Allison Pearson

How is your psychological prep for the World Cup going? Clearly, as Her Indoors – actually Her Outdoors knocking back rosé in the garden and charting England’s progress (ahem) with remarkable precision according to the pitch of the despairing howls coming through the French doors – I am a mere onlooker. Although I invariably end up getting sucked in with each passing round and graduate rapidly from Annoying Woman that asks, “Who’s he?” to Really Annoying Woman who has an opinion on the form of p

“The policies being advocated by Andy Burnham are not the answers to Britain's economic problems.”

“There is not a cat in hell's chance that this will stop the small boats.”

If the drama had been written by William Shakespeare, he'd have said the night was full of strange portents.

Isn’t it time Prince Harry grew up? On the cusp of middle age, the 41-year-old is as irritating and slappable as Kevin the Teenager – still stropping about in a baseball cap, refusing to join his family at an agreed time, then going mental when they lose patience, call his bluff and drive off without him.

Isn't it time Prince Harry grew up? On the cusp of middle age, the 41-year-old is as irritating and slappable as Kevin the Teenager – still stropping

There was a moment yesterday when we thought Nigel Farage might throw in the towel and resign. “I will leave the country,” was the first thought that came into my head when my editor texted to say the leader of Reform UK would be making a statement at 2pm about his political future. Although he is not a perfect vessel to contain all our hopes and fears – no human being could be – millions of us have concluded that if we don’t have a Reform government in 2029, or at the very least a strong, Right-wing, properly conservative alliance dedicated to putting the interests of the British people first, then the Britain that we love is finished.

Fifty years ago, Patrick Hutber, then former city editor of The Sunday Telegraph , wrote a weekly article under the headline: “Improvement means

I had just filed this piece on Ann Widdecombe when my editor told me it was believed she had been murdered. It was shattering news. At the age of 78, Ann had been a bit wobbly on her pins since December when she fell as she was trying to protect a mouse from her cat. Nonetheless, Ann’s death came as a complete shock to colleagues and friends because, only 24 hours earlier, she had been on fine form, giving characteristically robust media interviews (loyally backing Nigel Farage on his decision to trigger a by-election in Clacton), and showing no sign of ill health.

Tonight’s the night, as an excited nation tells itself: “Don’t get your hopes up!” But then we get our hopes up anyway because: a) We never learn; b) Harry Kane just won a header; and c) If we can emerge victorious from that shambles against Norway then anything is possible.