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Occasionally, a French person reveals – without any malice or superciliousness – that they run on an alternative operating system from us here in Britain. Over the years, a surprising theme has emerged in my conversations with Frenchmen: butter. Take my first visit to Paris, more than 30 years ago. I innocently asked for butter with my croissant. Simple answer: “Non.” Naturally, I remonstrated. The waiter retorted: “A croissant eeez butter!” He had a point. Upon biting into said viennoiserie, I had to concede: it was nothing like the dry grocery store versions I was used to. Moments later, a small pot of raspberry confiture was graciously placed on my

I have been having a John le Carré holiday. Five years after the great master of the spy thriller went to his final safe house in the sky, I spent chunks of the festive season watching two of his series on TV, and reading a slim volume called The Secret Life of John le Carré by his biographer Adam Sisman. Amazon Prime’s big New Year drama offering is The Night Manager, a sequel series to one of le Carré’s later stories, and simultaneously the BBC has been re-running le Carré’s 1970s masterpiece, the seven-part mole hunt Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, starring the late, great Alec Guinness as spymaster George Smiley.

Bonjour and bienvenue to the Clooneys. Gorgeous George, his wife Amal and their eight-year-old twins have been granted French citizenship. The Hollywood actor has long had a deep streak of Europhilia, owning luxury properties in Berkshire and Lake Como, Italy, as well as his pad in Provence. Located near the village of Brignoles, the Clooneys’ €9 million ($10.5 million) wine estate spans 425 acres, including an olive grove, swimming pool and tennis court. In an interview last month with a French radio station, 64-year-old Clooney declared (in English) that “I love the French culture, your language, even if I’m still bad at it after 400 days of courses.” He also

I can remember when I first realized that something strange was happening to white men in Hollywood. It was around 2014, and my younger colleagues in LA – often British writers, directors and actors who had moved to California to “make it” – began reporting, anecdotally, that their work was disappearing. By that I don’t mean the normal vicissitudes of a volatile creative industry. I don’t mean actors “resting” or scripts getting stuck in “development hell.” I mean that all jobs, and job opportunities, were abruptly vanishing. Applications went nowhere, résumés were binned, hopeful meetings were suddenly canceled. And white men in Hollywood in their twenties or thirties, who had assumed they

Teams from two Islamic countries playing in one of America’s wokest cities on the anniversary of Stonewall – what could go wrong?

The pièce de résistance was roast goose with gravy and potatoes in goose fat

The past few weeks has seen the pleasing spectacle of beautiful female film stars (Sydney Sweeney, Keira Knightley – even the previous Trump Derangement Syndrome sufferer Jennifer Lawrence, who once said that an orange victory would be “the end of the world”) refusing to toe the accepted Hollywood line on politics, be it by not kowtowing to trans activists or not accepting that everything is racist. Lawrence actually said: “Election after election, celebrities do not make a difference whatsoever on who people vote for” – or as I wrote here: “How dim would a political party need to be to understand that not only do celeb endorsements not work, but have an actual repelling effect?” We