Clive James

The dimly lit back room of the Japanese restaurant is empty save for some scruffy codger hunched up in the corner, sitting sideways on, lost in his thoughts. At 56, it seems, Clive Vivian Leopold James has become smaller than life. Only when I am opposite him, face to face, do the features of the man on the box lurch into focus. And this is just as unnerving. After we have been chatting for a few minutes, picking over a salver of sushi, I forget that we are mid-conversation. I have been watching Read more [...]

James Hewitt

In the outer morning room of a gentlemen's club in Pall Mall, a tall, languid figure stoops over a table. The day's papers are fanned out in front of him. As he browses, he purses his lips and nods to himself. I can't believe it, I say as I walk over and join him. He hasn't made it on to a single front page. 'I know,' he says with a soft, joyless laugh. 'It's been three whole days now. It's like being in cold turkey.' Ah yes, that headline in last Sunday's News of the World: RAT HEWITT 3-IN-A-BED Read more [...]