Columns: The Alternative Oxford English Dictionary
Booty-Shaker... the sort of house party where anything can, and will, happen. People will be dancing in the street outside as cars pull up full of bikini-clad women who shout, "Yeah, party-time!" a lot. Inside, there is a keg of beer and lots of liquor that everyone drinks out of mysterious coloured beakers. At some stage in the evening there'll be limbo dancing and someone will be thrown out of a window by a group of bikers who have arrived uninvited and set light to the sofa. Every single room in the house will be used for sexual purposes. There will be at least one threesome. This is the party of your dreams. It does not exist. No house party is ever this good. Instead we have the classic...
Bum-Qua
Columns: Mummy, why?
1. Do wine tasters realise how silly they sound?
Columns: The Krapton Factor
It's a quick-fire round which means that I'm not going to stand for any buggering about, particularly not from you, yes you, at the back. Come on...
Columns: Spot the difference
Columns: Marathon woman
Weeks to go 8 (!), miles run 17 (v. slightly better), 8 st 7, injuries 1, unnecessary exacerbations of pre-existent injuries by inconsiderate prats 1
Columns: Newsfight!
The new opiate of the masses is the celebrity, the individual who fascinates us for no reason other than their perceived talent. Celebrity has become the new religion, Posh our Virgin Mary, Brian our Jesus and Simon Cowell our Judas. We worship their choice of undergarment as if it were dogma and lap up plastic surgery tips as if it were manna. Sucked into this cultist frenzy, we begin to, for a few seconds , have faith that these newly-born heroes of ours will be immortal, their place in the public psyche seemingly branded into our memories for evermore. ...
Columns: Memoirs of a nutter
How was it for you? Did the earth move? No? Then you're all in big, big trouble. It's carnage out there, and I'm not part of it. I'm referring, of course, to the fallout from Valentine's Day. Last week I asked for any of you lonely hearters out there to write to me. I offered you love, affection, simple carnal pleasures*, and did any of you lousystinking lot write to me? No. Well, actually one person did, and my advice to you, Mr. Johnny Tyldesley (if that is your name) is that if you insist on buying your girlfriend something that disgusting you must expect to be called a 'bloody freak'. And why you thought the fact it had flashing lights would help is quite beyond me....