I wrote The Infidel for three reasons.
1. I’ve always been a fan of life-swap comedy (Big, Trading Places etc)
2. I think that people are terrified about race and religion, especially issues surrounding Muslims and Jews, and when people are terrified, what they really should do is laugh, and…
3. I love Omid Djalili and his big funny face. I’m hoping that people recognise that underneath the comedy, the message of the film is one of mutual tolerance: if not, I’m hoping to find a new identity.”
Column by David in The Times.
It’s not often — in fact, it’s never — that I’ve been genuinely moved by a tweet, but it happened this week. Even more surprisingly, the tweet came from the computer/BlackBerry/hand-held- communicator-with-added-age-reduction-capability device of Demi Moore. It said, in response to Patrick Swayze’s death: “In the words of Sam to Molly, ‘It’s amazing Molly. The love inside, you take it with you . . .’ ” I read it going up an escalator in Oxford Circus, and real, salt tears stained my London Lite.
Column by David in The Times.
Here’s the thing about holidays: if they’re any good, halfway through you become oppressed by the idea of them ending. Or is this just me? I’ve tried to stop this happening, but always, by the beginning of the second week, whatever fragile Zen state of awayness I’ve managed to build up starts to fray at the edges. I can feel London start to creep back into my head: and when I say London, I don’t mean some dynamic vision of the capital, a wide swooping view of the City shot from The Gherkin, I mean something grey, mundane, drizzly. I mean through the lapping sound of the sea I can hear the theme tune to London Tonight. Sometimes an enormous vision of Alistair Stewart actually rises out of the beach, like a very unthrilling version of the Sandman in Spider-Man, intoning solemnly about a hospital closure in Gunnersbury Park.