Latest signs indicate an infestation of Tory MPs on Kennington Road; thankfully, they’re all taken down again after the election.
How the Archbishop of Canterbury lost his deckchair concession and why trammelling the Thames had its drawbacks. Or a history of London footbridges, if you prefer.
A melancholy reflection on whether baklavas, beer, aubergine rasavangy and an 82nd-minute equaliser at Brisbane Road can ever compensate for the existence of Boris Johnson.
A response to UKIP in not the only language its supporters don’t understand: poetry.
How I was abducted by aliens from South Harrow station and had the true nature of Boris Johnson revealed to me after being forced to mate against my wishes.
Leipzig 1989 remembered, and why the Dean of St Paul’s can’t hold a candle to the pastor of the Nikolaikirche.
After a surveyor’s report says that the social cost of levelling the playing fields of Eton might be incompatible with Tory spending plans, David Cameron tells a bright kid from the Walworth Road not to throw his knife and hoodie away just yet.
A night with Chris Addison causes me to wonder whether the world would truly be a better place if George Osborne got a job in Dixons.
In which I am forced to bribe an elderly man in Wolverhampton with a spongey dessert in order to demonstrate to Richard Branson that trains are not planes and that you only need choice if the system has failed.
I stare bleakly into the abyss and wonder whether the election of Boris Johnson is all my fault (it’s not, it’s all yours).