As the radioactive liquid flowed into my veins, I found my page and was transported to a literary luncheon in 1969
By Jeremy Clarke
There was a time when I couldn’t afford to buy books; now I have a metric ton
By Jeremy Clarke
Warned in French that I was for the Donald, the Armenian stepped closer to scrutinize me
By Jeremy Clarke
Pretty much overnight, I have developed a taste for it — and life has become easier
By Jeremy Clarke
For all its art and famous clientele, the Colombe d’Or is no more than an upmarket canteen
By Jeremy Clarke
Sunless Provence is grim. The locals go from semi-nudity to dressing like Nanook of the North
By Jeremy Clarke
Thanks to our local bar, I ended the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe with bulging trousers
By Jeremy Clarke
Would someone please help me place a bet on the Arc de Triomphe?
By Jeremy Clarke
He claimed to love riots, and I have no trouble believing it
By Jeremy Clarke
The A272 through Sussex epitomizes everything I love about the England that once was
By Jeremy Clarke
My friend the carpenter bee has expired, the dog can’t move and even the Provençal French see la canicule as an ordeal
By Jeremy Clarke
I hadn’t seen Oscar since Christmas, and had spent months looking forward to his visit
By Jeremy Clarke
As the chap I was wedged against coughed and sneezed his mask awry, I look out of the window and thought about dying
By Jeremy Clarke
As I bought the drinks, Didier told me that voluntary euthanasia was in and casino capitalism out
By Jeremy Clarke
Thirty-five years ago, my nurse had competed against an English team who played rugby with a violence that was incredible
By Jeremy Clarke
