Novedades

To age, they say, is to decline. Yet some things actually improve as they get older: certain wines, His Majesty King Charles, certain cheeses and, most of all, the Alan Partridge podcast, now back for its fourth series. What will this series offer that the first three didn’t? Nothing, that’s not the point. Instead it will continue, just as before, to draw back the curtain, open the cupboard and provide full loft access to the life of one of the most fascinating men in north Norfolk (Alan Partridge).

So here we are. You, me, and probably a little skepticism about why a grown woman would willingly spend her life nude outside of, like, showers and doctor visits. I get it. I used to be like you—modest, covered, and a firm believer that boobs were only supposed to see daylight once every two years during a bikini mishap. But then life took a turn. A weird, slippery, slightly jiggly turn. I didn’t wake up one morning and say, “You know what would make my life better? Not wearing pants ever again.” No, it started with a wine-fueled backyard dare, an overly confident Susan, and one ...

I didn’t mean to become obsessed with naked people. It just sort of... happened. One minute I was a perfectly normal, panty-wearing woman doing my grocery shopping and wondering if I left the crockpot on, and the next I was googling “Can your neighbors see you naked through tinted windows” because Damian had insisted on air-drying after every single shower like he was a damn rotisserie chicken. It all started with Damian, of course. Beautiful, brown-eyed Damian with the body of a Greek god and the modesty of a sleepy toddler who lost his pajama bottoms. The first time I saw him naked,...

If you’re holding this book, I’m going to assume one of three things. One, you’re genuinely curious about the wild world of bodily functions and not afraid to laugh about it. Two, you’ve had a recent “incident” and need answers. Or three, you just like the word shart and wanted to see where this was going. No judgment. All of the above is perfectly reasonable. Now, let’s get something straight right outta the chute. I am not a doctor. I am not a scientist. I’m just a woman with a long history of bowel-related mishaps, a love for sciencey rabbit holes, and zero shame about ...

Alright y’all, let me paint you a picture. It’s 7:42 p.m. on a Wednesday. I’m buck naked in my kitchen, holding a glass of cabernet like it's a weapon of self-love, stirring a pot of risotto with one hand and trying not to let my boob graze the hot pan because that is how nipples die. Tanya just texted me, “U up?” which means she’s either drunk or about to ask me if I still have that bottle of whipped cream vodka in my freezer from our “Bachelor Finale and Feelings” night. (Yes, I do. And no, I’m not proud of it.) Now listen, if you’ve never eaten a warm chocolate lava ...

So here's the thing. I didn’t grow up thinking, you know what would really make my life better? More nudity. I wasn’t some mystical forest child twirling through the grass with daisy chains on my nipples. I was a fully clothed, slightly neurotic, Target-bra-wearing woman with a Costco membership and a tendency to apologize when someone else bumps into me. The most skin I used to show was when I wore those tiny socks that don’t even cover your heel. And now here I am, writing a whole damn book about living naked. Life is weird. I’m Kristin. I’m 38. I’ve had 11 boyfriends, 2 ...

Now listen, I wasn’t always the kind of person who thought nudity had spiritual properties. In fact, I used to clutch my towel tighter than a Southern grandma clutching her pearls during a thunderstorm. But one Tuesday morning, while holding a lukewarm cup of gas station coffee and watching a squirrel scratch its butt in a moment of pure, unselfconscious glory, I had a revelation. That squirrel didn’t care about judgment or cellulite or tax season. It just lived. Naked. And free. And probably itchy, but still, the point stands. I didn’t set out to become a naked runner. I wasn’t ...

Meet Charley Smollett, aka Michael Palin. Charley, like Mr Palin, is a seasoned traveller of the world - well, certain parts of Somerset - in his trusty caravan, along with his long-suffering wife Shirl, his bickering teenage kids Jack and Chloe, their gypsy friends Arffa and Girt, and of course not forgetting Charley's friendly nemesis, PC John Holland, aka Robocop. Hitching Up is a blisteringly funny series of adventure stories and, as author Bill Jackman says, it contains no sex or violence - apart from maybe a bit of a snog and a punch on the nose.