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Nick Ferrari. The World and London According to Nick Ferrari
Contents
Brits in the air? Fine, so long as they’re called Stephanie…
Guess what, Son – I’m a chair!
How Mogadishu taught me to stop worrying and love my dentist
I don’t hate cyclists, I just want to protect their knackers
The rise and rise of Billy No Mates
Why I make foxes laugh and Wayne Rooney stare
Why should I love my bum? Nobody else does…
Myrtle the Fresian: pin-up for the discerning heavy metal fan?
Goat dung: the new black
Why the Royal Family really should be a laughing matter…
Technology? I’d rather go down the Dog and Duck
Why I feel like Kate Moss in the flyovers…
Porridge all round, and pass the apple sauce
Make poverty history? I’d rather make Bono history…
Witchdoctors: alive and well and living in Chancery Lane
In defence of Christmas
Why I’ll take Clacton-on-Sea over St Tropez any time
Europe: nul points!
Vote Nick Ferrari for Archbishop if you want the F word in church
Prince Philip in suspenders? Now that’s entertainment!
The laughing policemen
Requiem to a flying blackboard rubber
Having it all, and why you can’t – even if you’re Germaine Greer
A night out in London
America? China? Nah … it’s all happening in Tescoland
Giving Auntie a kick up the jacksie
Help! Is there an aromatherapist in the house?
How do we put up with Ken? And how does he put up with me?
If in doubt, ask Sid
Gordon Ramsay: prick with a fork
London 2012? Let’s have a Whopper and curly fries instead
The Spanish Inquisition: alive and well, and living in Holmes Place
That’s enough touchy-feely – let’s bring back the nasty party
Dead cows and white elephants
Order, order! Why some honourable members need some real whipping into shape
Did you hear the one about the Pope and The Most Holy Carmelite Order of Prestatyn?
Nick Ferrari’s Manifesto for London
Scent of a Woman
Copyright
Отрывок из книги
Remember the days when air travel was the preserve of the glamorous, the jet set and the elite? Well, if you do, you just won’t believe what it’s like now. In the course of being a reporter for a series of national newspapers and shuttling across the Atlantic fairly regularly when I was working for Fox TV in the United States as part of Rupert Murdoch’s organisation, I was exposed to just about every variety of air travel you can imagine.
One image will never leave me. To explain it fully, I need to put it in context. Whenever I crossed the Atlantic I always chose, whenever possible, Virgin Atlantic. Sir Richard Branson’s airline is nothing short of genius. They consistently have the best facilities, the smartest crew and the most enjoyable flights (there – that should secure the next upgrade or three…). Because of the number of air miles I chalked up with Virgin Atlantic, I found myself upgraded to a gold-card holder and therefore able to enjoy lounge access at all airports. I was flying from Gatwick to Newark and, as I was a member of the Executive Club, I was able to wait until almost the last minute to board the aircraft – not only was a special announcement made in the first-class lounge, but a stunningly stylish young woman, complete with the Virgin Atlantic uniform hugging her in all the right places, arrived to escort me to the departure gate. We walked through and I was in the blissful mental state of being a mix between being James Bond and a leading captain of industry. Then, as I neared the boarding gates, I looked to my right and saw the last few members of economy class being boarded for the flight.
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So the council had two options:
1. They could go completely bloody mad and ban all pig products in the office. Or,
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