I wrote this short gobbet for my regular London Evening Standard column on December 27. My editor there spiked it, I can only assume out of some knee-jerky patriotism that was banging around her brain. Nothing commands English attitudes more than the great, dying, effete behemoth that was Edwardian British Imperialism. I forgot about my gobbet for a couple of weeks, until the news that some new gang of idiots were traipsing off across Antarctica, valiantly “man-hauling” their equipment. So, in a spirit of futility, I’d like to share it with you:   More...

Happy New Year. What to say about my inability to blog? My blogstipation — if you will. Here, in London, the pissed old farts who run the print media have, belatedly and half-assedly, realised the significance of this new literary form. It’s true, guys, we’re all going down, or rather, the prints are going to fold. However, Marshall McLuhan was wrong, the medium is not the message; or rather, the idea that user-generated content is going to supplant the need for a caste of professional scribes is nonsense. Something like the newspaper will endure — but on the web. In the meantime, hacks on the London Guardian are required to enter the blogosphere, and, since their email addresses are also at the bottom of their print columns, engage in lengthy discussions with the iPod-heads. Those at the Telegraph even have to do their stuff as podcasts. Thank Nike the editors I work for haven’t sicked on to this. Yet.