Every evening in Watton is more or less the same. Around six, the children start to gather in the cafe in the High Street, sitting at the moulded plastic tables, pushing butt ends round the ash trays, until the cafe closes at seven and they move across the road to the pavement outside the Gateway supermarket, where they slump together in the doorway and watch the town go dark.
Stories categorized “Human stories”:
It’s hard to be sure exactly when Les McKeown’s bubble burst. Maybe it was right back on his first night in the Bay City Rollers when the lead guitarist ordered him to dump his girl friend and Les ended up trying to batter him on the back seat of the car. Maybe it was when the promoter in America pulled a gun on him, or when his manager was busted for gross indecency, or when he got so fed up in the recording studio one time that he sneaked in after dark and wiped all the tapes clean. Maybe it was only ever really perfect when it was all in Les’ head.
I have never liked my name. I’ve always thought it dull, but, on the other hand, it has never done me any harm. Now, however, nobody at all likes my name. Suddenly, it is mud of the nastiest sort, so nasty that it may well do me harm. Because my name also belongs to someone else.
The strange tale of Captain Jack and the Great Adventure is the sort of story that would once have been made into a film by Ealing Studios. It is full of very English characters – the boatload of unlikely rebels striking out for freedom, the country vicar who joins them, the village policeman who helps them, and the man from the ministry who pursues them with his big book of little rules – and underneath all the slapstick and sentiment, the film would simply have asserted what every romantic rebel knows, that there is a special kind of freedom in daring to be different.
Clarence Brandley always knew the truth. Long before his own trouble started – before the white girl was killed, before he was blamed, before he was condemned to death – he knew how dangerous it was to be a black man in a town like Conroe.
It was a bad night in Bethlehem when a couple of travellers found themselves forced by a housing crisis to sleep in a lowly cattle shed. Yet, on an ordinary night in England nearly two thousand years later, Jake Sudworth frequently has to do the same.
Ernest Hemingway believed that bullfighting was a great and uplifting art, a sacred ritual in which courage, honour and death were all perfectly blended into the most tragic and most inspiring of spectacles. But Ernest Hemingway never saw a bullfight on a Friday night in Frontignan.
The Westminster Abbey Game is a contest for two teams. On one side are the Wrist Slappers, who may be male or female, are invariably elderly and grey-haired and usually wear conservative clothes from the 1940s. Then there are the Foreigners, lots of them, and preferably draped in plenty of photographic hardware.
Mail on Sunday magazine
This is the story of an American romance, of a man and a woman alone in this crazy world with only their dreams and a standard set of surgical tools to inspire them, and of how they found happiness in their own special way.
The man is Dr Harvey Austin – tall, [...]
The Scotsman and the New Zealand Dominion
November 14 1988
Robert T Morris Jnr – or RTM as he is generally known – struck a special chord here last week when the computer virus which he had developed in his study at Cornell University raced through the Defence Department and out into the rest of the country [...]