I'm getting ready to move into my own office.
I used to think I had the perfect system for winning at roulette. Many people believe they have perfect systems and they are all delusions, because, unless there is something wrong with the table, in the long run everybody loses except the management.
I want to say now that I have no intention of putting my name forward as a candidate for London mayor. The idea started on a television show.
It takes only a few months for a fairy tale to turn into a farce. In June, the nation was thrilled that the youngest of the Queen's children was finally getting himself hitched.
Last Wednesday night I spent two hours, sitting on a high stool in the Majestic Hotel, Harrogate, leering at women half my age.
During Australia's bicentenary in 1988, an editorial in Rupert Murdoch's Sun described Aborigines as "treacherous and brutal", a people without skills, arts or graces who would have wiped themselves out if left alone. This was illustrated by a stereotype of a savage.
When I was 11 or 12, I walked into my biology class and there on the blackboard, drawn in profile, was a scrotum and penis (in a flaccid state). Next to it was a diagram of the female reproductive system. Our biology teacher walked to the front and proceeded to describe what happens during sex.
Listen to the telephone call between two blue-rinsed ladies in the shires. Not their chat about the garden, or the church fete, or their giggling about Portillo. No, it's the goodbye that has you doing a double-take: "Love ya lots," they chirrup, before hanging up.
He is the French John Prescott, anti-euro, anti-market, not very pro-government. Jean-Pierre Chevene
With a new commissioner of the Metropolitan Police appointed, several commentators have taken the opportunity to voice their opinions on what should or should not be done.
Quite out of the blue, we are told that 4,000 Muslims, mostly young men, are in prisons in the UK. Not Asians, not Bangladeshis, not Pakistanis, please note, but Muslims. This is supposed to be new, surprising and alarming.
Whose fault is it that 12 year olds get pregnant? This is a multiple-choice question if ever I heard one. Tick one of the following answers. It's Margaret Thatcher's fault because she decimated industry, thus giving unemployed men little purpose in life except to impregnate children.
It all started with a perfectly innocent little chat before dinner about an academic colleague of mine from Teesside University who'd decided after much personal anguishing that he was a woman in a man's body and would therefore go ahead and arrange to have what he always referred to in a capita
I heard about the various celebrations surrounding John Peel's 60th birthday with something close to alarm.
In the latest volume of her autobiography, the writer Emma Tennant reminisces about her lusty affair with the late Poet Laureate Ted Hughes. In 1976, after a drink at a bar in Notting Hill, Hughes invited Tennant back to his lair in Tufnell Park, north London.
The hairdressing story rumbles along. Last week I told the tale of Mrs Howe going to a salon in Brixton, south London, to have her hair done, and the stylist making it plain that they did not entertain people with "your kind of hair".
Following the "moral crusade" in the Balkans, there were calls for heretics to apologise. It was reminiscent of the hysteria surrounding the death of Diana Spencer and, like the froth on a cappuccino, blew away once reality was restored.
Last Tuesday evening I realised with extreme alarm that although I was sitting as usual in my Posture-Wise chair, there was something about my attitude that might readily have been mistaken by a casual visitor for slumping. It was a frightening realisation.
Somebody once paid tribute to Shakespeare's Mark Antony by saying that he had drunk the "stale of horses", which sounds a bit dodgy, and also that he had eaten strange flesh that other men had died simply by looking at.
Carl Russo, the 42-year-old moustachioed chief executive of Cerent, is the newest billionaire spawned by the information age. Under his direction, an information technology outfit that was ailing last year has now been sold for £7 billion.
About 12 years ago I happened to be working in Kingston, Jamaica, on a television documentary. Whenever I visited the Caribbean, I would purchase the daily newspaper and turn immediately to the death announcements.
Once again it's time for our annual summer party. This year could be rather special.
Is there anything that you can't buy a guide to? This week I discovered that there is now a library of guidebooks on the subject of that thing called the gap year. It's become another industry.
New Labour's lifestyle queen bids us forget the past, be Mediterranean and flaunt our emotions. Tric
I see that Boots is going to create some stores that are devoted to men's cosmetics.
I went along to Rickard Close, off Upper Tulse Hill, in Brixton. It leads to a warren of flats on a huge council estate, where a 13-year-old black girl was gang-raped. Three young men of her race held her down while a fourth raped her.
On my way out of Red Fort, in Dean Street, I bump into a young woman wearing an elaborate shawl who tells me enthusiastically that she has recently had the good fortune to be appointed deputy media controller for a new public relations firm called Jam.
On every newspaper that I have worked on those in charge have been worried about fucking. The word, you understand, not the activity. At the Independent, Andrew Marr was always saying that there was far too much fucking, shitting and pissing going on in the paper and it had to stop.
The journey I have been commissioned to make by Channel 4 throughout England (with a detour to the Outer Hebrides) is finally over.
I had my head half inside the freezer compartment and was meticulously dividing the number of ice-cubes in the tray by six, when Sally grabbed me round the shoulders and, with a breathy urgency that threatened to defrost the Ben and Jerry's Vanilla Fudge, told me to forget the after-dinner whisk