds of which were sent to me by a kind reader last year. I think seed collection is the next step. Sometimes I hope for a global financial collapse of some sort, so we can really concenrate on the smallholding, despite the setbacks and my grumbling, it is a hugely enjoyable way of life.
THE HENS are looking much prettier and plumper, their feathers having grown back. But still no eggs. Our landlady says that they will start soon enough, though. So I am feeling less despondent on that score. They are sharing their coop with Blossom the bunny, who is proving to be good entertainment. But I am considering banning after-school computer sessions. Arthur runs straight through the kitchen on his return form school and plugs in immediately, which I find depressing. “You wrecking your chldhood!” I exploded at him the other day. How was your childhood? What are your memories from four to fourteen? “I stared at a screen.” Instead, they should play with the animals. Surely once released from schoo, chldren should want to run outside and play! Oh woe and alack! What is the world coming to? Hemmed in by interfering do-gooders, oil prices going crazy, bureaucrats halting any attempt to live freely, smoking banned in pubs, drinking banned on the street, pubs closing every day. Our village shop and post office will probably close next year. The wonderful Royal Mail service is being slowly destroyed as small post offices are closed. And the the shop is simply not busy enough. That’s because all the brain-washed television-watchers of the village obediently troop off to Tesco’s to do their shopping, shunning the shop on their doorstep. Or they get the Tesco’s van to deliver to them. It’s the same in other nearby villages. The villagers themselves do not use the local shops. Our local butcher recently closed down and now he has a job working for - Tesco’s! Why? They are sending their hard-earned cash straight into the pockets of the Tesco’s shareholders, making the faraway rich richer and the local poor poorer in the process. Last week I read in the papers that Tesco’s announced record profits. Wake up, England! Is everyone fast asleep? Can’t you see what’s happening! BOYCOTT TESCO’S! Get on your bicycles, grab your shopping baskets, go to your local shops! Burn down the supermarkets! There will be nothing left soon, nothing except vast retail parks selling sofas and pizzas, surrounded by crumbling roads. WAKE UP!
ENDS
08 April 2008
It is hereby announced that there is to be FEASTING and REVELRY on Mayday, Thursday May 1, on CLERKENWELL GREEN in London, from 6pm, to celebrate the release both of Idler 41: The QI Issue, and the Book of Idle Pleasures, both published by Ebury. Copies of the books will be available to buy and the authors will be present. Bards, jesters and musicians will promote merriment, and there will be ale-drinking and carousing. At 9pm we propose to repair to the THREE KINGS of Clerkenwell Close. All the loafers, loungers, ne’er do wells, gate-leaners and layabouts of London Town and beyond are welcome to attend.
13 March 2008
An extended version of Tom Hodgkinson’s Guardian article on the people behind Facebook is today released as a pamphlet. “We Want Everyone: Facebook and the New American Right” is typeset, printed and hand-stitched by Christian Brett of Bracketpress. The 20-page pamphlet comes in a limited edition of one hundred numbered copies, with a light blue hand-printed cover. It costs £5 and is available now from the Idler shop.
27 February 2008
27 February 2008
LAST WEEK we brought home fifteen chickens. We want to get serious about egg production. Victoria had gone to get them from a big organic farm, for only one pound each. Organic they may have been, but elegant they were not, and rarely have you seen such a raggle-taggle band of scrawny brown hens. Two or three had the full complement of feathers, but the rest seemed to have lost all the feathers around their neck, or on their back, making for a distinctly unappealing look. It seems that these organic farms are still run on quasi-industrial lines: really these hens look like ex-battery farm inhabitants. I spent the afternoon in the chicken barn with a few planks, a saw, a hammer and nails, and managed to knock up a couple of reasonable looking long nesting boxes for the critters. I also arranged an old elder tree in there, with the intention of providing a roosting spot. I was quietly pleased with my work. The next day we opened the door at elevenish and found a few eggs, which was mighty satisfying. We’ve really missed having chickens over the winter. The next day we brought home a cockerel for them. Now the brood had been pretty noisy, but when Victoria let the cockerel, a mighty Dorking, into the barn, there was a sudden hush. Perhaps they’d never seen one before. Perhaps the effect could be compared to George Harrison walking into a room of giggling fifteen year old teenage girls in 1964. I don’t know.
After three days confinement in their barn, we opened the door. Most of them strangely, stayed inside. “They were terrified!” Victoria said. I suppose that they’d become accustomed to the lack of freedom on the organic farm. Scared of freedom. But with each day that passes, they seem to venture a little further from their front door, and it’s great to have the soothing clucking sounds of contented hens around the place once more. We worry about the fox, and so to that end we’ve contacted a local fox shooter. He is going to come and walk around the farm one evening with his shotgun and try to track down the fox. Of course, the fox may or not be there: the last time we saw him was last Autumn when he ate every single one of our chickens.
MORE PIG NEWS: after our visit from the local environmental health, and letter from the Food Standards Agency, both of which told us it was illegal to kill pigs at home, it appears that the legal situation is not clear. A local radio station called me to say that they’d contacted Defra, and Defra had told them that it is not illegal to kill and eat your own pigs at home. I’ve written to the press office at Defra in search of an authoritative answer, and in the meantime, you can check out my new website, www.thislittlepiggiestayedathome.org. I want it to be a repository of all things piggie, from legal situations to porcine poetry, literature and philosophy. I want to bring back the independent spirit of William Cobbett. Maybe we’ll even have a pig art gallery up there one day.
UP ON THE VEG PATCH all is not great. After the pony ate it, I confess I was little disheartened by the whole thing, with the result that I neglected it for a long while. It is now in rather a sorry state, grass everywhere, broken glass, bits of black plastic, orange peelings that have escaped the compost heap, brambles and weeds. My seed order came yesterday, though, so that will I hope motivate me to get tidying and sowing. This year I’m majoring on broad beans, French climbing beans and peas. Also I hope cabbages. I will do one bed of early potatoes, and a side bed of squashes of various kinds. Beetroot and carrot are never great so I may not bother. I will dig up the old strawberry plants to make room for more veg. And we are going to do a load of shallots again, as they were fairly easy last year. As far as fertility goes, I am continuing to stick to the idle gardener’s “no-dig” idea, and instead of strenuous spade-work, I am piling straw and horse manure onto the beds. Now we have the chickens, we will have a new source of excellent manure. Remember that Fukuoka’s method of retaining fertility in the soil is simply to lay down straw with a bit of poultry manure. The cold weather has slightly put me off going out there to sow seeds and plant things, I’m ashamed to say. But really I think I need to get the broad beans in there TODAY.
MORE ANIMALS are coming. My mother would be horrified: “why have you got all these animals?” she shrieked on her last visit—over a year ago—as a hen walked through the kitchen and shat on the floor. Next we are getting a dog for Arthur and a bunny for Delilah, for their birthdays. The dog is a well-bred black labrador, which I hope to take out hunting for pheasants and rabbits. Yes, I know they have a Sloaney reputation, but all things considered, we reckon they’re a good bet. They’re called shooting dogs. Arthur and I have started training ourselves to shoot with the .22 air rifle, by taking shots at tin cans which I hang in the trees. Soon we’ll go out and find pheasants, and the dog will retrieve. Apparently they can carry an egg in their mouths without breaking it. So the dog will have a practical purpose, unlike the pony, which we are told is too old to pull a cart around, so there goes that profit-making venture. Delilah will get a white bunny. She is still angry with Victoria for killing Rosie Blossom Brownpatch two years ago. She was a lovely bunny! The bunny I think will live in the house, at least at first. Maybe later it will join the hens.
ENDS
27 January 2008
The New Economics Foundation’s excellent new collection of essays is out now. Do Good Lives Have To Cost The Earth? is an inspiring anthology with polemics from Oliver James, Rosie Boycott, Colin Tudge and Idler ed Tom Hodgkinson. It offers a cheerful reflection on the possibilities of a life beyond capitalism.
Buy it here from Amazon
Tom Hodgkinson is giving a talk at Tapeley Park in North Devon as the guest of North Devon Active Youth. It’s one of their Reel Indi film nights, and they are showing The End of Suburbia: Oil Depletion and the Collapse of the American Dream, Gregory Greene’s 2004 movie on peak oil. Sponsored by Marshford Organics. www.myspace.com/northdevonactiveyouth
Wednesday 6 February, Tapeley Park, Nr Instow, North Devon.
7pm, £2 suggested donation
15 January 2008
Here is a nice little film from Adbusters magazine to launch their Slow Down Week:
http://www.adbusters.org/media/flash/slow_down_week/
Here is a link to my piece on Facebook, published yesterday in the Guardian:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2008/jan/14/facebook
TH
08 January 2008
WELL, you try and do something good and you only get hassle. Yesterday morning we had a knock at the door from our local environmental health officer. He had come round to tell us that according to a law that was brought in two years ago, what we had done with our pigs—that is to say, have them killed at home— was illegal. You are not allowed to kill and eat your own pigs. The law says that you have to take them to the slaughterhouse. This is, they say, so they can be checked by the slaughterhouse for disease. We argued that it is surely more humane to have them killed at home, because the pig does not suffer the stress of being bundled into a van and then lined up on the racks in an unfamiliar place and killed. He actually agreed that meat that has been killed at home, stress-free, tastes better than meat that has gone through the abattoir. So that is why our meat tasted so good: because it was killed at home. But that is illegal now. Our meat is illegal. So that means that pork that tastes as pork is meant to taste is now illegal. No one will be able to try it unless they don’t mind outlawing themselves. Also, an age-old custom has been outlawed. For millennia, smallholders have killed and eaten their own pigs. It is the basis of the cottage life. And today around the round, from Mexico to Moldavia to Uruguay to Africa to Vanuatu, country people kill and eat their own pigs. But we are no longer allowed to do this in the UK, where they would prefer we eat meat that has been appallingly treated in factory farms than compassionately and humanely give the pigs and happy life and an instant death. And surely the it is a basic human right, to raise and kill and eat and share your own animals. Insane, truly insane.
ENDS
22 December 2007
Right-click-and-save this link to listen to Tom Hodgkinson talking about The Freedom Manifesto on the Dr Alvin Jones show, North Carolina and the world and click here to get the book from US Amazon.
21 December 2007
The Idler office is now closed for Christmas. We’ll be back on the 9th of January to deal with all your orders. Thanks so much to everyone who has ordered subscriptions and t-shirts and books from us this year—those orders really help to keep the magazine afloat.
Have a very merry time.
17 December 2007
Tom Hodgkinson’s How To Be Free is published today in the States, under the title The Freedom Manifesto: How to Free Yourself from Anxiety, Fear, Mortgages, Money, Guilt, Debt, Government, Boredom, Supermarkets, Bills, Melancholy, Pain, Depression, Work, and Waste (yes, they do like these long titles, don’t they).
Following a glowing review in Slate, the book is climbing up the charts and we hope to rekindle the great American tradition of freedom, reclaim it from the neocons, and give it back to the Whitmans, the Kerouacs and the Keseys of this world. Down with Facebook! Up with hoeing the cabbages!
19 November 2007
Today I’m digging Lord Byron’s famous love poem, “She Walks in Beauty”. Byron, we remember, was the only member of the Houses of Parliament to stand up against the frame-breaker’s bill, which made being a Luddite - ie, smashing up the new machines, into a capital offence. Love and freedom, then, were his passions.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
08 November 2007
Today’s poem is another Edward Lear favourite, The Owl and the Pussycat, that delightfully romantic ballad about running away together and dancing by the light of the moon. It is nice, I think, that it is Pussy who proposes to the Owl, when convention might have suggested the other way around.
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!’
II
Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?’
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
‘Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?’ Said the Piggy, ‘I will.’
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
On a heavier note, I think everyone should read this article about the people who run Facebook.
TH
07 November 2007
Dear Beloved Forum Contributors
This is a big apology to the lovely Annie and everyone on the forum for the cruel and heartless way we pulled the forum down.
The end of the forum is meant as part of a wider campaign against the substitution of digital networking for real life (we’re also withdrawing from Myspace) and in no way meant as an insult to you all. I’ve personally enjoyed reading the witty and incisive contributions to the forum over the years.
The archive is still up there and I’m sure you can all find alternative ways of keeping in touch.
With love from Tom
04 November 2007
I am going to start posting the odd poem on this website, to help us cope with the dreary days and long nights of winter. As I am currently going through an Edward Lear phase, we will start with his classic poem, The Jumblies. Lear, I think, is one of the masters when it comes to expressing the sadness of love and the desire we all have to run away. The Jumblies also represent the triumph of the dreamer: it seems hopeless to go to sea in a sieve, but when they come back, all those who had doubted them change their minds and decide that they too want to go to sea in a sieve, and visit the Lakes and the Torrible Zone:
They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, `You’ll all be drowned!’
They called aloud, `Our Sieve ain’t big,
But we don’t care a button! we don’t care a fig!
In a Sieve we’ll go to sea!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
`O won’t they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it’s extremely wrong
In a Sieve to sail so fast!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, `How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
`O Timballo! How happy we are,
When we live in a Sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
And in twenty years they all came back,
In twenty years or more,
And every one said, `How tall they’ve grown!
For they’ve been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore!’
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And every one said, `If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,—
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
TH
30 October 2007
I’m pleased to announce that John Lloyd and John Mitchinson of TV’s QI are coming down to our village hall to give a talk.
John Lloyd is QI’s producer and he also produced Blackadder, Spitting Image and Not The Nine O’Clock News. John Mitchinson is QI’s Director of Information and he co-wrote the half-million-selling QI Book of General Ignorance and the newly released QI Book Of Animal Ignorance.
The talk takes place at Hannington Hall, in Martinhoe, which is located off the A39 by Woody Bay in North Devon. The date is Friday 16 November. Doors open at 7.30pm and tickets cost £5 each.
Click here to buy your tickets or go to Waterstones in Barnstaple or Pure Retail Therapy in Lynton.
TOM HODGKINSON
30 October 2007
DISASTER WITH THE pigs. Over half term we went away for a week to visit relatives, and we left the pigs in the charge of our neighbours. When we returned there was a rather stern note on the kitchen table from one neighbour telling us that the pigs had undermined the foundations of the other neighbour’s garden, he was not pleased about it and she would now hand responsiblity back to us. I took round a bottle of wine and apologised. The other neighbour told me that there would be a cost as he would need to repair his wall. It seems that he and a friend had been in the pig pen moving a fence in an effort to try to stop the pigs from causing further damage. Strange, we thought, that these things happen whenever you go away. The last time we left the pigs in the care of a housesitter, they escaped from their pen. Well, Bernard had the answer. Bernard is the Rayburn man and comes from an old Devon family. His dad used to keep pigs. And by chance, Bernard had been fixing our Rayburn here during the pig panic, as he called it. He said it was a simple case of the pigs being hungry. If they had been well stuffed, they would not have bothered uprooting the wall, in their search for worms to eat. He was right: I inspected their living quarters and they’d eaten every last scrap of their bedding straw, meaning they must have been absolutely famished, Well, I have now put up an electric fence along one side of the enclosure. You just run the wire a few inches off the ground to prevent the pigs sticking their mighty noses under it. I don’t think there was any real danger of them undermining the neighour’s garden any more, but at least he can see that I am considering his wishes. And there are only two weeks to go to slaughter, so it’s time to start stuffing their piggy faces with grub. By the way, did I mention that we have named them, Gnasher and Rasher?
THE COCKEREL had also disappeared on our return. As had the last remaining rabbit, Felicity. The back yard is now an even lonelier place than when we left it. No chickens, no rabbits. I wonder if the predators can somehow sense when the owners are away? Next time, we’re going to get a housesitter and not impose on the neighbours. What makes it all the worse is that one of the neighbours is vegetarian. Otherwise we would have been able to give her a lot of pig products by way of thanks and apology.
THE DEATHS on the farm have led us to consider bringing in a dog. One neighbour advised that a dog might act as a deterrent to the fox, and I’ve always rather fancied a lurcher. In fact, lurchers are the only dog I really like. All other dogs seem pathetic and whingey to me. But the noble lurcher, as long as we trained him to keep away form the cows, might be a useful addition to the menagerie and a good companion. And a dog might encourage us to get out a bit more: sometimes days pass and I barely leave the house, which is crazy as we’re surrounded by some of the msot beautiful landscape in the country.
IN THE GARDEN I mulched one of the beds with a nice thick lay of old straw from the henhouse. I remember reading in Fukuoka’s The One-Straw Revolution that he maintains the fertility of his fields simply with straw covered with a little poultry manure. We picked the last of the purple beans. The cabbages are growing, but very slowly. There are a few sprout-like objects appearing on the Brussells sprouts plants. Overall the thing still looks a mess and I resolve at least to smarten up the pathways this winter. I also resolve to make the veg patch far more productive next year. I am told that the answer is slug pellets.
ENDS
30 September 2007
The new Idler is available now. The design has been overhauled by typesetter Christian Brett of Bracketpress and the cover is by Damien Hirst. The theme is sex. Inside there are interviews with Kevin Godley of 10cc fame, and Esther Perel, author of the best-selling Mating in Captivity. Other contributors include Neil Boorman, Michael Bywater, Jay Griffiths, Nicholas Lezard, Penny Rimbaud, Chris Yates, Alice Smith, Robert Twigger, Sarah Janes, Gee Vaucher, Bill Drummond and Mark Manning… it’s packed as usual with pleasure, provocation and wit.
You can order it from the Idler shop at a 10% discount by clicking here.
« Previous PageNext Page »
"The answer to how to live is to stop thinking about it. And just to live. But you're doing that anyway. However you intellectualise it, you still just live."