Nicholas Lezard

Despite my best efforts, it seems my council tax bill has come a-knocking.

As another anniversary in the Hove-l goes by, I realise I’m happy enough.

Experience has taught me that the best way to behave when being shouted at by a woman is to suck it up and say sorry.

A reader’s letter about me reviewing Waitrose wine is amusing, but I wonder if he is being a little cheeky.

The days of needing a baseball cap to write this column are finally over.

A question about whether I was old enough to buy alcohol haunts me with brutal irony.

In countering the fash I felt the years roll away.

I’m unlikely to join the Twenty-Foot-High Club, never mind the Mile-High Club.

The more tennis and football I played, the worse I got.

After I celebrated the end of Tory chaos in grand style, even my dreams have resolved to be nicer.

I write this on the eve of the general election. Now I’m no fortune-teller but I have a feeling we will all be groaning under the Starmer jackboot by now. I hope you’re all feeling pleased with y

I have called every election wrong since 1974 and suffered many disappointments, but these are different times.

Beep! Beep! It is a call, an actual phone call, via WhatsApp, from my old friend S— . When I say “old”, I mean it. We have known each other since Harold Wilson was having his first shot at being prime

Innocent, childlike play is one of the great delights of life. We should try to keep in touch with it.

In a few days’ time I am off to Poland, to write a travel piece. Getting there is going to be a bore. It will involve going from Brighton to the Stansted Radisson Blu on a Sunday evening, then arrivin

A salutary tale of petty officiousness and a pub-dwelling tropical bird.

It’s amazing what you can find out about yourself after three dinner parties in a week.

A pleasant journey is rendered suboptimal by other passengers. It is a situation for which the British are ill-prepared.

I finally meet the boxer I’ve heard so much about. Unexpectedly, we hit it off.

Should I give it another quarter of an hour, or cut my losses, get off the train, and drink myself into oblivion?