Jeremy Clarke

Jeremy Clarke writes the The Spectator Low Life column.

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Would this Marseille-bound flight be the death of me?

As the chap I was wedged against coughed and sneezed his mask awry, I look out of the window and thought about dying

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

What angry young French men want

As I bought the drinks, Didier told me that voluntary euthanasia was in and casino capitalism out

By Jeremy Clarke

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In praise of French doctors

Thirty-five years ago, my nurse had competed against an English team who played rugby with a violence that was incredible

By Jeremy Clarke

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Is left the new right?

Emile had the face of one who had stared into the abyss at exactly the moment the wind had changed

By Jeremy Clarke

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The joy of Xanax

Back in her examination room, I presented her with my sample

By Jeremy Clarke

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An 11-year-old’s birthday party was hijacked by Brexit

While our guests laid into Boris and Dominic Cummings, the birthday boy and I played with matches

By Jeremy Clarke

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Our village has a communist bar and a fascist bar. If only I could remember which is which

If there’s a televised match on somewhere in the world, the communist bar will be showing it on the big screen with the volume turned up

By Jeremy Clarke

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Rules for a deconfinement dinner party

Our place settings were as widely spaced as the surrounding Provençal geography

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

My first post-lockdown party

Perhaps this boozy convivial affair will shake me out of my macabre state

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

Shrieks, shots and broken china: a visit to my rural French doctor

As we all sat in the waiting room, we wondered what social enormity the doctor might commit next

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

Vodka, kaolin and morphine: my welcome drinks at The Spectator offices

After I’d partaken of this cocktail with Mary Wakefield, I had my first encounter with a speechless Boris Johnson

By Jeremy Clarke

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I was relishing the lockdown a week ago, but now I need urgent hospital treatment

I need to have a stent removed from my urethra — and pronto

By Jeremy Clarke

Drink

How to sample your own urine

Michael took an imaginary draft and did that thoughtful, rabbity connoisseur’s tasting thing with his mouth

By Jeremy Clarke

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My love affair with Hannah Arendt

Stoned out of our minds on a few puffs, we watched in awed silence, hanging on her every word, every clause, every sentence

By Jeremy Clarke

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White Christmas: the magic of the festive drugs binge

Among partying druggies, the trust that has disappeared from every level of society is fully present

By Jeremy Clarke

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