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Podcasts from Spectator writers
Jeremy Clarke writes the The Spectator Low Life column.
Our visit was marred by his tuneless humming and lack of historical insight but a few beers put everything right
By Jeremy Clarke
The Ulster Tower was often struck by lightning
As I wrestled with mine, my ward mate hung his head in shame
Lately my afternoons are spent with America’s no. 1 blues harmonica player and his tongue-blocking techniques
If my internal critic gets too negative or noisy, I steam-flatten the commentary line by line
Whereas the older nurse was effortlessly capable of subjectivity, objectivity, sympathy and imagination, the younger woman was limited to the first category only
My struggles with the blues harmonica
Time and again in France I have found that the greater the offense the more easily one is forgiven
Between Christmas and New Year I spent five minutes on the form and sent the email
Wearing two masks struck me as being as absurd as wearing two hats and I laughed
I have a new cancer but the doctor is ecstatic that we have found it so soon. He is brisk and unsentimental and I like him
Applying for a bank account is like trying for a permit to open a Christian bookshop in North Korea
The rendezvous with the sausage lady was, as before, the car park of a line of motorway toll booths
I felt like the bloke in that blistering hymn whose chains fell off, whose heart was free, who rose, went forth and followed Thee
When the nuns begin to sing, their soaring, piercing voices make you look for a microphone
What French women want
The tyranny of French bureaucracy
My best Duke of Edinburgh salute for my oncologist
Vodka, kaolin and morphine: my welcome drinks at The Spectator offices
The beauty of French nurses
What angry young French men want
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