The sun popped out last weekend. Cue long-sleeved shirt, jacket and irrational panic. I was properly baking as I headed to St James’s Park but at least those pesky UV rays couldn’t penetrate my multiple layers. Better sweat buckets than risk death. Seriously. Twenty years ago I was more gung ho. You’d even see me …
Every May I’m reminded of the enormous debt I owe to International Stephen. As the name suggests, he’s a global player. In this case, in the world of Soca. I like to think of International — we’re on first name terms these days — as a close friend. But it wasn’t always that way. In …
Believe it or not, long before Whitley Bay became a gentrified coastal retreat for wealthy retirees and post-pandemic millennials, it rivalled Newcastle’s infamous Bigg Market as a melting pot for no-holds-barred partying. During the hedonistic 80s and 90s, when it came to letting your hair down in Whitley, the gloves — and just about everything …
“I’m a 60-year-old with the thigh muscles of a man half my age. Go on, have a feel.” I almost choked on my cherry Coke. My shorthand suddenly drifted off into a trembling, wavy scribble. I could feel beads of sweat starting to drip down the inside of my best pinstripe trilby. And I realised …
“But what’s the local angle,” my irritable news editor would bark across the office floor at least 10 times every day. Inevitably, there was one. And the Chronicle, like every local and regional newspaper back in the day, would pride itself on finding some close-to-home connection to the biggest story of the day — however …
‘Funeral van drops coffin’. Even today, the rather sobering headline still beggars belief. But it happened. And I was there. Almost. Back in the day — when there was barely room to move in the newsroom, 10 reporters were chasing every story and exclusives were like gold dust — it was difficult to make your …
I should have known it was going to be one of those nights as the over-excited drugs dog carefully cocked his left leg over my pristine satchel and emptied that day’s water bowl without pausing for breath. The cops were creasing themselves as I searched for my emergency packet of Handy Andies before frantically seeking …
Before you ask, I’ve never seen Ye naked. I’m talking about Kim Kardashian’s second husband. The one before Mr West and the one after Damon Thomas. The bloke she married and divorced after just 72 days following the whirlwind romance gone wrong. So far, I’ve only seen one of Kim’s hubbies modelling his birthday suit …
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