Jim Corbridge Official

Let’s begin at Wimbledon, where Arthur Ferya British wildcard with the energy of a man who has accidentally wandered into Centre Court while looking for the gift shop nearly made it to the final.  He was stopped by Alexander Zverev, who specialises in crushing dreams with the calm efficiency of a man ironing a shirt.Fery had apparently planned a holiday in Greece but cancelled it to play Wimbledon instead. This is the kind of decision that would ruin most people’s summer (“I gave up Santorini for what?”), but in his case it produced a fairytale fortnight. He became the nation’s new favourite underdog, the sort of player who makes you shout at the TV, “YES, ARTHUR, BELIEVE IN YOURSELF,” even though you personally have never believed in anything more complicated than a sandwich. Speaking of emotional rollercoasters, Czech tennis delivered a final so dramatic it should have come with a seatbelt. Linda Noskova was cruising toward victory—6‑2, 5‑2, five championship points—b...

What a week. Honestly, if you tried to explain Sam Fender and Olivia Dean to an alien—“Yes, they’re British, yes, they sing, yes, they’ve broken a chart record previously held by Wet Wet Wet, which is a real band name and not a plumbing emergency”—the alien would immediately get back in its spaceship and leave.  Sixteen weeks at number one. Sixteen. That’s not a chart run, that’s a tenancy agreement. At this point Rein Me In has been at the top longer than most houseplants survive in my kitchen. It has outlasted fads, trends, and at least three of my attempts to get into yoga.And it’s not just any record they’ve broken they’ve surpassed Wet Wet Wet’s Love Is All Around, a song that clung to the charts in 1994 with the tenacity of a toddler refusing to leave a soft‑play centre. They’ve also equalled Bryan Adams’ Everything I Do (I Do It For You), which stayed at number one for so long that historians still debate whether it was a song or a minor form of government. Meanw...

This week’s news review begins, improbably, with embroidery.  Not just any embroidery, but the Bayeux Tapestry the world’s most famous 70‑metre graphic novel returning to the UK for the first time in nearly a thousand years. This is astonishing, because most things created a thousand years ago have either crumbled, been misplaced, or are currently buried under a Waitrose car park.The tapestry is essentially medieval Europe’s version of a blockbuster film: swords, horses, battles, questionable haircuts. It’s the only piece of art where you can say, “I’m just popping out to look at a 1066 spoiler,” and nobody blinks. Historians are thrilled. The rest of us are mostly impressed that something stitched before the invention of electricity has survived longer than my last attempt at sourdough. Meanwhile, Gibraltar has entered a new era by removing 118‑year‑old border controls with Spain. This is huge. For more than a century, crossing that border required paperwork, patience,...

17 July - Friday Britain wakes to “hot but not fun hot” conditions, with the south hitting around 31–32°C and the north pretending it’s autumn again. Commuters in London will enjoy the traditional morning game of “Is this sweat or am I dying?” as temperatures hover around 32°C.  Expect dry skies everywhere except the far southeast, where the weather may attempt a thundery tantrum before giving up.  18 July – Saturday A classic British weekend: warmish, cloudy, and sprinkled with rain so light it’s basically atmospheric sarcasm. Highs around 19°C in many places, with the south still clinging to the last shreds of heatwave bravado.  Perfect conditions for saying “We’ll still have the barbecue” and then eating indoors. 19 July – Sunday More cloud, more tiny pointless rain, more Brits insisting “It’s actually quite nice once you’re out in it.” Highs around 19°C again, with the nation’s collective mood matching the sky: grey but resigned.  20 July – Monday Tem...

If you’ve ever met a dramatist, you already know they are not regular humans. Regular humans wake up, drink tea, check their email, and attempt to get through the day without accidentally setting anything on fire.  A dramatist wakes up, stares at the ceiling like Hamlet contemplating the void, and decides the ceiling is a metaphor for society’s failure to appreciate their genius. Then they set something on fire, but only because it “serves the narrative arc.”The dramatist is powered by three things: caffeine, self‑doubt, and the absolute conviction that everyone else is wrong. This is why dramatists cannot do normal tasks like buying shopping. A normal person walks into Tesco, grabs a loaf of bread, and leaves. A dramatist enters Tesco and immediately begins a three‑act tragedy about the existential symbolism of reduced‑price crumpets. They will stand in the bakery aisle whispering, “What does it mean?” while other shoppers quietly edge away. Dramatists also h...

The thing about Party Animals is that they are not technically animals, although many of them do shed, bite, and occasionally attempt to mark territory! A Party Animal is that one person at every gathering who arrives with the energy of a caffeinated squirrel and leaves only after the police, the neighbours, and possibly the fire brigade have all made cameo appearances.I’ve known several Party Animals in my life, and they all share certain traits. First, they possess an unshakeable belief that any object can be used as a hat. Lampshades, salad bowls, traffic cones, a small dog if it fits on the head, it’s fashion. Second, they believe gravity is optional. A Party Animal will climb things. They don’t know why. They don’t plan it. They simply see a bookshelf and think, “Yes. Up.”The Party Animal also has a supernatural ability to locate music. You can be in a silent room, no speakers, no radio, nothing plugged in, and suddenly they’re dancing to something only they can he...

If you have never been to Las Vegas, imagine a place where every neon bulb ever manufactured since the dawn of civilisation has been forcibly stapled to a single square mile of desert, and then someone said, “Needs more glitter.”  Las Vegas is what happens when humanity collectively decides that subtlety is for losers and that the true purpose of electricity is to illuminate a 24‑hour buffet offering prawns of suspicious origin I can confirm that it is the only city where you can see a man dressed as Elvis, a woman dressed as a flamingo, and a person who appears to be dressed as existential despair, all before breakfast. The airport alone is a psychological test. You step off the plane, and immediately there are slot machines. Slot machines. In the airport. This is like putting a treadmill in a kebab shop: cruel, confusing, and guaranteed to make someone cry. The first thing you notice on the Strip is that every hotel is trying to out‑Vegas the others. One has...