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Tonight I saw Michael Portillo, in a BBC documentary, with a copy of George Bradshaw’s Victorian Railway Guidebook as he journeyed up the west coast of Scotland from Ayr to Skye.

Michael visits the hometown of Robbie Burns and finds out how to make haggis, discovers how the railways transformed the game of golf . . . → Read More: Barga to Paisley

Last night we went to see James Cordon in One man Two Guvnors streamed live to our local cinema direct from The National on the South Bank – it was superb, the best theatre I have seen since I can’t remember.  I laughed from beginning to end.  For a large man he was . . . → Read More: National Theatre on our doorstep

Brilliant piece from Gentlemen Ranters

By Colin Dunne

Goodness knows, my 30-odd years in Fleet Street produced very little by way of achievement, fame or trophies. All I’ve got to show for it are a few divorce court appearances, arteries as congested as Shoe Lane, and a collection of anecdotes that can never be told. Why not? Because normal people would never believe them.

But I do have one claim to distinction of which I’m seriously proud, and it’s one that very few old Mirror men can make… For I knew Eric Wainwright.

Oh yes, there are plenty who are familiar with the legend of Invisible Eric, the ghost of fourth floor features. But I doubt if any of them ever actually set eyes upon him. And fewer still who heard, first-hand, his explanation of why he found it necessary to wear his St James’s Street hat while seated upon the lavatory.

But I did. I knew him quite well. And his hat. And I’m glad I caught his show while it was still – just – in town.

It happened at a time when I found myself working in the features room on Sunday mornings.

I always had it to myself. Until one morning when in bowled this dapper chap. Although clearly startled at having to share the room, he gave a jovial wave and sat down at a typewriter. The telephone rang. ‘No,’ he said, with complete conviction, ‘there’s no-one here called Dunne.’

At this point I thought it wise to introduce myself. He apologised for not knowing me. In fact, he didn’t seem to know anyone. ‘Who’s the features editor now?’ I said it was Bill Hagerty. ‘Is he a little blonde chap with a moustache?’ I said no, he was a tallish dark chap with a clean upper lip. He nodded. ‘Bit out of touch these days,’ he said. ‘I try to keep out of the way.’

At that he was triumphantly successful. His contact with the office was his monthly visit, on a Sunday morning when the place was deserted, to do four weeks’ expenses. A little cautiously, I said that I hadn’t seen his byline recently. ‘No, old boy, haven’t had a piece in for six years.’

I murmured something about how upsetting it must be to have all that copy spiked. He looked at me as though I was insane. ‘Lord no; haven’t written anything for six years.’

Continue reading I knew Eric Wainwright

This huge portrait of Aung San Suu Kyi was painted this week for the Brighton Festival.  She has just been made an Honorary Freewomen of the city of Brighton and Hove.  It was painted in 8 . . . → Read More: Aung San Suu Kyi in Brighton