Planet or a Punnet - No Contest!

Smack my bottom I'm eating strawberries in December! Juicy red ones, big as satsumas and they taste ... food for the gods.

So naughty! See those fingers wagging! What about the planet? All those air miles! Really, do you need out of season fruit? We've got lots of wormy English apples after all. I could be feasting on a Cox's pippin and feeling all self-righteous.

Lord, but there's much of that about! The holy souls. They want us to have a conscience about EVERYTHING, but especially global warming. Think of the poor polar bears. I like polar bears. David Attenborough has my vote. If he films them in the Arctic or Antwerp, it's all the same to me. Be a loss if they went, big time.

But you know what? Those strawberries - and they really were totally delicious - came from Egypt. Poor farmers there are having a rotten time. The tourists stay away, but the camels and the kids still need feeding. Tesco was selling those punnets at £4 for two, cheaper than I paid in June. I'll be back buying for as long as they have them, hoping that someone, somewhere along the Nile, is better for it. The planet will be here long after they are.

What Kind of God?

A little girl is spat on for dressing as a child. Deeply religious men think she is immodest. They believe their god will smile on them if they demonstrate in a particularly filthy and disgusting way.

I've been spat on and nothing makes you feel more despised. What could an eight-year-old girl possibly have done to deserve this? Ultra othodox jews called her a whore and now Naama Margolese is afraid to go to school. Perhaps that was the whole idea, since education and reason had nothing to do with this.

What thoughts go through a grown man's mind when he sees sexuality in one so young? Normal men can only be appalled.

Now finally, at last, the moderate majority has said "enough!" and organised a mass rally to protest against the extremists in Israel. Could we wish for the same action in other parts of the world? We can but hope.

From Her Majesty and Me

Things you can't wait to do. Get rid of the tree. Ditto cards. Hoover the floor. Empty the bin and eat fresh fruit. Things you never want to see again. Mince pies, shonky turkey, pine needles, sweet dessert wine, the mother-in-law.

Things you still quite like. Candles, fairy lights, cosy evenings, good books and the smell of pine needles. Ditto clementines. Chocolates.

Things you can definitely do without. Traffic and the M25. Carols. Holly and even worse mistletoe. The Queen's speech - how is the old Duke? Rubbish on the telly.

Things that made our Christmas. Family, friends, good weather, empty roads, a fantastic surgeon and excellent staff at St Mark's Hospital in London. Ditto Papworth. Many, many thanks from the Queen and me. Roll on 2012. Happy New Year one and all.

Seasonal Stress - ask an Expert!

That's it then. Training done, just got to feed up now. Not another fartlek till November. Aiming for a PB this year. China, London, what are they, compared with what I'm up to? Frankly the calories aren't out there. I keep telling him, fill it up man, fill it up, but will he listen? Nah!

The wife says;" shush Rolfie, else he'll get dogs!" Dogs! What use are they? The old boy'll be off the back somewhere between Tobago and Tahiti and they won't notice! Set dogs off across snow and they don't stop till they're back in base and the bones are out. That's dogs for you.

They'll be pissing against chimneys and raising a racket to wake Dickens himself, never mind the kids. We might be big and lumbering but at least we keep it quiet. And we know the way, always a bonus when he's been on the brandy. There could be fog. That's why I'm out front, so I need to keep in shape. Looking pretty good too, though I say it myself. Sack could be lighter this year, something to do with less to go around.

Stuff that! Bring it on! Rudolf can handle it! Just watch, I'll be hitting the hay by breakfast time next Sunday and still fit for the girls come Boxing Day. That's training you see. Dogs!

Call me Hugh, Call Me!

Love Hugh Laurie, I really do, but who's tiddler is he pulling in those skin ads? He's all over the telly and the papers saying we too can look like him if we slap on a bit of moisturiser. Er, how to say this Hugh but ...you've got more wrinkles than my nan's custard.

Hangdog. Creased like the tin foil off the turkey. Or as Wooster might say you have the look of one who has. "drunk from the bottle of life and found a dead beetle at the bottom."

I'm not complaining. There's no one I'd rather have dinner with. Your Bertie was the best and House is legend. Shove in the piano playing and I'm yours. I'll get the bill.
It's just that you need to find your place pal and selling a young look isn't it. That boat left a long time ago. Only crusty barnacles left. It's not like you need the money. Is it a way of telling us you're worth it? Call me Sweetheart, just call me! I'll even put a salad on the side. Can't say fairer than that.

A Hero Dies, Murder Goes On

Nobody wants to create a martyr, especially not the Syrians. Killing a hero hurts the cause of the murderers. In Syria a lot of murdering is going on and we seem happy to sit back and ignore it. Why?

We see the courage of those on the streets, unarmed against a merciless regime that is determined to mow them down in their thousands. Still they keep coming. Now a saviour is dead. Dr Ibrahim Othman, 26, set up secret clinics to help the wounded. They had to be secret, because troops would invade hospitals to kill protesters in their beds.

Ibrahim knew he was a wanted man, so he tried to flee to Turkey and was shot on the border. How they will have celebrated! Did president Bashar al Assad raise a glass of champagne, or is he still insisting that the government forces are nothing to do with him? As he said, "only a crazy person would kill his own people." Condemned by his own words. Can he be put down like a rabid dog for his crimes against the Syrian people? Probably not.

Yet a brave medic can be executed for his compassion. Friends say:"This hero devoted his life to the oath he took. He saved lives, then left us with a wound that won't heal." It's time for the rest of us to say, enough. Too many are dying for a cause that is just.

Funniest Ever

This is the funniest thing I have read in ages, so I am sharing it in full, with credits at the end. It is entitled: The Least Successful Attempt To Go To The Lavatory and this is it."On a flight from Florida to Hanover Johann Grzeganek, a German tourist, was desperate to relieve himself shortly after takeoff.

"He could wait no longer, despite the insistence of the cabin crew that he stay seated while the seatbelt sign was on. It was far too late for this, so Grzeganek jumped up from his seat and giving a top drawer performance shouted in German, 'I have to go urgently to the lavatory, otherwise I will go through the roof, I am exploding!"

"Hearing the words 'Ich explodiere," the cabin crew, who spoke no German, assumed he was a suicide bomber and alerted the pilot, who dumped all his fuel and did an emergency landing at Fort Lauderdale.

"There Grzeganek was arrested and imprisoned for 10 months to await trial. When his case eventually came to court the judge dismissed it and apologised to him. Even then his ordeal wasn't over. Rearrested outside the prison because his tourist visa had run out, he was sent back to prison in Miami to await deportation.

"In the hands of a real artist even the simplest, everyday event can be transformed into a surreal drama of many acts." Huge thanks to Stephen Pile writing this in the Sunday Times news review section today. Buy the paper, there's loads more where that came from.

Price of a Pint of Blood - Free Booze

Free booze for blood - sounds good to me. Students in Leeds thought so too and were well up for it until a party pooper pulled the plug. Why? Perhaps they thought the guys would be rollicking out of the door after rolling up their sleeves, but these are seasoned drinkers and a pint of shandy is hardly going to send them over the edge.

They were not out to party. The blood bank can't compete with the student bar, even if one pint is free. They lack atmosphere. You get the odd moment of drama, when a bruiser crashes to the floor at the sight of a needle. It's always the big ones who go down hardest, claiming they've had nothing to eat all day.

Still, they are there, getting no more out of it than cold tea and a warm glow. You used to get a badge if you went often enough. You're O neg? Brilliant, let's have you up next before you change your mind. Just B pos? That'll do, there's bound to be one of your lot in bother before long. Get them young and keep them coming, whatever it takes, so that, come the car crash, there's enough of the precious stuff to do the job. Price of a pint of shandy seems cheap to me.

Turner for Brainy Only

Not turned on by the Turner winner? It's because you are dim. Now we know. Only people who have studied art can really appreciate the winner of this year's prize. The references are all there for those, " in the know."

The rest of us cannot possibly be expected to appreciate it. Rachel Campbell-Johnson writing in today's Times says Martin Boyce makes pieces for the, " visual anorak. Boyce is not an artist for the aesthetically illiterate. He is steeped in the language of art and he expects his spectators also to speak it - and fluently."

So if you don't understand it you should pretend and " disguise your baffled ignorance," so you don't seem thick. I'll come clean - it looks like a fancy picnic table to me, though I like the aluminium leaves. Is it worth £25,000? Not of my money, but it's nice enough in its way.

That's it really. I like art to move me, to enhance my everyday humdrum existence, reveal to me a mind that sees something more, something unique and truly special, beyond the experience of the world as we know it. That's asking a lot. I can wait.

Gambling in Schools Odds On Loser

Teach our kids how to gamble. Show them how to work a fruit machine, play cards, throw dice. Are they mad? GamCare, a gambling helpline, is behind this. Maybe give it a go then, since they know the score.

They say kids need to learn responsible gambling, to be aware of the odds stacked against them. They should also discuss in class the "more positive " aspects of gambling.

Woah, stop right there. Ever seen a kid hooked on the tombola? I have. They throw money at it, chucking every last penny of their pocket money away. The light goes on in the eyes, they grin like maniacs and no amount of encouragement to go visit the toy stall will put them off. Every loss looks to them like one step closer to winning. It's awesome to watch and incredibly scary too.

Gambling wastes lives and families. There are fathers who will spend their last few pence on a horse, rather than a loaf of bread. My dad was one of them. When he asked me which he should choose I said the horse. What difference? Every other penny had gone that way anyway. Former Schools Inspector Chris Woodhead talks sense. He said: "The best thing schools can do is teach children that the world has more exciting things in it than a flutter on the horses." Spot on.

Sins of the Dallying Dad

Unlikely to be feeling the pinch are prossies. In the financial sense. Now the French want to see an end to the good times, banning prostitution in Paris. Oh how we laughed! How likely is that, really? They plan to fine naughty boys two grand and shove them in prison for six months. Can they afford it? The fine won't pay the food bill.

A dad collapsed in shock when the prossie he hired turns out to be his 20-year-old daughter. Titus Ncube is in deep trouble. His daughter scarpered and wife Rosemary said: "If not for my children I could have divorced him long ago."

Tough times, but the girls won't hang up their fishnets any time soon. Could even be a few more of them out there. Pickings might be slim, but there will always be business. The French know this better than most. They had state brothels 800 years ago. We sniffy types pretend it's not happening. Titus knew it was and brought it all the way home. What a clever boy!

Celebrities or War? Tough Choice

Total time and money waster this Leveson business. So speaks a hack who has doorstepped a celebrity or two in her time. Let me save them all the trouble. Let's all agree that:

Phone hacking is wrong, though I still don't know how they did it. I have never met a reporter with the techie savvy needed. They had to rely on someone else for that. Had I wanted to I could have got Milly Dowler's number from one of her friends. Or given Joanne Rowling's child a letter to put in her bag for her mum. Easily done.

We all know when a line is crossed. Unless we are sociopaths and not many of those make it into journalism. Celebrity mags are not journalism. They are fantasy, none more so than the headline which put me off a job there. It was " I Was Raped By My Brother The Vicar." Even I could see that was a pile of horse crap, and this from one who shared a page with Freddie Starr's famous hamster.

Interesting to see how this inquiry differs from the Chilcot investigation into the Iraq war. Taken so much more seriously. In Times 2 today they ask: "Is this the end of our obsession with celebrity?" and on the same page is, " I was falsely imprisoned by Boy George." That would be a no then.

Irish Taking the Mick?

Happy days are here again. The sun has got his hat on, says the Irish Finance Minister Michael Noonan. Sporting a big grin in Dublin yesterday he said: "We think the euro is a very strong currency," So that's alright then Michael is it, Holy Mother you sure had us worried for a moment there, so you did.

Blarney ? It's not called the luck of the Irish for nothing. They've actually got growth of 1.6% over there, though God alone knows how. Mr Noonan chirrups gleefully that he does not consider the break-up of the Eurozone even a remote possibility.The crisis is over.

Mind you, he does worry a little bit about the riots in the streets of Athens. "We don't want widespread protests. We are not going down that road. We have very co-operative people in Ireland." Are we all talking about the same place here? Where a march has them building barricades? Granted that's their northern neighbours. Still, would you bet your wages on the Irish Finance Minister? Thought not.

New Dads Camping Out in Hospital Horror

New dads should stay on the wards overnight, just in case their partners need a midwife. Of course, it is a new dad saying this. He would. My view? Send them home and give the girls some peace.

As a mum of three, two born in hospital, I know the score. Hospital wards are noisy places. New babies cry a lot. Breastfeeding is clumsy at first and takes time to learn. Nobody needs a guy on the ward offering advice, even if he is your husband.

Most babies are born at night. That means there has already been one long night and day before the first one on the ward rolls around. The boys are complaining that it's wrong to send them home at 9pm. They want camp beds.

What horror is this? Go home guys. Get some kip. Come back refreshed, shaved and smelling nice. With chocolates and fruit, the last to get things moving. Stitches turn toilets into torture chambers, best to get the first one over with, without him banging on the door asking if he can help.

New mums lack confidence but they learn best when left in peace. A well-meaning man dithering about only undermines them. He'll get his chance, he's got a lifetime of bonding ahead, just give the girls on the maternity wards a break and an early night, please?

Cliff Hangs On

Does anyone give a stuff whether Cliff Richard is gay or not? Really, do we care? Stephanie Marsh writing in The Times today seems to think she has solved the puzzle. It's an interesting piece, but not for that.

Cliff makes the point that we have no right to know how he thinks or feels about anything. He shows what he wants us to see and that's all we will get. Till the day he dies, probably.

In some ways that's a shame, but that's his business. What is appalling is the fact that he cannot get his records played on radio. Tony Blackburn was suspended from Classic Gold for playing Living Doll. You know how it goes " Got myself a walking, talking,"etc. We can hear the tune in our heads, just not on our radios. The station bosses don't like him.

Well some listeners do. There's a lot of rubbish on the airwaves. That's fine by me. I'll turn off. Cliff's fans have earned the right to hear their hero sometimes and he has earned the right to stay silent.

Out of Afghanistan Now

Watching the WAGS of serving soldiers in Afghanistan singing their hearts out in The Choir makes me want to cry. One wife said she was thrilled when when she heard Bin Laden was dead because she thought her man could come home - small hope.

Why are we keeping them out there? Can anyone really say? Just finished Bomb Hunters by Sean Rayment. Read it. It tells of pointless patrols, endless IEDs, wasted lives and supreme courage. It makes you incredibly proud of the guys but deeply angry that they keep on dying.

What for? How are we fighting terrorism by allowing young men to lose their limbs and lives? There is a suggestion that our troops are keeping the population safe from the extremes of the Taliban I'd say that's a soldier talking, not a realist. Sean is an ex-soldier turned writer. He tells it like it is, having walked in their footsteps.

Another Remembrance Sunday is over. We stay silent and think of them for two minutes. Time to do much more than that. Afghanistan is not worth another life. Get them home.

Tempting Botox Curry

Have a curry and risk botulism or not? That is the question. I've got a jar of a well-known sauce in the cupboard. Balti, a firm favourite.Today there's a scare with the korma version after two children have been taken to hospital with botulism poisoning.

Now what? Do I make the curry anyway, say nothing and feel fairly confident that all will be well? Or do I ditch the jar and avoid the brand because if there is even a tiny chance that my kids could get a very serious infection I would never forgive myself?

Logically I know that would be a massive over-reaction. It's only one jar, of a particular batch and botulism itself is rare. Emotionally I take all of that in and then decide I don't want to touch the stuff.

Makes you think how much we depend on the standards of the food industry to ensure that what we buy is safe. If I'd missed the news today chances are the curry would have been fine tonight and we would all have been none the wiser. As it is I think we are looking at good old fish and chips.

Call Girl And Her Toy Boy

The prostitute and the ToysRUs executive - the games they play! Slogan "Where Toys are a Big Deal! Yep, I can bet they were. The girl got a lot more than a couple of Barbies. Dawn Dunbar ended up with a £132,000 Bentley, a Lexus and properties in Oxfordshire, Berkshire and Nigeria after a fraudster from the toy firm fell in love with her. Paul Hopes, 59, embezzled £3.7m in a bid to win her favours.

Crikey! The court said that the payments made "far exceeded the expected rate for sexual services." How very true. Where I come from it's said to be " five quid for a short time" to which the usual response is " Haven't had five quid for a long time!"

Besotted Hopes could have tickled her with TransFormers, buying two and getting a third free, zapped her with a Nerf or stuck to good old fashioned Lego. Whatever. Brings a whole new meaning to imaginative play.

Brave Jack Widdowson Battles On

Some people seem born to bring beauty to the world. Often they come with courage, intelligence and humour too. They make life worth living.

Jack Widdowson is such a person. Today, aged 19, he lies critically injured after someone beat him senseless and left him for dead beside a tow path in Cardiff. Jack had been out celebrating the biggest success of his life, triumphing to become one of the youngest dancers ever to take a lead role with the BernBallett company in Switzerland.

A talented hockey and rugby player, Jack also won a near-fatal battle with meningitis only three years ago. Now he has a serious neck injury and his devastated family are at his bedside. "Jack has always been physically, mentally and emotionally strong which enabled him to persue his career in dance. He is an entertaining person with a great sense of humour, well loved by everyone who knows and works with him," they said.

I look at Jack in The Times today and I could weep with them. We need the Jacks of this world. With his exceptional gifts we are all blessed. He is fighting hard now. If I could take on just one of his battles I would do it in a heartbeat. Like so many others, all I can do is wish him well.

Bouncers at our Hospitals

Been to A and E recently? Our struggling hospitals are on their knees and the people there are useless. Not the staff - although some of them are. Mostly, they are doing a great job under horrendous circumstances.

It's your average punter who turns up at 11pm. Forget about the drunks, how I wish we could, I'm talking about the sober ones. The other night a guy came in with a grazed knee. No joke. It wasn't even bleeding, but they patched him up and sent him on his way 30 minutes later.

We were there three hours. You see a lot of humanity pass through the doors in that time and the majority are total time-wasters. They come with a sprain. Or a cut on the cheek, though the dirty rag he was holding against that was so filthy he probably left with tetanus.

What is the matter with these people? Are they so pathetic they can't slap on a plaster? We need what the Newcastle pubs go in for - bouncers on the doors. They would send the obvious riff-raff packing and let the staff get on with the folk who really need their help. This sort of stupidity is costing us all millions while some people can't get cancer drugs. It's got to stop.

Gift Ideas? Here's Some For Free

They're dropping through the door, landing on the mat. Christmas catalogues, back again, like old friends you thought you'd seen the back of. Stacks of helpful suggestions - all of them crap. Plenty of advice out there but here's some for free.

Gardeners do not want wellies, posh or not. Or trugs. For cut flowers. Nobody needs a trug. Chefs do not want knives. Even knives in bright, colourful blocks. They've got knives, good ones, and yours are cheap and nasty. No.

Mums do not want hoovers, especially robot ones that roar like a Spitfire and miss bits. They do not want blenders, or the coffee machine that he fancies. Get that in the sales. They do not want fat jumpers, cosy socks or hankies, ever. Likewise garden candles, poaching pans - even if Delia did cause a sell-out - racks of spice and mulled wine kits. They do not want anything with OXFAM written on it, unless it's from the kids and they are under ten.

That's it really. Other stuff is fine. Wine, chocolates,, classic silver jewelry and cashmere, as long as it washes. A good bag, not a designer joke that cost the price of a holiday. In fact, scrap all that. Just have the holiday and get away from the mad circus altogether.

Amy Chose Death By Booze

Amy Winehouse had no trace of illegal drugs in her system. Well that's a relief. She's still dead though. The legal stuff did the job just as well. At 27 her fabulous career was felled by booze. An amazing talent lost to binge drinking.

Yet somehow the drugs are the issue. Amy packed them in, so she was "cleaning up her act.' She even gave up the drink, now and then, before treating herself to a slammer session, fully aware of the dangers but past caring.

Alcohol is a killer too. Our kids pay no heed. They like to get hammered. University towns are raking in the living allowance as freshers carry on celebrating. One practice nurse told me of a young man of 33 dying with liver disease who is desperate for a transplant. "We never used to see this in people so young, but it's happening more and more," she said.

He puts his problem down to binge drinking as a student. They don't stay students forever, but old habits don't die. Maybe they think they will settle down later, Maybe not. Alcohol steals some lives and ruins many more. Fact.

Alan the Amazing Mummy

Alan the mummy was looking good last night, apart from the odd ear maggot. He was tanned, yes, but the weight loss suited him and the face was definitely his. His soul would recognise it, which was crucial to ancient Egyptians apparently.

Good on the cabbie from Torquay who answered an advert. God knows how that one went. "Terminally ill? Want to be a mummy after death? Call this number," or something like that. He came across as a very nice chap, happy to help the cause of science.

The boffins were thrilled, everything turned out just right. They were convinced this was a step forward. They talked of Alan's rebirth. There even seemed to be a suggestion there could be more of the same.

What! Imagine if we all fancied mummification. Where would they put us? Alan has a roomy fridge, but how many more could be packed in there comfortably? The scientist in charge had a nice line in preserved pigs' trotters. He kept them in his shed. Saved them over years, like a psychopath. Fascinating stuff, but let Alan be the last. Keep the ovens burning!

Gaddafi it is then. For sure. Now who's up for the £1m reward? Bound to be plenty of takers. That could cause a bit of bother in a land torn to shreds, but the opposition leaders in Benghazi reckon it's money well spent

Initially there was a bit of tut-tutting at the "summary execution" handed out. "We saw him and shot him!" proved to be a bit stark for the civilised world to stomach. Experts in middle eastern relations wanted Gaddafi hauled to the Hague.

Well welcome to the real world. Times are tough and we can't afford it. Better to pay the lads on the ground a million quid and get the job done than spend years keeping a tyrant holed up in a posh jail while he spouts endlessly to fabulously well-paid lawyers. Takes years to hear their point of view. They even get on the telly.

We've lost patience. Osama set the new trend. Not much effort went into giving him his day in court. Tony Blair and a lot of other schmoozers are breathing a sigh of relief. Just what did go on in that Bedouin tent Tony? Shame we'll never know.

Libya Free So Stop Shooting

Gaddafi is gone then. At first they said he had been found hiding in a hole in Sirte and had pleaded with his captors; " Don't shoot!" He asked for mercy. As if there was ever any chance of that. This is the man who said he would kill every Libyan rather than relinquish power.

Now his body is viewed on afternoon tv like a small-time cookery slot. He looks like so much red meat. Are we sure it is him? There are scars - some suggest from plastic surgery - but he looks like so many of the fighters that are crowding our screens. Conclusive DNA evidence would provide proof, but will there be enough of him left for the authorities to test?

Interesting that the streets are still full of men. No women out there celebrating this afternoon. Why? Because they insist on firing off victory rounds. Bullets come raining down again. Injuries are common. Has there not been enough bloodshed? Celebrations are right and the time is now, but get the guns off the street boys. They've done their job.

Gok Wan Champion of Cheap Fashion

I love Gok Wan. I've said it. Our house empties when he comes on, because the boys can't stand him. Me, I think he's great. Not because of his styling, which can be a bit iffy in my, admittedly, often frumpy opinion, but because he has a warm heart.

He's kind. He makes the girls feel good. I've heard he can be a horror with the models who find him a bit of a diva, but to your lass in the street he is a fabulous big brother with sharp designer specs and a neat ear ring. He makes them feel like superstars.

Trouble is, he dresses them like Mary Poppins. Last night he had one girl with the complete kit, down to the carpet bag. Thought she might haul a lampstand out of it. Practically perfect in every way. He showed us how to make a fox tail to hang off our handbags - bang on trend, he says. It probably is. I really wouldn't know. I do like the way he champions the cheap stuff though. Bit of a kick in the pants to an industry still happily charging over a grand for a handbag.

Gatwick Treats Passengers Like Criminals

Hell on earth! Must have felt like that, stuck on a plane at Gatwick for nine hours waiting for the fog to clear. Imagine the toilets! Everyone worrying about deep-vein thrombosis. The 200 passengers had already come all the way from India. What a total shambles.

One passenger tried to leave but was told it would be illegal and the police brought him back. What was illegal about that? He would have shown his passport. Where was the problem about letting them all off, to stay airside if need be? I'd have unloaded the lot and told them they could hang about for a later plane or make their own way. Instead they were treated worse than cattle.

Once ended up in Diss myself when fog made Heathrow impossible. As in this case the crew ran out of time and another had to be organised. We waited in the plane, on the tarmac in this tiny Kent airport without a coffee machine in sight. So I got up. Walked off. Down the steps and around the plane.

Must have looked a total prat, but I needed to stretch my legs and nobody takes me prisoner. That's what these people were treated like. Criminals. Somebody, somewhere, should get out a great, big cheque book and say a massive sorry.

Too Posh. No Way Pet

It's weird isn't it? Cameron couldn't care less what he sounds like, but a Tory MP is saying he is too posh. It's putting off his Northern voters. They don't trust a man who sounds too plummy, reckons Nadine Dorries. Have to say you're wrong Pet.

Up in Geordie land we can tell when someone is trying to sound like they hail from Jesmond.The Gosforth glottal stop is nothing like Byker banter. We all know the difference. That's why we have so much affection for Cheryl Cole. Her hard, working class vowels say she's one of us.

We want a bit more from the blokes in charge. We want to know they understand the world of money and big business. That they didn't hail from the chip shop on the corner. Maggie Thatcher may have been a grocer's daughter, but she saw the wisdom of toning down the rough edges. She went a bit too far, but you get the point.

People in charge of our taxes have to sound like they know what's what, even when they don't. We tend to think of posh people as having a bit more education. They sound brainier to some of us Northerners. Not true at all of course, but who wants to vote for an MP who sounds like the local barmaid when you could have someone like the Queen instead? It's crazy world.

Poverty? Tell me about it

I'm mad. Someone else is whinging about the poor. Again. Even if they have been there they still have no idea.Take Caitlin Moran. She talks in The Times today of "push starting the car." She had a car? With petrol? She was also fat. Nobody in my house was fat.

She talks of sleeping on a mattress on the floor. We had beds, but we too had coats on them. This is sounding like a Monty Python sketch - beat me in the poverty parade. Hole in the road for a home etc.

Not going there because some of the stuff I lived through I'm still ashamed of now. Years and years later. Like Caitlin I got out. Unlike her I'm not rich. Never fancied underfloor heating. Wouldn't want to eat at Pizza Express three times a week. I'm not poor either.

Neither of us went to university. We used our brains to get jobs instead, to help the family out. Benefits had to be begged for and mostly they were refused. So we worked. Later on the job gave me a great life, one I could finally brag about. Flying business class to Hong Kong, yes I did that too.

Fact is Caitlin, hand-outs are not the answer. Getting off your arse is and always has been.

Bradley James and Gary Oldman Guys to Watch

Merlin's back but where's the magic? Bradley James has not had his shirt off once. For a boy of fair bod, not normally averse to flashing his pecs, that's a turn for the worse. Nobody's joking except Gawain and he's gone a bit mental. Must be all those screaming skulls whooshing around. Enough to do a head in.

Lancelot took a walk into the great goodnight. Why? Killing the eye candy is never a good idea. How long have I been waiting for him to whisk Guinivere away? Three series? Four? Now she's drowning in tears and hanging on for Arthur. It's all a bit messy and sad and if it doesn't buck up I'll be abandoning my sofa for TV Burp. That's how bad it gets.

For as good as it gets I finally got to see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Excellent! Not so many pretty faces. Some seriously ugly ones. Had to imagine them turning up at the casting agents. Were they confusing this with Lord of The Rings? Orks and whatnot? Oscar performance from Gary Oldman as George Smiley. Face to face with the traitor, he managed a nervous twitch under his right eye. Tiny muscles working involuntarily. How did he pull that off? Genius.

Marni Kotak Has her Moment

So pregnant artist Marni Kotak is to bestow upon us her greatest work yet - a film of herself giving birth. She's doing it because: "it's the greatest expression of life, the highest form of art." Well yes, but it ain't pretty.

Having been there three times myself all I can say is," Best of luck Pet" Bless her, it's her first. We all know there is a conspiracy of silence over the whole bloody, mucky business. Incredible and amazing yes, but well, there's the rest...

She's not daunted, having already told the world what a tremendous lover her husband Jason Bell is. He's an artist too. Perhaps a tad attention seeking, no? Always the ones that say the most who are the worst, but no one wants to pee on her parade.

She sat there, all huge and proud, with a birthing pool in the backround and surf music on the speakers. She's even got a giant golden trophy to give herself. Can't fault her optimism. I sincerely hope it goes well for her. We are all on our own with that one, no matter how many birth attendants are at the ready.

Let's hope she's not carted off for a section, yelling blue murder and cursing the sex god who put here there. It might not be art as we know it, but it would be real.

East eats West and Pays the Price

Think of China. What do you see? Beijing bankers hauling us out of debt? Factory workers putting in long hours? Both face the same threat from the West - diabetes.

That's right, the scourge of fatties everywhere. We sent it their way with our fast food and corn syrup. They now have 92 million diabetics. Research shows that if only half got treatment at a third of the price it costs over here, China would still have to spend the equivalent of its defence budget.

It's getting worse too. Another 150 million Chinese are showing signs of pre-diabetes and 13 per cent of Shanghai school children are considered obese.

We worried about their secret weapons but we felled them with fat. Just when we need them most. Now they are rushing to build a medical research plant to produce the drugs they need. We used to joke that the Chinese would eat anything with legs that wasn't a chair. Can't say I find this latest trend all that funny.

Brian Cox Has the Answers

Sexy Brian Cox - let's call him Brain Cox shall we? has just finished a megga scientific book on the structure of the universe only to be told he's probably wrong. Scrap it, Einstein was working on duff information.

Recent experiments show neutrinos traveling faster than light. Bit of a bombshell. Not news to me though. I came across neutrinos way back in primary school. That's subatomic particles, not a new chocolate bar. A kid called Vernon coughed in class and the teacher said, "That was possibly a tiny particle passing right through you, interfering momentarily with your vocal chords." I never forgot it. You don't forget a name like Vernon.

Now it seems billions of neutrinos are passing through my brain at this very second and I am totally unaware of it. The beauty of them is that they, "react only very occasionally with everyday matter, " according to Prof. Cox. He's thrilled there's new data out there on the block. Gives him something to focus his considerable talents on.

Me, I'm all for neutrinos too. I reckon that all of those billions, storming about in there, must bounce off each other, just occasionally. Law of averages. So they are to blame every time I go to the fridge and totally forget what I'm after. Or when I cremate the dog's dinner. Sub-atomic shenanigans, no less.

Downs but So What?

Tom Bickerby in the Times is fed up of having the "Our son Alex has Downs. He is gorgeous and we love him to bits, so thanks, but no thanks, for the sympathy," conversation. He feels like walking on the other side of the road when he sees a lesser-known aquaintance coming. Just in case they give him the long, sad look. Again.

Who wants to keep going over it? So this is what I'd do. Say nowt. Not a thing. These people are not close or they would know already. Let Alex do the talking. Alright, so he's a baby at the moment, and not really up to the challenge.

My guess is, he is. One look says it all. He's sleeping, and he's Downs. He's awake, laughing or crying and he is still Downs. Soon his fantastic, loving, happy personality will be such that yes, they will see he is Downs and never give a damn. No explanation necessary. I've met plenty of people with Downs. My best friend's sister was one.

I'm sure there must be mean, crabby horrible Down's people but I've never met one. Let them speak for themselves. Judge them for what they are, then see if you find them wanting.

Car Parking Crackdown Clarkson Style

Jeremy Clarkson eat your heart out! All the stunts on Top Gear are as naught compared with this. The Mayor of Vilnius has pulled off a corker! See the picture in The Times today of his answer to illegal parking. Just drive a tank over any luxury car that gets in your way. There's the man himself, sticking out of the hatch, up on two wheels and having the time of his life!

Only in Lithuania. They can to do a decent crackdown. It was only a yellow line, but still. They know how to go large. No petty little bureaucracy for them. We get done for having a ticket the wrong way up, or for outstaying our welcome by a couple of minutes. We spit and hiss but end up doing the same thing again.

Not in Vilnius. Leave your motor in the wrong place and come back to find you can post it through your door. That's telling them.

White Britsh Kids Have Worst Parents

"Bang their heads together and knock some sense in," as my old mum used to say. Turns out white working class kids, as I was once, are failing to learn their own language. They start school unable to speak their mother tongue.

That is horrifying! What is going on in this country when we can't teach our kids to speak? Other children from ethnic minorities have better English than white children - and this is their second language. Di Morgan, a head teacher in South London, says: "The truth is, a lot of our white children in nursery have fewer words of English than bilingual children."

What's going wrong? Fact is, education was seen as a way out of the council estates for my generation. We wanted something better. Ethnic minorities share this view. Parents who spend more time on Facebook and their iphones than talking to their kids are the ones depriving the next generation of a decent future. They should be deeply ashamed of themselves, but are they? Naaaah.

Royals, Rugby and a Right Drubbing

Built like a brick privvy, Mike Tindall is a big lad. He can take a knock or two on the rugby pitch. Facing the wife will be a different story. His insides will be curling like a woodlouse on a hot brick. Not happy.

Neither is his wife, the former Zara Phillips, daughter of that foul-mouthed stalwart of the Royal family Princess Anne. They tell it like it is, so he can expect no quarter when she decides to engage him on the subject of his nose and that girl's cleavage.

After all, she could have expected a bit more discipline, not to say devotion, after only six weeks of marriage. Other women's bosoms should be strictly off limits, at least for a couple of months or so. Old friend she may be, but what was he thinking of, burying his face in her front! We can guess. We wouldn't be far wrong.

That probably won't exercise Zara much. She knew what she was getting herself into. It's you Mike. All the old hands could have told him, Prince Philip, Snowdon, Mark Phillips even. Being a Royal add-on is always a pain. You get all of the unwanted attention, but nobody rates you much.

Keep the grappling to the pitch Mike. There's always someone close by with a camera. Or a phone. These days everyone is paparazzi. Get used to it pal - your life is not your own.

Troy Davis Dies Tonight

No great fan of hanging. Terrible crimes deserve the worst punishment, but a humane end is not it. Life should mean life, so the truly evil among us plenty of time to regret. A quick, easy way out is not guaranteed to the innocent, so why the guilty?

Something about the execution planned for tonight in Georgia that upsets me. Not familiar with the case, I could be missing something, but 42-year-old Troy Davis will die later today for killing a policeman 22 years ago. Seven witnesses now say he didn't do it, but all appeals have failed.

Nobody seems to stay in jail for 22 years here, other than the Rosemary Wests and Peter Sutcliffes of this world. Wouldn't want them out on the streets anytime soon. Let them rot where they are. I'm happy to help pay for their upkeep, just as long as the luxuries are limited and the days are endless.

Keeping a man awaiting a death sentence for 22 years and then killing him while he is still in the prime of life seems wrong, especially where there is doubt. The Americans have more people in prison than any other country on earth. This may be their way of making space. Not so sure about it myself.

Gunning for Bad Boy Boris

Sniper"s gunning for Big Boris. Someone thinks the London Mayor's been shirking. Not pulling his considerable weight. All because Boris wanted to be the "bubbles in the champagne," rather than the guy who serves the drinks. Bung the boring stuff to someone else, that's his style.

Who would have thought it! Boris, not interested in the tedius day to day detail? Well, heavens, there's a surprise. Nobody is saying the stuff was beyond him. This is no intellectual slouch. Our Boris is a bright boy so he did what anyone would do. He got a man in.

He sees himself as colour with clout. Listen to him talking about the recent riots. He needs no autocue. When it counts, Boris can come up with the right stuff. In 2008 his campaign chiefs sold him as, "a chairman Mayor, backed up by an absolutely top flight chief operating officer," reveals Johnson's biographer Sonia Purnell.

"Just the ticket!" thought the posh one. Others were a bit snide about it. Sniffy even. "He seemed to want to be Mayor because it's a big job and it was there for him," said one old hand.

No,really? He wanted it so he could sit behind a huge pile of paperwork day and night, whimpering softly and pleading that he hated it and can he go home now? We all know what Boris is. Upfront in every sense. A jolly japer, he has no scruples about bedding women, the more the merrier. Expecting tight discipline of him is to ask a greedy Labrador to go on a diet.

There are plenty of grey guys about. We could have had one of those. Instead, we voted for Boris and his bikes. We wanted bubbles - not boredom.

NHS Must Stop the Torture

What's the second worst thing about hospitals? The pumps. They work the drips. Except that they don't. Almost everyone admitted to hospital gets put on a saline drip to hydrate them. Excellent, they make a huge difference.

The pumps though, don't. They are not necessary at all. Every little movement of an old man in his bed stops them and an alarm sounds. It"s an urgent beep. Since the alarms are so sensitive there is a pump on every ward going off every five minutes. Right through the night.

"Some people get so furious they wreck them," said one nurse to us. " They just tear them apart, it drives them insane. We don't even need them. Time was when a nurse would just look down the ward and see who needed a bag changing. We didn't need an alarm for that. Gravity works the drip, so a pump isn't necessary, but health and safety said we must have them, so here they are"

We were there one day. Got through three pumps, because they break down by themselves. No help required. My washing machine beeps when it's done. It's insistent, so can't be ignored. Imagine that when you are sick, or even dying, and the noise goes on and on. Torture. Expensive too, since they need fixing so often.

Someone needs to do something. It would save the NHS millions if they scrapped the lot. It would also mean nurses having to look down the ward just a bit more. That would get rid of the worst thing about hospitals. No one would have to ask, ask and ask again for help with the toilet.

Captain Jack Sparrow Out of His Depth

Somali pirates keeping you awake at night? Thought not. Get this though - there are 346 hostages, 3 tankers, 4 bulk carriers, 1 merchant ship, 3 fishing boats 2 cargo ships, 1 yacht and three other vessels in their hands right now.

They've been busy. A £2m ransom has just been paid for a Danish family daft enough to stray into their waters. One of the pirates said he would free the Johansens if he could marry the 13-year-old girl. Her two brothers, both under 17, were also aboard when their yacht was captured in the Indian Ocean in February.

Dad Jan had spent a fair bit of the trip boasting on the internet that they "had not been attacked by pirates!" believing his route would keep them safe. Ah well, best laid plans. A botched rescue attempt left seven people dead.

Is it time to get heavy with these people? As the family were told; "These murderous thugs are not like Johnnie Depp." Piracy is big business for one of the poorest countries on the planet. Ransoms float their economy. Would I pay? Of course I would, but maybe it's time for the international community to bring out the big bucks and guns.

Ozzie and Me Shakin' Together

With or without? Caffeine that is. Some people can't get enough. Ozzy Osbourne did a gene test that showed he couldn't metabolise the stuff. It gave him the shakes. Hmmm, nice one Ozzie, worth a try old son. Made me think.

I love coffee, but I bounce off walls after one cup. If I get the seconds in I"ll be sloshing it everywhere. Not much makes the table. I feared Parkinsons. Then Ozzie revealed his enzyme lack and I wondered and decided to give it a miss. Bingo! No more shaky saucers.

Now they tell me it's all in the mind.The University of East London did a blind test where students were told they were drinking caffeinated coffee when they were not, and vice versa. Test showed the ones who thought they had a chemical hit did as well or badly as the others. No difference noted.

Weird that. Nobody will ever convince me that caffeine has no effect. It might not help me solve puzzles, but it certainly rattles my cage, bugs my eyes and sends me straight to overload and no amount of student testing will convince me otherwise.

Abortion is Their Affair

So another well-paid woman in a stable relationship with two kids wants to tell us she is having an abortion. This time it is Grace Nelson in the Times. Previously it was Caitlin Moran. I've got a lot of time for Caitlin, she's an excellent writer. I have no need to know why she decided to have an abortion in her 30s when she was already successful and settled, but she included details in her book and her column.

Same with Grace. In both cases it could be a "let's not rock the boat," thing. A lot of people have strong views on abortion. Some folk are fanatical in their opposition. Me, I think it's down to personal choice. Their business. The headline reads Why My Abortion is My Affair, and Grace seems to see the suggestion by health professionals that she might want to think again as meddling. She suggests it's interfering if the Government requires doctors to question her decision.

Two questions - why, if this is her affair, does she feel the need to enlighten the rest of us, and why would the ending of a human life not require professionals to seek to make sure that the decision is the right one?

Try this for size

Bottoms up! I like a drink as well as the worst of them.Glass of wine at the end of the day? Lovely, make that two. But nothing, absolutely nothing will make me try the latest trend - tampons soaked in alcohol and stuffed up the nose! Whaaat! Just what kind of a look is that?

Seems you get drunk quicker that way. Well cheers mate but no thanks, pass on that one. There's a place for tampons and up the nostril isn't it, though the In-Betweeners reckon they are an excellent answer to nosebleeds. Just how big are those hooters?

Not content, the cogniscenti are sucking up the stuff. Oxy shots they're called and amount to breathing in alcohol vapour. People say don't knock a thing until you've tried it. Facebook folk are trumpeting: "Triple absinthe oxy shot, legendary!" P***** at a stroke, no effort required.Very cheap too.

Perhaps I'm coming at this backwards. I like to savour the stuff, chat, laugh, fall about giggling and give up before I throw up. Get to that stage and the evening's done for, in my opinion. I don't want to start off like that, because, obviously, I'll miss the best bit sleeping it off on a bench somewhere.

How attractive does that sound, loud, legless, a couple of cotton wool plugs with strings adding to the allure. Upside is the lads will fall about laughing, better than the pill. Danger of unplanned sex - nil. If ever there was a case for just saying no...

Sponger Jacqui Smith on the Take

Brass Neck Award goes to deserving Jacqui Smith for defending her use of prisoners to paint her house. She used guys on day release to do community work on her place in Redditch, claiming that it was fine because they were coming to the end of their sentences and "didn't have anything else on."

Plenty of hard-working painters and decorators haven't got anything else on either. They rely on people to pay them the going rate. A donation to charity, Jacqui's answer, just won't do. They have families to feed and don't go home at the end of the day to a hot meal provided by Her Majesty's prisons.

"Two prisoners doing work experience carried out about three hours of work at my house doing a bit of decorating. It hadn't been cleared with the prison authorities in advance and they've now launched an investigation." said Ms Smith.

As a former Home Secretary, she was once in charge of the Prison Service. Did she know better? Of course not, they never do. We pay these people a hefty salary, but they still expect to get everything on the cheap. They whinge when we catch them fiddling and insist they should be allowed more, living on the breadline as they do.

Somebody should paint "Sponger"right across her front wall. Then let's see if she can find a tradesman to put it right.

Cow Madness

So the Silly Moo is close to capture. Thank God for that! Yvonne the cow, who did a runner rather than face the chop in Germany, should soon be on her way to an animal rescue centre after spending 89 days on the loose.

We can all sleep better for that. No more bulldozing her way into Bavarian police cars. No more snipers ready to shoot to kill. Just a whole lot of well-meaning folk happy to pay to see a mad cow parade in a bovine paradise. I'm so pleased for her.

As a non-meateater, is this not overkill? How much has been spent worrying over this one animal, lovely though she is. What about the calves transported long distances to their final destinations, or the hens with broken legs in battery farms? Pigs kept tightly packed in pens all their short lives?

Give Yvonne a long and happy life somewhere nice if you must, but let's not lose sight of the bigger animal welfare picture.

Telly Worse Than Smoking

Dying a slow death in front of the telly. Always knew it was killing me with boredom. Now those hunky, healthy Aussies have confirmed it. All this trash is taking years off our lives.

Deep down, we all knew. Doesn't take a lifestyle survey of 11,000 people to tell us the telly is rubbish. We've all had more fun watching grass grow. Nothing on but pap and tat, but we sit, sad-eyed and slumped, letting a tiny hope triumph over reality. Same every summer.

Now the University of Queensland says every hour of telly reduces a viewer's life expectancy by almost 22 minutes. Excuse me? That means I'm spending 38 minutes watching and 22 committing slow suicide. That's why Mock the Week, QI and University Challenge only last half an hour. Anything more is lethal and they want us back next week.

The science says it's sitting still that does it. Watching in front of an exercise bike doesn't count. Plonking yourself with a bowl of cereal and the remote does. Even fags are less harmful - they only take 11 minutes off every hour. Hold on, I'm starting to smell a porkie here. Somebody wants to sell more running shoes. Tell you what, I'll keep getting up to top up my glass, let out the dog and put the kettle on. That'll fix it Jim!

Carol Vorderman Gets the Wrong Answer

Crap at maths - does it matter? I can add up a shopping bill quicker that the till assistant and work out how many tiles I need for the bathroom or paper for the walls. That's it. Since the age of 16 that's all I have needed.

My 20-year-old son is still doing maths and he will spend a lifetime working out complex equations. Fine, that's what he's good at. Carol Vorderman wants all children to study maths until they are 18. Good luck to her, but count me out on that one Carol.

True, good numerical skills are essential. We have spend enough to take us twice around the world on Kumon. Primary schools did not prepare our kids well enough, so we went the private route and are ever grateful that we did. There is no way that our lot would have made the grade without it. They wanted to be vets and engineers, so roll out the sums and let's get cracking.

My argument is that by the time a person gets to 18 their view on maths is set in stone. They either enjoy working with numbers or they don't. Their attitudes have been formed in primary schools where they have been shown five different ways to solve the same problem. It bores the bright ones rigid, but the idea is to give them several options to come to the same conclusion, instead of one good route which is practised until they are all perfect at it. That's how I did maths.

That's why I can add up my shopping bill much faster that the teenager behind the counter. Sort out the primary schools and your job is done Carol. In the meantime, we will stick to Kumon.

Dragon Duncan Wants to Hire Hitman Jack Reacher

Dragon Duncan hiring a hit man! Crikey - any Jack Reachers up for the job? Millionaire Mr Bannatyne went ballistic when someone threatened his daughter. He offered a bounty of £25,000 - doubled if the avenger broke the man's arms first. Good money that, for a bit of spare-time thuggery. There'll be no shortage of takers.

Duncan has since taken back the broken arms bit. He can see that might lead to a whole heap of trouble. Sensible chap, but parents all over the world will still be saying: " Go get him Duncan."
Because when it's your kids at risk your heart acts well before your head wakes up. The boot goes straight in, any questions after. Anybody hurts one of mine I'll be whacking with the baseball bat first and worrying about the law later.

Anyone can understand Duncan's rapid response. Trouble is, the sort of guy prepared to break a stranger"s arms for money has no hesitation hurting kids. Or anyone else, if the price is right.

Let's hope the blackmailing toerag is banged up somewhere soon, out of sight and mind. Then we can all rest a bit easy, knowing he's off the streets and there's nothing in it for the rest of his sort who don't care who they hurt.

Must We Listen

No one can legislate for the loony with a gun and a grudge. We can weep for the loss of so many lives in Norway but nothing will stop such tragedies happening. So the knee-jerk reaction we are bound to see will have little effect.

The whole thing is beyond horror. Dum-dum bullets and a slayer who laughs as he goes about his grisly business. What will the Norwegians do with him? Headcases like him usually shoot themselves. This one is alive and determined to justify himself. He wants his day in court.

Does anyone have to listen? Does he really have the right? Our society says he does - despite knowing he despises us for the rights we give to each individual, including him. The maximum sentence is 21 years - as long as he is found to pose no risk to society. That will never happen. Was there ever a greater need to lock the door and throw away the key?

That's My Wife Wendi!

Tiger Wife Wendi! Who cares if the whole world hates you, with her at your side? No wonder Murdoch was smiling as he left Westminster. That flying tackle was totally instinctive. She was quicker than any hired bodyguard.

Which shows up the sloppy security. Shocking to see how easy it was for a guy with a grudge to get into the seat of Government. With an aerosol - unless he waltzed in with a paper plate of foam like a posh waiter. That aerosol could have contained anything. That's why we still can't carry them on planes. You can't even take a bottle of water through airport security.

Yet you can bring anything you like into a select committee hearing. Do you feel let down? The papers behaved badly, no doubt about it, but the shady coppers who took the cash and luxury breaks really make me gag. Never expected pristine standards of the News of the World, but top policemen earning megga bucks with gold-plated pensions really should know better.

Rebekah Brooks Down the Pan

So the Ginga's gone then! Rebekah Brooks that is. Bit disrespectful that, who cares about the colour of her hair after all, but she is hardly one to make a person fall about in fawning adoration is she?

Except that they do, for the daftest things. Piers Morgan delights in the tale of how Rebekah dressed as a cleaner and hid in a toilet for two hours to snatch a copy of The Sunday Times, so that she could rush it back to the News of the World and they could steal the story.

A scoop that someone else worked hard to get. Researched and wrote. All she did was hide in the loos - in the same building - and nick it. I would have admired her a little bit if she had somehow managed to get it from a rival, the Sunday Mirror say, but in the same building? Hardly front-line journalism is it?

People have said for years that she was out of her depth, but some are being kind to her now in her darkest hour. She has said: " I had absolutely no awareness" of the phone hacking and the rest. How not? Was she hiding in a toilet the whole time or is she just lying through her teeth? We may find out, but don't hold your breath.

Black Swan Star and Scott the Brave Marine

Bagged the bird didn't her? Well done that Marine! He asked out Hollywood's hottest actress and she said yes. Just like that. Black Swan actress Mila will go to the ball. Well why not? He's big, brave, up for a laugh and scared of nobody. What more could any girl want?

Sergeant Scott Moore will be take Hollywood's hottest star Mila Kunis to a posh ball in November after gunning for a date via You Tube. He stood sweating in the searing heat, bald head gleaming in the sun while wearing his fattest flak-jacket and just asked nicely. Gorgeous Mila, one of the most beautiful women in the world and an Oscar winner, happily said: "I'll go"

She knows she'll have a brilliant night. All of those handsome young men of the Marine Corps will be falling all over her while the whole world says what a great sport she is. Take heart all you ordinary guys! All any girl wants is a good time in fun company, and that's true whether she's a huge Hollywood star or a hairdresser.

News of the World Taints Us All

Bought the News of the World this week. It seemed like the least I could do, to support sacked fellow journalists, innocent but tainted by the dreadful activities of others. It seems most of the staff at the NoW have been hired in the last three years .

Still, I never would work for the Screws as we called it, despite having the chance many years ago. It was a personal decision, but it always seemed to me that even among tabloids they would take everything just that one step further than I wanted to go. Rummaging through dustbins was not my style.

The last paper looks good, full of the many successes. Sara Payne says thank you for the support she received. The Fake Sheik did excellent work exposing the shady dealings of the rich and famous. Then there it is, for me, the step too far. The picture of Ian Huntley, a monster who murdered two little girls, sitting in his prison cell. It won Front Page Of The Year at the British Press Awards.

It's a striking picture, clearly a first, so that has been recognised. I want Ian Huntley to rot in prison. I have no interest in seeing him sitting in his cell. The headline read "How the Hell Were We Able to Take this Photo? I've no idea, but I can bet it involved skulduggery. That's how they operate.

No one in their right mind would have messed with Milly Dowler's phone. No one with any compassion intercepts the messages of bereaved families. Journalists generally are degraded by all of this, so if I'm not as sympathetic as I should be, that's why.

All About The Boys

Tom Bickerby's baby Alex is going home soon. He has Downs syndrome and the future is scary. Just one look at the Sunday Times magazine this week could change a lot of that.

Two brothers talk of their lives together. One is musical protege Benjamin Grosvenor, who at 18 will be the youngest soloist ever to perform at the opening night of the proms. He is a pianist of exceptional talent.

His brother is Jonathan, 21, who has Downs. He goes to all Ben's concerts but he writes: "The problem with Ben's music is it hasn't got a beat. I like Westlife and JLS. Even when Benjamin isn't practising his piano he's doing it in his head. I can tell.

"I like to write stories. The main character is mainly me. I'm a normal human with Downs syndrome." Get that? He writes. With perception, even if his taste in music is a bit iffy.

Benjamin says: "It must have been very difficult for mum when I started overtaking Jono in development. The GP kept saying, 'think low." She obviously didn't take his advice. Both boys are achieving at the very peak of their potential. It's what all parents want, but not all of us get to see. Alex is moving forward. Who knows what lies in store?

Love All Kate and Charlene?

"It's in his kiss!" as the old song says, and looking at the newly-weds it hits you like a hammer. Kate Moss may be onto a winner but poor Princess Charlene definitely isn't. Should've made that break girl! To be fair, Prince Albert of Monaco must have thought he was kissing an ironing board except that she lacked the heat, but nobody watching would give the nuptials five minutes.

What was that all about? Talk of seizing her passport so she couldn't leg it somehow rings true. Swimmer Charlene is out of her depth here, all the money in Monaco won't make up for this sham of a do.

Kate almost swallowed Jamie Hince. Apparently he had a fag in his other hand. How classy is that? Still, it looked like passion. Kate's fond of the old smoke herself, so ashtray breath clearly isn't a deal-breaker. Good luck to them, can't help but wish them all every chance of happiness but sometimes you do wonder.

Gordon Ramsay's Dog breakfast Film

It's so bad it"s got to be great. Can't wait to see Gordon Ramsay's new film Love"s Kitchen. It took the princely sum of £121 nationwide on its opening weekend. Bravo Gordon! Complete crappiness taken to such new depths deserves respect.

Look at Avatar. It took only a billion pounds a day for the first 17 days. That's 17 billion quid in just over a fortnight. Granted that was worldwide, but I don't see the Chinese clamouring for Gordon"s shonky little number any time soon.

Love's Kitchen is a rom-com starring Simon Callow with a cameo by the wrinkly one himself. It's "cack-handed, cloth-eared and painful to watch," says one critic. Great, that's me hooked. Makes your toes curl and your teeth ring. Even your eyebrows will ache. It's that bad apparently. Just the job.

Never mind Gordon. You'll make top of the worst ever list. So smile and wave. That way, you might just save this particular dog's breakfast from hitting the bin yet.

Naughty Pilot on a Roll

"Good morning and welcome aboard. This is your Captain speaking, well, slagging everyone off, actually, because really, would you do it with that gorilla of a stewardess?" Pilots look like film stars and speak like public announcers don't they? Except when they accidentally leave the mike on and the air turns blue.

Must get boring whiling away the hours while the plane flies itself. A bit of bitching over the joy-stick is to be expected. Except that this time every F and blind was being relayed back to air traffic control. Off he went on one: "It was just a continuous stream of gays and grannies.Well I don't give a f*** I hate 100 per cent of their asses. At the end, with two girls, one of them was part-doable but all these women wanted to do, one wanted to berate her sister and the other wanted to bitch about her husband.

"When that was done, got back to my room, I'm like, why the f*** did I stay up?" A bit of spluttering from the other end should have been a warning, but the pilot was on a roll, his blabbing took in looks, age and sexual preferences of his fellow crew - none of it nice.

In the end Air Traffic finally got his attention and told him : "Someone's got a stuck mike and is telling us all about their endeavours. We don't need to hear that." The pilot was suspended while he took "diversity training." He's not the first, joining the ranks of George Bush and Gordon Brown, whose private conversations also ended up on You Tube. Shame really. If he'd known the whole world would be drinking in his every utterance he might have been wittier - or even funny.

Boarding School Horrors

Boarding school - good or bad? Not my scene, not being rich enough, but plenty of people I know went there. Based on them, would I send a child to boarding school? No way.

Take one example. He is the son of a diplomat and, aged five, went to a very, very posh school. He saw his parents for a couple of weeks during the summer break. He was a desperately sad and lonely little boy, but he particularly remembers rowing a boat on the Zambezi and discovering to his horror that they were going the wrong way. "Dad, dad," he shouted: " We're going backwards!" "The term is, 'We are not making headway!" his stiff-upper lip, British father replied as they swirled madly towards the rapids. Clearly a product of the system himself.

Another guy, also doing very well in his professional life, remembers leaving a wan-faced mother in September then returning at Christmas to discover she was dead and buried. No one had thought to tell him.

Studies show that children sent away from home at an early age shut down emotionally as a coping mechanism. One man said: "You become a very private person. You think everyone is like that, so you don't think anything is wrong. If your partner complains you say, "don't be so sensitive" or "you can't take a joke."

That sound like anyone you know? Spot on I'd say. The right school might be great for your job prospects but the price paid is huge in more ways than one.

Want it, Nick it, Tweet it.

The latest plague? Pilfering Nickitis. Everyone's got it, from the cool kids to the top brass and most are boasting about it. On Facebook, Twitter or even to the Times. Tom Campbell says he was joking when he told a reporter he, "always has to steal something," when he goes into a big chain like Tesco or Pret a Manger for lunch. The former cultural strategy manager to the Mayor of London - not in his made-up job any more then - added: "When you're like, 40, they don't grab you or anything. They just say, 'Sir, I think you've made a mistake.'

"Someone told me it's so expensive to prosecute a shoplifter that all they ever do is say 'Excuse me Sir." That's how I justify going into the chains. That's the rule. If you go into a chain, you have to steal." So that's why the woman next to me shoved a chocolate into my bag in Nero the other day. I put it back. Of course I did, but maybe I'm on my own?
Fraud cases are up from 11 to 18%. It takes about three years for company fraud to be discovered. Tough times mean they cut costs in control departments and the thieves have a field day.

I find it depressing. We might be skint - but surely things are not that bad yet? I'm hoping Tom Campbell finds out what hard times really are because his petty pilfering puts up prices for the rest of us. Thanks Tom.

Thar She Blows! Sarah Spouts Again

Duchess of York Sarah Ferguson has Runnaway Gob Syndrome. She was born with it and over the years it has got much, much worse. She never knows when to shut up. Show her the colour of your money - preferably dollars - and she will pour forth such drivel as to stop an elephant in its tracks.

The woman is beyond dreadful. She is now spilling all on Oprah, including how she was beaten by her wicked mother and called a sheep's arse by her dad. Been called worse myself. Didn't think it required counselling.

Sarah sucks fruit gums as she is driven by Buckingham Palace, "my old house" as she calls it. She says:" It's horrible to be ostracised from the family, I adored my mother-in-law" Perhaps that relationship soured when Sarah was pictured having her toes sucked by her balding lover. He wasn't even a looker. Say what you like about Andy, he did turn a few heads in his time.

Since then she has piled shame on shame, trying to sell her ex-husbands favours to pay her debts. "I don't really understand finances at all," she moans. Oprah's US television network is said to be paying her £200,000 fee. Sarah doesn't get out of bed for less.

"I sabotaged myself and hit rock bottom. It was like I had murdered someone. I had murdered Sarah." So that would be Sarah on the skids, taking handouts at the local soup kitchen would it? The lass needs a kick up her own woolly arse to remind her of how lucky she was and still is. Nobody is paying me £200,000 to discuss my troubled childhood. Sarah needs to put up, shut up and start earning her privileged place in the world. That likely to happen any time soon?

Weiner a Hot Dog? Salad Days

Call it sexting, call it flashing, what is it with showcasing your bits? Why the compulsion to inflict them on the rest of us? I find it weird. Face it, human genitalia do not reflect our best side, photographically speaking. A person can have beautiful eyes, fabulous legs, even a cute pair of ears, but the everyday crotch lacks universal aesthetic appeal.

Men on men, maybe. I can see a gay trend, but men sending pics to women, along the lines of the aptly named Anthony Weiner? What's he trying to say here? Forget the fact that he has the face of a rodent, bit rat or even lemur in his bug-eyed surprise at the furore, what woman would seriously like to appraise his penis on the world wide web?

Seems he pressed the wrong button. Easily done, but once tweeted, no going back. Why take the pic in the first place? Did he think, "she'll take one look at this and wave her knickers in my face!"? Is he just an exhibitionist, touting his tawdry wares like the teenager who stopped me in my tracks? This lad had something to show and he was doing his level best to make sure I appreciated every inch of it, but short of almost having my eye out he had no effect at all.
Women just don't go in for this sort of thing. A few sat on photocopying machines during a daft craze a while back, but it's not something that's really taken off. Some guys put out naked shots of their girlfriends in a sort of world-wide Readers' Wives, sort of fat lass picture gallery. Phone porn goes with that sort of territory.

Weiner could have been Mayor. Somehow I don't suppose we will be seeing our blond bombshell Boris like this any time soon. He might talk a load of b..... but he doesn't haul them out for the electorate.

Miranda and Marfan Syndrome

Funny lady Miranda says she's borderline. Rachmaninov was full-blown. Someone I know is built like one and plays like the other and she's probably got Marfan Syndrome too. Which wouldn't matter a jot, except that this little-known condition can lead to sudden death.

People with Marfan are often extremely flexible. The party trick of the person i know is to do the splits, despite looking more like a wrestler than a gymnast. She can also touch her wrist with her thumb - hallmark Marfan. This flexibility affects blood vessels which can burst without warning.

Her dad died of a heart attack in the street. No one made any connection. Until I read about Miranda, no one had. It could be affecting her children, who might need to take care at sports, or her brothers, also ignorant of the risk.

It was Caitlin Moran interviewing Miranda in the Times who first sounded the alert. The comic cannot drink even one glass of wine without being off her face - exactly like the woman I know. So I started digging. Then I sent her the facts.

Was that the right thing to do? Such news is shattering. We are not good friends. Should I have let her live, probably without incident, in ignorance? Or would I have forever carried the weight had she dropped dead like her dad and nobody was any the wiser? Marfan is rare, but if any of this sounds like you, get it checked out. It's a drug regime and regular heart checks. It could save your life. I might just have saved hers.

Trouble? How Can I Help?

Tom Bickerby in The Times is getting his head around having a Downs Syndrome son called Alex. He loves him to bits. He finds other people a trial sometimes. Know the feeling. Made me think of what those other people could do instead of talking.

Having had a bit of bother I'd like to suggest a few things . They could: make a cup of tea instead of waiting for one, buy a load of nappies - the right size - take brothers and sisters out for three hours without fuss and bring them back properly fed, pick up from school, babysit for two hours at ta moment's notice and take the dog for a long walk.

Offer to take the car for its MOT, hoover the stairs, clean the bathroom, all without need of thanks or permission. They could tell a child a story, bake a cake or a stack of scones and make sure mum and dad get some. They could also talk about something else, anything else, and be amusing with it, because sometimes all you really need, when life is tough, is a good laugh.

Murderer Mladic gets Compassion

Evil isn't the word. It's so horrific you forget to breathe. The details shut you down. Finally there's a long intake of oxygen, and the thought "Jesus!" Or Allah. The murder of so many by General Mladic defies comprehension.

He stroked the face of a terrified teenage boy. The photographer was there to record it. Then he had him shot, along with 8,000 unarmed Muslim men and boys. He ordered snipers to shoot toddlers in the street as they queued with their mothers for bread.

Yet he lived as a hero among friends who protected him from justice for 16 years. Yesterday his court hearing was cut short because he seemed too ill to continue. Some people believe he will pay after death. A vengeful God will see him suffer agonies for eternity. I wish it were so. Instead he seems destined to spend years in a cushy prison in the Hague, while legal proceedings drag on. He can learn a language, ceramics are said to be popular there.

We shot Osama, we hanged Saddam. If we ever get close to Gadaffi we should dispatch him in the same manner. Mladic gets kindness and the kid glove.

Michelle's Hot, David's Not

Near misses. Do they count? Yes, if it's a Boeing skimming the tail-fin. You'd want that on record. Otherwise debatable. One David Aaronovitch has an odd take on it. He says 'I live in North London and was nearly educated at Oxford." How nearly? Bombed the A Levels, booted out of the interview? Got a train there once?

How poncey is that? Are we all supposed to think: "Crikey, how could they turn him down!" Cambridge turned me down. Got over it. As any drunk will happily state: "I've been chucked out of better places than this!"

And don't you love Michelle! She's brilliant isn't she? Telling British girls to choose a bloke who loves his mother. No matter that suggests something entirely different here. Kind and cute - that's what counts, according to Mrs Obama. She's no slouch at spotting what's hot. She also reckons elite education isn't a must in a man. Are you listening David?

Horror That Lurks

Reeling! The horror lurking where least expected. Lord knows courage is required on a daily basis here, not least the day after after the dogs have gorged themselves on windblown apples. Steely resolve, backbone, grit, call it what you will but there is usually an early indication that foulness is afoot. Unless suffering from a bad cold.

But today retch without warning! Brace yourself - because it's lurking in your home too. I'm not talking skanky cutlery drawer here - though that too can creep up on your blind side, or stinky dishwasher that smells like tummy trouble. Not even beg bugs, happily enjoying a population explosion.

This is your sweet friend in the corner, who takes every load without complaint. The washer. Go carefully here. Take a tranquilliser. Open the dispenser drawer, slowly. See anything? You will! Haul it out. Gods Above - what is that stuff? Thick, back, slimy, creeping gunk looking like something BP chucked up. It's vile - and it goes straight into the pipe that feeds water to the washing. Staggered? Knew you would be.

Apparently it's a sort of mould that creeps up when you wash at low temperatures, like we are all supposed to do. To save the planet. Got to get up to 60 degrees to kill it. Well, a whole roll of kitchen towel later and no idea how my whites will turn out I'm going back to boil. And a long lie down.

Queen Joins the Little People

Didn't she do a great job? The Queen I mean. Grovelled a bit, granted, but given what we got up to, necessary. She even wore emerald green, to make sure Irish eyes were smiling. Loved the hat, gave her the look of a leprechaun. Truly a stroke of genius, though she rightly passed on the Guinness. Can you imagine what the ad men would have made of that, the old baked bean with a creamy tache? Would have circled the world faster than the shuttle that one.

So all in all, well done Maam. Which rhymes with spam, not smarm. Just so you know. There's always the nasty nit-picker at the back, ready to poop the party. That would be Morrissey, saying: "For a broad historical view of what the Queen is and how she rules examine Gadaffi or Mubarak and see if you can spot any difference." That would be the same Gadaffi whose soldiers were ordered to rape every woman in Misrata then? She may be head of the British Armed Forces but Her Maj has never endorsed such an order to my knowledge. We are not cowering in the streets under her rule.

So Morrissey maybe you need to brush up a bit on your dictators?

Pushy Mums Getting Nowhere Fast

Mumsnet in melt-down! Spitting blood surely! New research shows that all the Kumon maths, violin practice, ballet and Mandarin won't make a blind bit of difference in the end. Your kids will turn out just like you.

So if you are a low earner, chances are your children will be too. You can influence them when they are tiny and for a little while afterwards, but after that the genes will out. The only way to get the kids you want is to choose a partner with those qualities. Forget the sexy wild guy, his kids will only bring you grief.

All this is the result of research on identical twins raised by adoptive parents. They turn out the same, whether they have been brought up by lecturers or losers. What a killer! All that cash spent on extra tuition. Should have had that holiday.

Critics will argue the case of Tiger mum Amy Chua, whose daughters are talented concert musicians after hours of forced practice. She believes in moulding the young. The new research says different. " Her girls are the daughters of two Yale Law School professors and people are amazed that they succeed?" asks American academic Bryan Caplan.

He says just enjoy your kids, they are what they are and no amount of hothousing will turn a daisy into an orchid.

Slut, Slag, No Thanks

Must set free my inner slut. Support the sisterhood. Girls are walking the streets after all, just so I can release the tart within. How kind! So, it's on with the corset and thong - Oh God, such torture - and out we go. Must show the boys we can dress any way we like. It's still "Hands Off!"

Just so I know. Wouldn't like to get the wrong idea. Last time I took out the fishnets it was for a party - the kind where you go as a prossie or a priest. Didn't fancy the cassock, though the dog-collar could be fun. Anyway, on went the big coat for the trip there and back, because, well, didn't want to parade for every perv in town did I?

Got that wrong. It seems I should have been doing just that, because it's my right as a woman to look like I'm selling it when I'm not. Men should just know I'm not up for it, though the bare boobs might suggest I am. Got to fight for the right to look like I'm giving it away, say the wimmin - 3,000 of them turned out in their skimpies to demonstrate in Toronto. Our slags are gearing up for Slutwalk on June 11. Except of course they aren't slags, just women who want the right to look like slags. And not be. So that's alright then.

Forgive me if I can't be bothered to fight this one. I might just stay in and make myself a nice cup of tea. Oh, and bin that thong.

Super injunctions Such Fun

Super injunctions - what a hoot! Who would have put Jeremy Clarkson and Jemima Khan together? Not me. No offence Jeremy, you're rich and sometimes funny. but she's out of your league mate! Made me think how many unlikely couplings may be going on out there. What about Robert Pattinson and Princess Eugene? Or Adele and Louis Walsh? Camilla and Simon Cowell? The list is endless. And why not? Stranger things have happened.

Just no one is allowed to talk about it - not even to say; "It isn't me!" Frankly I couldn't care less. Do who you like, as long as you don't make rules for the rest of us. Politicians should keep it tucked away. If a guy wants to be an MP and a fun boy either the job or the girl must go. He can't have both. Likewise sporting heroes who play to their clean image. Grubby's fine, just don't take sponsorship. Unless it's Durex putting up the cash and then clearly anything goes. Anyway, heard the one about me and George Clooney...

Chuck Out not Chuck Up

Booze messes with your mind. Girls look prettier. Drinks taste better. Stop when your face sticks to the carpet and not before. That's the rule these days.

Time was when a beefy barman would haul you out on your ear long before then with the words: " Go home mate, you've had enough!" There are laws against serving alcohol to someone already drunk, but the rivers of sick in our streets on a Friday night show that bars ignore them. They fill the tills instead.

Now two Irish barmen are facing charges of unlawful killing, after 26-year-old dad Graham Parish died at his birthday bash. He'd been drinking Guinness for three hours before downing ten spirits in a glass, helpfully provided by his so-called mates. The barman checked with his manager before serving, then Graham downed it in one go.

Bad move - he was found dead the next morning with a face covered in vomit. Sad though it is, he really should've known better. Except few of us do, after an afternoon on the lash. That's when the sober voice of the bar staff should be heard. Nobody wants a nanny, but giving a final shove to someone on the edge of a cliff has to be stopped somehow.

Upper Class Bitch or Mongrel Middleton

Who is still spitting then? Jemima Khan for one - and I suspect Camilla for another. Jemima wasn't invited to the wedding and Camilla had her: "It should've been me!" face on, clearly thinking back to Diana's day. At least she kept quiet about it.

Harpy Jemima claims that Kate hasn't got "heir bearing hips." Typical fixation of the upper classes, let's just wait and see shall we? They may be rich, but they don't always behave well.

Way back I was a guest of Lord Brockett. Also at the table was a woman called Camilla, who looked a bit depressed " What's up Camilla - or should I say, who's up Camilla! " was the delightful riposte of Lord B. The woman was mortified. She might have been less so, had we all been in on the joke, but nobody except the posh set knew of Charles' squeeze then. That was before con-man Brockett spent time as a guest of Her Majesty for fraud.

Some of these high-born types like to look down on Kate and her family, smirking that: "the last time she went down the aisle she was pushing a trolley," when Carole Middleton's past as an air hostess comes up. Could be biased, being of mongrel stock myself, but I think the Middleton's may have more class than a truckload of toffs.

Kate More Regal Than the Royals

More regal than the Royals! That was Kate Middleton, now a princess and Duchess of Cambridge. Didn't she do well? Absolutely beautiful in exactly the right dress, she sat there straight as a ramrod. Totally poised. She's even managed the royal wave on the way back, that's from the elbow, not the shoulder. Word perfect they were too - no stumbling over names this time, the way Charles did.

Wills was a bit slumped and Harry looked his usual bumbling along self - though his fantastic good humour was a delight. ""She looks lovely!" he told William at the altar as he stole a look back down the aisle. All perfect.

Except for the pantomime dames Beatrice and Eugene. All big bosom in one case and ridiculous hat on the other. Put years on them. Their mum Sarah Ferguson must have had a hand in it. She wasn't there, but their outfits had her stamp all over them. What a shame they didn't listen to Zara Phillips instead. Or Mrs Middleton. She looked spot on as mother of the bride, though at one point the impact of it all really hit her and you could see her wondering; " What has she let herself in for?"

Really, despite being royal it all looked just like any family do - some got it right a few got it wrong, but that's just the way these things go. Good luck to them.

Olympic Triumph for Brits

Sometimes we Brits want to brag. We do such a good job of beating ourselves up over everything from football to the slave trade that when we get something right, totally spot-on, it feels good to shout about it.

So I am. We have done an amazing job with the Olympics. We've finished an incredibly difficult job with time to spare and under budget. Fact - the price was £496m and we got it done for £486m. Fact - we were due to complete on June 6 and we were done and dusted by March 31, with all the paperwork tied up as well.

No mean feat. The team did a stupendous job, so applause please. Everyone likes to knock, it's our national pastime. We like to see the mighty fallen. It's a peculiarly British trait, you don't see the Americans slagging off their own. Much more likely to say all things Stateside are the biggest and the best.

Now at last we have something to be really proud of. Have you seen the Olympic buildings? The designs are enough to make a dead man gasp and the transformation of the run-down Stratford area will be a legacy for generations. More than all of that, despite the size of the job and the complexity involved, no one died. Not one accidental death. That alone is worth the celebration. So well done everyone on the Olympic Delivery Authority, you're the best.

Courage of Downs Syndrome Dad

Downs Syndrome calls for courage and honesty and some people have it in spades. They leave you staggered. Take Tom Bickerby writing in the Times today. His little lad Alex was born recently with Downs. You expect the usual " We will love him for what he is" stuff, and that's there.

But gut-wrenching honesty? Tom says; "I can't imagine ever loving Alex enough to make this future tolerable." He's thinking of disability, abnormality and dependence and it overwhelms him. I know very little about Downs. I know strength and courage when I see it. This is a dad with both and he humbles me.

Sometimes we can't face the truth. Sometimes the reality is not as bad as we perceive it. To look the facts in the face, admit to your feelings of total powerlessness and then still carry on, that takes real guts.

Tom was depressed beyond measure when he was introduced to another Downs Syndrome child. Even while admitting that the boy was sweet, " Friendly, healthy and active," he saw no ray of hope. It's a brave man who can say so. People expect parents in this situation to be saints. Tom knows he isn't. That fact frightens him. He is man enough to admit it. Somehow I think he and Alex will get along just fine.

Fancy Life on Mars?

Fancy life on Mars? Not the telly series, the real thing. How keen would you be? It's a chance to be one of the Hilary's, Armstrongs. or Shackleton's of the new world. A Vasco da Gama or Columbus. Fame for all eternity. The downside is - you die there. On Mars. With a crowd of like-minded lunatics.

That's what science may be offering, a one-way ticket to the red planet. You'd get temperatures of -23C, 668 days of the year and gigantic dust storms that can cover the whole sphere. Awesome.

You'd also never catch a cold, or any other infectious diseases. You might still get cancer, or another untreatable nasty, but there would be a suicide pill for that. Sounds like a dream come true doesn't it? Yet the boffins believe there will be plenty of takers. Astronomer Royal Lord Rees says:" Many could be found who would sacrifice themselves in a glorious historic cause!" He's probably right.

Me, I remember the space-shuttle disasters. Clouds of debris streaking the sky as glowing bits of God knows what plummeted. Much as I fancy a tour of space, and the chance to see Mother Earth from above, I would take the return fare option. Till that happens, they can keep Mars, I'll make do with the hash we've made of this place. thanks.

Royal Rollicking

Be warned naughty Royals - you could be writing "I must be better behaved" a hundred times if we follow the lead of Belgium. Their Prince Laurent is in the doghouse. Described as a 47-year-old "enfant terrible" he's been ordered to write a code of conduct for himself, to be read out in Parliament next week.

How embarrassing! Lord knows what he's been up to but it seems the Belgians have had enough and are threatening to cut his £265,000 allowance if he doesn't shape up.

Need a bit of that here. Some Royals presume it's fine to shove photographers, swear loudly and behave badly. They sell business contacts to the highest bidder and swan around at our expense thinking they own the place. They do - a lot of it. Trouble is, most of them are too thick to realise that their privileges are not a right but should be earned. Roll on the republic.

William and Kate at their Emetic Best

Goody, there's a new, naff royal film coming out and I can't wait! It's described as "emetic." That means it makes you sick to you and me . So what's new? Have you ever seen anything about the royals that didn't send your dinner soaring? From Charlie talking to Dimbleby to Diana's "three in a marriage" disclosures they have all been heavingly awful.

That's why I am all set for a great night in when it hits the TV on April 24. Might even invest in a bottle of red and a box of Maltesers. To set the scene. Get this : "They met by chance and came from different worlds, but against all the odds... live their own fairytale." Now isn't that just fabulous? Doesn't it send a delicious shiver of awfulness down your spine? A Mufasa moment, most definitely

It's going to be tacky. And shallow. Actor Nico Evers-Swindell lets his jaw drop when he sees Kate in that dress. Me too. Dreadful wasn't it? This is going to be the best bit of the whole royal shebang and at last it's possible to look forward to a ripping good time. Keep the street parties and droning dignitaries, I'm rooting for William and Kate The Movie. Might even buy the DVD.

Fuel But No Thought

What kind of fuel am I? A big, blue one with a flashing light. Muppets at the Met can't handle a petrol pump. One in six diesel cars run by the police in London are banjaxed by bozos filling them up with petrol, costing the force £170,000 over two years. That's a lot of coppers.

What sort of boobies are driving these things? They have stickers and warning systems and yet the boys in blue insist on getting it wrong, over and over again. "In fairness they have got a mixed fleet of vehicles and this is a high-pressure job,"said Gavin Hill-Smith, a spokesman for the AA. He's too kind.

How tense are they with their fists on the pump? It's not trigger-finger territory is it? All they have to do is, stop, consider and select. Easy. The Met is not the only one. Twenty nine out of 43 forces in England and Wales reported a total of 20,500 vehicles misfilled, at a cost of £338,800. Staggering. They should be banged up for it.

Sadness for Anthony Soh

Many sympathies to the family and friends of Anthony Soh. He had good mates who cared and a family who are now trying to cope with the news of his death.

They will want to piece together the final hours of his life. Some things will never be known but they can all be certain of this - he loved them and he knew they loved him.

People disappear off our streets every day. Some have family who never cease searching, others have no one to mourn them. Anthony was not one of those.

Church of the Ungodly

God - if he exists - must be rolling his eyes in horror at the ways of his faithful. Still reeling from paedophile priests we now learn that Catholic clergy in Spain are accused of stealing up to 300,000 babies between 1950 and 1990. Jesus! Bit of a bolt from the blue that one. Doctors were the main culprits, pretending the children had died, but the clergy helped them out because they disapproved of under-age or single mothers.

Antonio Barroso was told that a nun had been paid 150,000 pesetas for him. "This became a Mafia business, " says Enrique Vila, a lawyer acting on behalf of families trying to trace relatives. A DNA database has been set up. Things could get worse for the church but it's hard to see how.

Puts the vicar who stole cash to buy food and clothes for the poor into perspective. The Rev Vaughan Leonard of Oldham, thought he had taken about £250 that should have gone to the church from funerals and weddings. An investigation discovered £14,434 missing. That's a lot of socks and sandwiches.

Kate Bush New Single

Big day for Kate Bush! Releasing her brand-new digital version of Deeper Understanding. Wow! It's Ken's record of the week on Radio 2, so it must be good. Except it isn't. It's dire.

Aside from the fact that a different version is hardly new, it's only available online and a download costs 89p. Save it. This is a song all about turning your computer on and pressing execute. Exciting no? There's someone with a speech defect in the backround, trying to sing with a mouth full of marbles. Or strep throat. Doesn't sound good. None of it does.

Used to like KB. Warbled along to Wuthering Heights. It was weird, but it was fun, especially when she came on telly doing gentle gymnastics in diaphanous frocks. Getting on a bit for that. She has her fans, but give me Taylor Swift any day.

Frankie's not Funny

Not that fond of Jordan. Or Katie Price, as she likes to be known. Normally I'd be the last to mention her, since she never shuts up about herself, but Frankie lad, be a big boy and admit that you were bang out of order. Wrong on every count.

That joke about Price needing a man strong enough to protect her from her disabled son"s sexual advances. Yes, that was meant to be funny. You laughing? Me neither. Frankie Boyle has a genius streak for finding comedy anywhere. I love him for it.

Just not there Frankie. You overstepped the mark by about, oh, a light year or so. Not saying you can't poke fun at the disabled though to be fair, they do a better job themselves. Children, no. Blind, disabled children? Never. I think Frankie knows it. He let his grubby gob run away with him again. Channel Four though is standing by him. They are all set to defy the broadcasting regulator.

Why? Chief executive David Abraham says:" The context of that joke was clearly and manifestly satirical." So, everybody happy with that?

Anyone Seen Missing Student?

A week ago a young man of 18 walked out of a student bar in London and disappeared. No one has seen him since. There's a link on Facebook for Anthony Soh but not a lot else, just CCTV footage showing him a few hundred yards away from the bar.

Have you ever tried to get information on missing people in the UK? Laura Richards did through the Freedom of Information Act. She wrote to the National Policing Improvements Agency asking for the statistics for missing people over the last five years. She wanted to know how many were under 16. That was in October 2010. They did not have the information.

Maybe Anthony will turn up safe and well. Of Chinese parents from Kent, Anthony was living in London. It's a big city and it's easy to feel lonely, although Anthony had many college friends. London is also clearly a place where you can vanish without trace. There's not even a number on a public list for you. If he had been a young woman who never made it home to bed would things have been different? Perhaps so.

Stuff of Night Mares

I'm all for the weird and wacky. Life's dull if you can't be different, but the latest extreme sport has me reeling. To wit, guys ride a skateboard behind a galloping horse. Pulled by a rope behind a heaving, sweating, kicking, rearing half-ton animal with steel caps on its feet and a brain the size of a walnut. Does that sound good to you?

Trust me, I know of which I speak. We own such an animal and a more cantankerous chestnut mare never munched oats. Horses are dim. And wilful. The old saying: "You tell a gelding. ask a mare and make an appointment with a stallion" holds true. They like to have their head. I would no way get close to the rear end of one standing still, never mind be hauled along by one at full stretch.

They have a habit of stopping suddenly when they see a paper bag. Puddles give them apoplexy. They are not keen on stuff coming up behind them and tend to panic. Not so fond of folk in front either, that's when the hooves come into play. Dangerous? Too right they are.

Have your sport boys but stick to quad bikes for the tow. At least then you can get it to stop before it rockets over the fence. Be as mad as you like but forget the four-legged lunatics.