Today marks the 19th anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death. As a dedicated fan I recently visited the Seattle park that has become a shrine to his memory to contemplate the Nirvana frontman’s legacy.
Eusebio in ’66, Cruyff in ’74, Socrates in ’82. They may not have won the Jules Rimet but they stole our hearts
Billionaire business man Dmitry Itskov recently set up an immortality research centre. He should’ve just taken a step inside the Cryonics Institute in Michigan, where the super rich stick their bodies in the freezer until science can cure them of death.
Among the many plus points of working from home, a dangerous intruder lurks nearby. I speak of course of daytime TV, a wasteland of feral chavs, middle-aged women talking about their muffs and Noel Edmonds.
My relationship with Twitter is one of necessity and nothing more. It offers little in the way of intellectual betterment and I’m sick of people like Warne and Hurley banging on…
Why fill your weekend with charity bike rides, wine bar openings and weddings when you can sit back, stop living in denial and accept the futility of your own existence?
Loudmouth Sally Bercow becomes the first inmate to be evicted from the newly revamped Celebrity Big Brother. But does anyone give a shit?
Why do we look at other sides shortcomings instead of our own greatness? Is English cricket too neurotic to enjoy being the best in the world?
Love ‘em or hate ‘em, there’s no denying we’ve all entered into transatlantic pissing contests on internet forums. If you ask me, it’s where all the cool people hang out…
Perennial underachievers Argentina have had to watch Brazil win two World Cups and four Copa Americas since they last won it 1993, will the plan to play like Barcelona bear fruit?
Sent all your emails, checked your facebook, tweeted something funny and watched that sick video on Sabotage? Then you might get round to getting out of bed.
It’s Awards season, when Gervais gets to slag off Hollywood and you stare bemused as Take That walk away with the Best Group award at The Brits. But how about some awards that really matter: to those nauseating, ire-inducing, pointless pieces of guff that spoil our televisual enjoyment of an evening, and test our will to live?
X-Factor is not entertainment, it’s Jeremy Kyle with a backing track. The most worrying thing is, the nation can’t get enough of it.