James Innes-Smith

1 week ago | spectator.com.au | James Innes-Smith

Every Easter, the Creme Egg dominates supermarket shelves. It is, Cadbury’s marketing department loves to remind us, ‘the nation’s favourite Easter egg’. Its popularity sometimes verges on cultlike. In 2016, when Cadbury opened a pop-up café in Soho called Crème de la Creme Egg Café, people queued down the street to eat something they could have bought at any old corner shop.

1 week ago | spectator.co.uk | James Innes-Smith

Text size Small Medium Large Line Spacing Compact Normal Spacious Comments Every Easter, the Creme Egg dominates supermarket shelves. It is, Cadbury’s marketing department loves to remind us, ‘the nation’s favourite Easter egg’. Its popularity sometimes verges on cultlike. In 2016, when Cadbury opened a pop-up café in Soho called Crème de la Creme Egg Café, people queued down the street to eat something they could have bought at any old corner shop. In 2019, a mega-fan from Liverpool had a...

1 month ago | spectator.com.au | James Innes-Smith

At last month’s BAFTA ceremony, the British actor David Tennant attempted to make a joke about the state of Donald Trump’s hair, but it barely got a chuckle. Not surprising, perhaps, when you consider the dramatic vibe shift sweeping the western world. In a desperate attempt to stay relevant, many on the progressive left are suddenly choosing to distance themselves from the luxury beliefs they once held as sacred.

1 month ago | spectator.co.uk | James Innes-Smith

At last month’s Bafta ceremony, David Tennant attempted to make a joke about the state of Donald Trump’s hair, but it barely raised a chuckle. Not surprising, perhaps, when you consider the dramatic vibe-shift sweeping the western world. In a desperate attempt to stay relevant many on the progressive left are suddenly choosing to distance themselves from the luxury beliefs they once held as sacrosanct. But this has led to confusion, especially when it comes to comedy.

1 month ago | spectator.co.uk | James Innes-Smith

I’m on the 10.45 slow train to Ipswich. It’s not even lunchtime, yet everyone around me is already gorging on food. The corpulent man opposite is posting fistfuls of cheesy Doritos into his gaping maw, washing them down with cheap lager. A woman is noisily chomping her way through a limp burger that reeks of dirty vegetable oil. On my right, I’m greeted by the unmistakable whiff of Greggs meat pie, an unholy stench best described as ‘care-home carpet’.