After the most amazing, unprecedented, extraordinary (supply your own hyperbole here) day that Parliament has ever known in the whole history of the world, the upshot is that everything has … well, remained pretty much the same, really. Britain is still leaving the EU (probably). It will still avoid a ‘no deal’ exit (probably). It will therefore still need a withdrawal agreement with the EU, and in due course Parliament will agree one (probably). No change there, then. Continue reading
Opinion
Look back on anger
On Saturday 2 April 2016, two things happened. Well, of course, a million things happened, but these two were connected, and they affected me. One was that Ian McEwan’s comments on sexual identity at the Royal Institution were denounced in the Press by anyone with a megaphone to hand. The second, somewhat bathetic by comparison, was that my tweet on a related matter caused about 10% of my Twitter following to desert me (@JimPowellAuthor). Continue reading
Falling in and out of Europe
It is nearly a year since I decided to divorce The Times after decades of fidelity and embark upon a reckless fling with The Guardian. It hasn’t turned out to be as ecstatic as I had expected. Yes, there is more serious news and comment, but it comes at a price. The price is a relentless pessimism and negativity that infects the entire newspaper. Britain and the world, as presented by The Guardian, constitute a living hell. To anyone contemplating a similar migration, may I suggest that a prescription for Prozac should accompany your subscription. Continue reading
Dancing around Anthony Powell
A Dance to the Music of Time is, alternatively, a masterpiece (to be ranked, according to Tariq Ali of all people, alongside the works of Stendahl, Balzac and Proust) or an inconsequential snob’s chronicle. It is a Marmite of a novel sequence. Powell himself (no relation) divided his readers into ‘fans’ and ‘shits’, which seems rather extreme. It also leaves readers, like myself, who admire some of the 12 novels but not others, in undefined limbo. I would call myself a ‘fant’ – more fan than shit. Continue reading
Jim Powell 