Real women - what a pain they are. Much better to make them up, I say. Yet we are forever being told what real women and their real lives are really like.
There's been some research into men and depression, which I'll get on to in a moment. However, one of the many causes of my own depression is that I read about all this crappy research, and watch TV documentaries about it, and I believe it all.
Betty Boothroyd has yet to make an announcement about her future, but the horse-trading is already going on at Westminster. It was thought that when she turned 70 earlier this month, Madam Speaker would signal her readiness to step down.
Last week I wrote about how Caribbean politicians were manipulating their legal system - and in particular speeding up the procedures that lead to hanging - in order to win votes and buttress their own power.
Is the short trek from the Commons press gallery to be abused at No 10 worth a journalist's shoe lea
In the old days of Fleet Street, when there was a plane crash or some other calamity, you went straight to work. So I wasn't surprised to be ordered into the office on day one of my holiday when Mandy's rehabilitation was announced. lt's dirty work, but somebody has to do it.
It's not good news.
I was deeply moved by Melvyn Bragg's account of his first year as Lord Bragg, published in this week's Observer.
Many of my friends in the law (I was at the Middle Temple once) seem confused at the giant step backwards into judicial murder now practised by their Caribbean counterparts.
Tony Blair may think it a conservative force, but it has been weak in protecting the health service.
As someone who has always been told off for possessing little common sense, I cannot get that excited about a revolution based on this much over-rated commodity. Indeed, it means as much to me as "the radical centre" - ie, zilch. Revolutions are supposed to get the heart going, aren't they?
What with getting up too late for the orang-utan trip because of the hour I'd spent in the middle of the night pursuing a horde of killer mosquitoes with a spray can of Exterminate, I found myself with an unexpected amount of time on my hands this Tuesday.
Blackpool put on its best October sunshine for the Tories, but they hadn't much else to smile about. Vast tracts of the Winter Gardens, packed with trade stands in previous years, were turned into coffee shops. The bars were virtually empty much of the day.
Clive James wrote that he gave up writing his Observer TV column when he started seeing the same ideas coming around and being acclaimed as original. Now it's not just a matter of ideas. Is it me, or are there more anniversaries than there used to be?
By the time you read you this I will be in Borneo. But don't take that as a threat.
Of course he wants him back. Tony Blair cannot wait to restore his little helper Peter Mandelson to the cabinet. Unfortunately, he is meeting resistance from the rest of his cardinals who were glad to see the back of him.
There are many soft delicate parts of your body that are horribly vulnerable to injury: eyeballs, eardrums, your own particular brand of genitalia, and that's without getting on to the internal organs. But there's something special about horrible things happening to teeth.
Sunday was a bleak day for women. And it was the media wot did it. When the Sunday Times published a list of the 500 most powerful people in Britain, it included only seven women among its top 100.
Sir Herman Ouseley leaves the Commission for Racial Equality shortly - probably at the end of January. He is less than pleased. Jack Straw, he says, does not view the modernisation of the 1976 Race Relations Act as a matter of urgency.
They never liked each other and had little in common. A lesson for Blair and Brown? The Major/Lamont
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.
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.
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.
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