Our September issue is out now!
Our writers hold no party line; their only allegiance is to clarity of thought, elegance of expression and independence of opinion.
Jeremy Clarke writes the The Spectator Low Life column.
I’ve failed to cheer myself with strong alcohol, CBD and speed, so I went to the local nuns
By Jeremy Clarke
There was a wall of books, ashtrays from the golden age of smoking and an air of greater liberty
Susceptible people confuse his miraculous prose with their own lived experience
What is luck?’ said Klynton, aged ten. ‘Hard to explain,’ I said
Everyone – from Thomas Hardy to Vladimir Putin – should try one
After a morning at a 15th-century priory, and lunch at the Café de France, I rejoined the ranks of the alive and well
We could all drink, but Tom was in a league of his own: chaos was his element
We had the perfect guide who took us off the beaten track and knew when to keep quiet
‘Glass of bubbly, Marigold?’ I asked Catriona’s sister at a quarter to nine on the first morning of her visit
My oncologist sat beside me and, with a trembling hand, highlighted the crucial sentences
The Corsican taxi driver painted a thrilling picture of impending social revolution
I don’t exactly look forward to them but it’s not so bad once I’m there
Oscar and Klynton are visiting us in Provence and a 100-degree heatwave has hit. There’s only one place to be
The passport checking hall resembled a Nuremberg rally but most of us used it as an exercise in British stoicism
Eating out once a week I can cheerfully manage. Twice, I start complaining
What angry young French men want
The farcical world of the Sharon’s Ex-Boyfriends Club
What French women want
The healing power of Champagne
The joy of Xanax
Vodka, kaolin and morphine: my welcome drinks at The Spectator offices
Thought-provoking commentary and opinion on politics, books and the arts.