Spoiler alert - You're a dick

I've never hidden my feelings regarding people who are moved to complain about the contents of a TV programme. My attitude is firmly in the 'if you don't like it, don't bloody watch it' camp, and honestly believe some people are only happy when they're being offended by something which gives them a chance to get Ofcom on the blower.


However, recent events surrounding the Eastenders 30th anniversary have taken the biscuit, eaten the biscuit, digested and shat out the biscuit, then maybe eaten it again.


Incredibly, 5 people complained to Ofcom following the climax of the 'Who done in Lucy Beale, innit?' storyline on Eastenders because it they didn't provide clues and it was too hard to predict the killer


Shit the bed. I mean, seriously, Jesus H Christ on a bike that's shat the bed.


Who in their right mind (and let's be honest, I've probably answered my own question right there) is so wrapped up in their own existence that they can't wait an hour to see the climax of what is essentially a made-up story for light entertainment? It's a TV programme - a fictional one at that - yet a small minority of people can't just invest in the drama and say 'Oh, him was it?' at the end before going back to tweeting close-ups of their private areas for the amusement of their friends.

By all means moan that you didn't think the outcome was very good, or that you hardly see up Kat's skirt at all these days, but a) thinking that a 10-month whodunnit is deliberately misleading and b) being moved to actually call an official body to voice those thoughts is the sign you're something of a COMPLETE AND UTTER TWAT. And if you're offended by that, why don't you ring the fucking A-Team.

Pour form

Yo-yos.  Planking.  Equality.  All things which started out as a bit of a laugh and captured the public's imagination for a few short weeks, before being confined to the dustbin of history as 'Huh, what were we thinking, eh?'

The latest heelarious fad to sweep that Internet consists of a celebrity pouring a bucket of ice water over their heads, all in the name of charity.  I'm not actually sure what the charity is, but for the sake of comedic irony, let's say it's to raise awareness of the lack of water in the Third World.

It started a few weeks ago, where recognisable person after recognisable person were filmed having a bucket of cold water poured over their heads, thus showing that they're 'one of us' and highlighting the plight of people less fortunate than themselves.  Quite what this was supposed to achieve is unclear.  Perhaps they expected us to exclaim "J-Lo owns a bucket.  I own a bucket!  But I bet her ice is store-bought and not hacked from the back of me Mam's freezer.  Mum, what's in this turkey baster?".  We may never know.

The second element of the process is to then nominate someone you know to go through the same ordeal, spreading awareness and having a bit of good clean (if a little cold!!!) fun at the same time.  Naturally, as with everything anybody ever classed as a celebrity has ever done, us normals latched onto it and started pouring and nominating faster than you can say "Youngsters in wet T-shirts online".

If you're that bothered about raising awareness, stop coming up with dick-brained methods of drawing attention to yourself the charity, ask everyone for a fiver and clear off.  What's next?  Smacking yourself on the arse with a cricket bat?  Piercing a nipple with a school compass?  Perhaps you could direct an elaborate remake of The Crying Game using local vagabonds.  Don't pretend you haven't thought about it.

I'm all for a bit of good clean (if a little cold!!!) fun, but do we really have to do this?  Yes, it's only a bucket of water, but what's the fucking point?  Our environment is on its arse as it is, so wasting its valuable water (not to mention the electricity needed to power our video-enabled telephone devices and tumble drying machines) is tantamount to vandalising Mother Nature's face.  And that's just asking for trouble.

Bang, crash, lawsuit

You've got to admire the moxie (or balls - topical reference) of the Australian broad who injured herself during an 'adult situation' and attempted to sue her employer because it happened on a business trip.

Having painstakingly pieced together the various bits of forensic evidence, it appears that in the throes of passion with a 'colleague' (make of that what you will), she managed to rip a light fitting off a wall which promptly twatted her in the face.  Lips were bust, eyes were blacked and one would presume coitus was suspended, unless she's into that kind of thing.

Initially, she actually got compensation, until the High Court's Pisstaking Division got involved and told her to turn it in.  Her employer quite rightly insisted that her actions, whilst carried out during a business trip, were not actually part of her role with the company, and anything she does on her own time is none of their concern.  Quite how she got from 'I can't believe I've just done that' to 'Well, this is clearly the company's fault - heads are gonna roll' is anyone's guess, and her unflinching brazenness in bringing this into the public domain has to be applauded.  Win, lose or draw, she's managed to drag her own reputation through the muck in the process, making her unemployable at best, a misguided harlot at worst.

Thankfully, her case being thrown out prevented the setting of any precedence, where any Tom, Dick (arf) or Harry would start filing nuisance lawsuits because they'd trapped their bell end in a trouser press, or got into a compromising situation with a Filipino chamber maid for whom 'no' really does mean 'no'.  Hopefully she'll think twice the next time she gets herself into this situation (cos you know she will).  My advice would be to test the structural integrity of the room before beginning any shenanigans.  That, and to record the whole event.  That way, if it all goes to plan, you've got a romantic keepsake, but if chaos ensues, you can send it in to You've Been Framed for a grand (I know, a grand!).

Girl grows up. Nation melts down

Professional 'entertainer' Miley Cyrus has created quite a stir this week (and not just in mens' underpants!!!). The former wholesome child star of Hannah Fantana has graduated to being a fully-fledged woman, with tits and what have you. Capitalising on her minx-like persona, she wore tiny kecks and a bra to cavort, bump and/or grind her way through some atrocious piece of music during the MTV Music Awards. Instead of brushing it off as a typical piece of PR to drum up music sales (akin to Madonna and Britney having a snog, or that lad Gaga wearing a dress made of beef), some parts of the popular press have gone into meltdown, citing the end of the world and questioning the mental state of a 20-year-old with a butt that won't quit.

Such displays of fleshmongering are not new. Recall that 'Dirty' caper by Christina Aguilera back in the early Noughties. A few eyebrows were raised (amongst other things!!!) but nobody seemed to go batshit about it, seemingly because she was an attractive woman making the most of what God gave her (and ultimately took away, if recent photos are to be believed). It seems young Miley has captured the imagination of some of the more conservative members of society because she used to be a child star, and therefore any development into anything remotely sexual is the work of Satan himself, and the only explanation is she must be mentally ill or have daddy issues (the latter of which is perfectly understandable, given who her old man is).

Isn't it even slightly possible that she is just being a young woman doing what some young women do? Does dressing up in skimpy attire instantly mean she has some kind of issue or torment? I've commented before about certain well-put-together young ladies, and how if I were similarly stacked I would in all likelihood strut around in all manner of revealing get-up. It doesn't necessarily mean I'm bereft of confidence or struggling with crippling emotional concerns; I could just be an epic cock-tease.

Miley hasn't so far commented on the uproar which has surrounded her 'performance' the other day, and I very much doubt she will. I won't pretend I've scoured the media particularly closely for reactions from all quarters, but I'm yet to see any response from young girls suggesting she is some kind of role model and they will live their life like her from now on. Quite honestly, if your teenage daughter is looking up to a 20-year-old in a bra as a bastion of moral fortitude, it's you who needs to take a long, hard look in the mirror, not her. I recommend wearing a bra and pants while you do.

She said what?!?!? Get her!

You know those occasions where you see something in the popular press or on that Internet, and the content of the prose makes you so cross that your only response is to threaten to rape the author?

No, me neither.

I'm a pretty liberal cat, but even I think rape is bad; wrong even. Whilst I can't argue about its ability to get the point across, it's not the most subtle of argumentative tools. What's wrong with opening a debate, putting your collective points across and agreeing that ultimately it's a futile argument; Chelsee Healey is fit and THAT'S THE BLOODY END OF IT, OK?

I need not tell you this whole rape kerboodle started when a female MP had the temerity, the brass neck, the sheer bloody-mindedness, to campaign to have the image of a female on the back of a new bank note. Now, as far as feminist ideals go, this is towards the bottom of the scale in my mind. It's not as if they're women-only bank notes, usable only by the fairer sex. Nor does it represent the final emasculation of the male species, as the last image of a man is finally scrubbed from our currency as those bra-sporting period-havers finally wrestle control from men and bring in their terrifying regime.

The reaction to this woman's ultimately successful campaign was misguided at best; concerning at worst. Numerous threats of rape were made against this woman within minutes of the news breaking. Not belittling her cause, not slagging her off for her choice of woman to appear on the bank note, not even congratulation. No, "I'm gon' rape you, dog" was the gist of a myriad misogynists' responses.

Thankfully, the Feds haven't hung about, and a couple of arrests have already been made. What perhaps surprises me most about this is that tweets or Facebook posts are widely available and pretty damning in their content. If you were to threaten to rape someone in the street, you could at least play the 'he said, she said' card. If you go and write it down and broadcast it on that Internet, your defence is at best shaky.

I'm not naive enough to think these people didn't already exist, although I imagine the majority of the posters in this story are probably cowards, just trying to fuel their knackered confidence by threatening to forcefully deflower some poor, unsuspecting politician. That said, I think the time has come for some organisation, be it the police, the Government or the coastguard, to step into this online abuse debate and start kicking some ass and imprisoning people, if only to make the next berk thinking of making such a threat to think again.

It's either that or people growing up and accepting other people's points of view. Zing!

But she's fat. I need to tell that Internet

Some folk are insecure. Sorry for the bluntness, but sometimes you have to take the bull by the horns and call a spade a spade. Especially when you're conjoining metaphors.

However, some folk are so insecure that they need the outlet of the comments section on a celebrity story to get their neuroses off their presumably flat chests.

Case in point; the lovely Gemma Arterton. English rose, award-winning actress, fit as fuck. However you dress it up, she done nothing wrong and seems to be making her way through life sporting tight togs to accentuate her 'curves' (newspaper speak for 'tits and arse'). A couple of days ago she turned up at some kind of pre-arranged shindig, wore some nice garb and had her picture taken.

Well, she had it coming didn't she? I mean, she was arskin' for it your Honour.

The number of people (presumably female given their clumsy Internet monikers) calling her fat was utterly ludicrous. I'm not a scientist or an expert in body mass to any serious degree, but at your most negative you could describe her as 'top-heavy', which in my day was the very definition of a compliment to a bit of fluff down the old battle cruiser. Presumably such ill-informed barbs have a cleansing effect on the people making the comments, as if calling an attractive person fat somehow heals their soul and restores their idea of equilibrium. I doubt Gemma sees the comments, thinks 'God, they're right, I'm a right pie-arse' and descends into a spiral of self-loathing and Kit Kat consumption. In all likelihood she doesn't give the shiniest of shites.

I'm all for free speech, but you have to draw a line somewhere. I'm not defending top-heavy lovely Gemma specifically; most stories carrying pictures of people perceived to be fly tend to be inundated with negative responses regarding their physical appearance. By all means pick on them for the questionable morals, clothing or tattoos, but saying someone is fat just because you're jealous is bogus, dude.

At the end of the day, as long as people have got holes in their arses they're going be mean to people better than them to bolster their rock-bottom confidence, and restore parity in their fantasy world where Tulisa or Adolf actually give a rat's ass about your opinions. Presumably that's why people keep putting dog dirt on my door handles.

(Don't) get your tits out

Before we start, this is a rant, not a complaint, so any mention of irony is entirely unfounded.

Who are these people who are so offended by the most banal, nondescript things shown on TV that they are moved to ring the TV station and complain about it?

The latest in a long line of busybodying concerns walking tooth factory Holly Willoughrack, who wore a dress that at best could be described as 'riqsue', at worst 'mildly alluring'. Househusbands favourite Holly is not averse to wearing tight-fitting garb and continued that impressive run on prime-time shout-fest The Voice over the weekend, where crowing wannabees are hauled in front of the great and the Will.I.Am of modern music to sing for their supper, while their family understandably cry in the green room. Last Saturday's show saw Miss Willoughjumperbumps wearing a seemingly offensive dress, with a modest cut-out in the boobal area showing her goods in a manner that you would expect at a former gangster's funeral.

The fall-out (arf) though was unprecedented; over 100 complaints to the BBC about the unsuitability of the outfit. The Beeb were even moved to release a statement accepting the complaints, as if she turned up wearing a full body stocking with fig leaves covering her gubbins.

Now, I've studied these pictures repeatedly from every conceivable angle and I'm yet to find anything remotely inappropriate about them. I understand that the programme is on at a time accessible by kids so certain standards need to be upheld, but I'd be very surprised if any toddlers were among the 100 or so goons deploring the partial display of Holly Willoughshirtpotatoes' funbags.

Seriously, if you're that offended, why don't you just turn over? There are plenty of things which offend me on TV - that faux-reality Made in Chelsea cobblers, the breathless coverage of the most minor of events by Sky News as if the world is about to implode, any ITV drama - and the fact that they're watching The Voice, yet are only moved to complain about the host's get-up says more about them than society in general.

The BBC don't care about your views. They don't care that you're offended, not least because it creates a story and gives their dreadful output free publicity. You're not in their key demographic; you don't say 'Amaze-balls', you don't wear a cap far too big for you, and you don't think Channel 4's haikus are entertaining. You're a middle-aged busybody who thinks that anything not presented by that lovely Fiona Bruce is akin to Nazism. If you really want to make an impact, try writing a blog on that Internet. Then people will sit up and take notice.

How can you hate me - I am your aesthetic superior

Let me be the next lazy commentator to jump on the bandwagon and slag off superhot vixen Samantha Brick for her hilariously short-sighted article about how hard it is being fit.

The basic premise of her article in the Daily Mail (don't worry - I only go there to look at pictures of The Saturdays in hotpants) was that women hate her because she's beautiful. Cue reams of photographs of a not-unattractive-but-you-wouldn't-look-twice-if-you-passed-her-in-the-street blonde lady in various fashionable togs, book-ended by a wailing diatribe about how she can't help being beautiful and women hate her and she's never been a bridesmaid and it's all someone's fault.

Now, I don't know this woman other than this article and I suppose it's possible that based on her experiences, she believes her looks have caused hatred from other women, but if you don't see the folly in moaning about such occurrences in the national press, maybe it's your attitude that is making people think you're an arse. I've never been the sort of person to judge someone's character based on their physical appearance, and I view the myriad responses calling her a dog and what have you to be a cheap shot, but based on the content of her article, it does appear she lives in some kind of parallel universe where everything bad that happens to her is because she's supposedly mint.

She says she's lost friends because of it, and only yesterday a female neighbour ignored her wave when she passed in a car. Ignoring the fact that she might have been concentrating on the road, has she stopped to think why people stop talking to her? What happens when she's late for work, or her car breaks down? "Is it cos I is fit?" is presumably her stock response.

The level of vitriol and sarcasm generated by her article is ludicrous, and the Twittersphere (yep, that's what we're calling it these days) was inundated with every Tom, Dick and Duncan Bannatyne having their say. The gist of their comments refer to how up herself she is and that April Fool's Day has already passed this year. It does smack of bullying as people gang up on her for stating her beliefs, but she's well and truly shot any positive PR in the foot by writing a follow-up article today basically saying "Told yer - bitches be crazy". She is genuinely claiming that the abuse she's suffered as a result of her article proves she's right, and that "no one in this world is more reviled than a pretty woman". Yeah, that's why everyone's laughing at you and calling you names - not because you're so up yourself you can see the back of your own head.

Honestly, she gives us genuinely attractive people a bad name. Don't hate me - God just likes me more than you...

Charity: Time well spent?

Before we get going, let me make it abundantly clear that I have nothing against charities or those who do charitable deeds. I know several people who support very worthy causes every day and help raise funds and awareness for all manner of plights. They are not the target of my ire.

However...

Is it really necessary for every donation we make to be embellished by someone putting themselves through physical and sartorial torture just so we feel obliged to stump up?

A friend recently opined that there is no need for 'celebrities' to run the length of the British Isles or swim the Thames for our money, and that the important thing is the money is donated in the first place. I wholeheartedly agree with this, although I understand how showing a stadium comedian looking tired (with obligatory Coldplay soundtrack) is often required to tug at the purse strings and get us tightwads to part with our hard-earned cash IN THESE TIMES OF AUSTERITY.

However, on a local scale, I don't see why we can't have a whip-round and send in a cheque. We're busy people; we've got lives to lead and skin colours to judge; surely we can't be arsing around doing a 3-day Wii Bowling tournament or 24-hour cardioathon at a local gymnasium.

What's that? We can? Oh, right.

Like I said, I'm all for stumping up to pay for a new wheelchair or what have you, but do I really have to piss about on a treadmill for an hour while my colleagues shout slogans at me? Can't you just have the fiver and I can get on with my life? I don't want to wear matching T-shirts or be part of a poorly-named team or be in the local rag. I just want to put the kettle on and light a massive cigar.

Having said that, if one day I need to buy a new kettle or one of those things to snip the end off the aforementioned cigar, it would only be right that John Bishop pogoed across Britain's suspension bridges to raise the necessary awareness and funds. We all know he's got nothing better to do.

The camera tripod: Boxing's answer to the folding steel chair

You know what British boxing needed? It needed two of its key protagonists to get into a playground-style ruck involving beer bottles and camera tripods in a foreign country. Only then would the rest of the world realise that we're a serious contender and not to messed with. Either that or we're a bunch of dickheads.

As you're probably aware, Derick Chisora narrowly lost his fight with Vitali Klitschko on Saturday night and went some way to repairing his reputation as a tit-end. He'd spent the run-up to the fight slapping and spitting any Russians put in front of him, but his efforts in the ring actually afforded him some respect. Alas, that went tits up when David "Mind me toe" Haye rocked up at the back of the post-scrap press conference and started yelling all manner of clumsy offence, focussing heavily on Chisora's recent record of defeats. Chisora decided this was uncalled for and went to the back to confront him, and - not to put too fine a point on it - the shit hit the fan.

Despite both being professional pugilists, only one punch of note was landed, and even that looked more like a drunk bird hitting her boyfriend with a Bacardi Breezer. All manner of cameras were in attendance so we've been afforded every conceivable angle of the action, culminating in Haye slinging a camera tripod at his opponent (as you do), but only succeeding in hitting his own trainer who ended up bleeding and looking very furious indeed.

Haye subsequently legged it and checked out of his hotel (as we speak is still at large somewhere in Germany) while Chisora thought the best way to calm the situation down was to declare that he would 'shoot' and 'burn' David Haye. If Haye now ends up shot and/or burnt, you can't say he hadn't been warned.

I'm not what you'd call a boxing fan, but even I'm embarrassed by the antics of these two muscle-bound buffoons. I was brought up to respect other people's possessions and to behave when in a foreign country, but these two uber-berks think throwing their weight and photographic equipment about is an acceptable way to conduct themselves on foreign soil. I wouldn't be surprised if it was a clumsy PR stunt to drum up interest in a real fight between these two, but surely they could have done it in a more suitable venue. Like, oh I don't know, a boxing ring?

Showboating: Ironic

We all know bigheads. Those people who think they're brilliant and act like Charlie Big Potatoes, strutting around in their white sneakers and large-peaked cap, using words like 'Dench' and 'Bo'
like they're going out of fashion.

Despite the epic douchebaggery of these people, in the main they're doing us no harm. Indeed, such people often reinforce the positive impression one has about oneself, leading us to opine "Well, it could be worse. I could be that large-hatted twat" or similar.

However, when a member of the arrogantista is in charge of a fuck-off cruise liner, that's the very definition of a recipe for disaster.

Step forward Francesco "Look, there's Guiseppe. Get closer so I can say hello" Schettino, the captain of the semi-submerged Costa Concordia. He was the skipper of the CC when he decided that maritime protocol was girl's stuff, and opted to sail past an Italian island close enough to salute one of his mates and ultimately show off. Alas, his antics led to his ship running aground, taking on water and ultimately succumbing to what shipping experts call 'sinking'.

The fall-out is pretty intense. Confirmed fatalities are into double figures as divers continue to scour the wreckage for survivors and/or bodies, while the ship's owners wasted no time in blaming Schettino for deviating off course and generally arsing about with 4,000 people's lives. He was promptly arrested and a leaked account of his interview confirms that he did in fact do a bit of detour to shout 'Bonjourno' to a friend. As you do.

This is where his arrogance goes into overdrive. In the interview, he quite spectacularly insisted that had it not been for his quick-thinking after hitting the rocks, many more lives would have been lost. You've got to have some seriously big bollocks to claim that rectifying your own stupidity is worthy of credit. This coming from a man who ended up on the receiving end of a monumental bollocking from the coastguard for abandoning ship before the passengers, while he protested that he had been catapulted off (presumably via inertia rather than some kind of elastic contraption) and couldn't get back on.

As you might imagine, there's very little chance he's going to get away with this. I presume his sailing licence has been ripped up and he's had to return his big white hat, and he can kiss goodbye to his freedom, let alone his future sea captaincy. You can't argue that he doesn't deserve it either, and hopefully this will send a message to other sailspeople who fancy demonstrating their high level of self-confidence in the future:

The sea is a cruel mistress, but rocks will fuck your ship right up.

"They did it on purpose, Lynne"

There are plenty of words you can use to describe the urinating actions of the US soldiers on Taliban corpses. Abhorrent, disgusting, despicable, erotic. Well, not so much erotic.

I'm sure you've seen the story by now, but basically, some army whistle blower has released video footage of a bunch of American soldiers 'getting caught short' all over a row of dead Taliban fighters. Despite the inhuman nature of their antics, there's a definite air of positivity within the footage, with one even squeaking 'have a good day, buddy', as if that's possible after everything that's happened to them.

What I find ironic is these lads were sent over there to restore peace to the area, and after putting their lives on the line to do so, they think that stirring the shit up by doing this is the best way to progress. Fortunately, the Taliban leaders who have begun talks with the Yanks about calming the whole "Well they started it" caboodle down have said that this footage won't affect the progress they're trying to make in brokering peace, which is a bloody good job really. Let's face it; they've every right to kick off and start scrapping again, and who could blame them? If footage was leaked (arf) of the Taliban doing that to US corpses all hell would break loose.

Perhaps most stupid (or brazen, depending on your outlook) is the fact that they allowed their faces to be shown on the video. Surely they must have realised that if this footage ever ended up in the wrong hands, their asses would be grass in no time? As we speak the government has already said they've identified the battalion and a couple of the participants, I fully expect the noisiest of noise to be brought by the military now, not least to show that they're not going to stand for this kind of mucking about when there's peace in the offing.

I have no doubt that this kind of activity takes place on both sides during the fog of war. Andy McNab was very descriptive about what he was made to do by his captors, for example. I'd be amazed if more urine or licking-your-own-shit-off-your-fingers action wasn't happening off-camera, but that doesn't mean it's acceptable. There are plenty of underground clubs that cater for this kind of 'erotic niche' the world over, so my advice would be to do it in a toilet until you get home. Or at the very least cover your face, you dolt.

Anthony Worrall Tealeaf more like

Shoplifting. The old five-finger discount. Reserve of the social underclass and confused soap opera teenagers, right?

Er, wrong, actually. Know it all.

Miniature double-barrelled pan-jockey Anthony Worrall Thompson is the latest 'celebrity' to be caught half-inching goods, in this case from Tescos. This high-drama caper began last month, when he was seen using the self-service checkouts to his advantage by bagging stuff he hadn't paid for. Apparently he did it five times under surveillance before security hauled him in for questioning. He was subsequently cautioned by the Feds and the bleating has gone into overdrive.

You may recall a previous e-rant regarding people being caught having affairs and what have you, but rather than admitting they enjoyed the trappings of their adulterousness (it's a word, don't bother looking it up), they instead went all doe-eyed and wailed how they were in a dark place and needed help, etc. In all likelihood they would have carried on shagging their pneumatic backing dancers forever if they hadn't been caught, but saying "I was enjoying that, spoilsport" sends a negative message which may affect future album sales.

Anyway, AWT has decided that 5 was exactly the right number of thefts to commit to realise it was wrong, and has gone on record about how he has let his family down and he needs professional help. Yeah, cos you've been harbouring these demons for 60 years, and they've suddenly wrestled control of your psyche and made you steal onions? Put a sock in it, beardy. If he did it once in a moment of sheer madness, maybe, but repeatedly highlights not that he needs help, but that he's a tight twat who was trying to keep his shopping bill down. Understandable during these times of austerity, but surely nothing a quick book launch couldn't have fixed.

At the end of the day, it's hard to argue that his celebrity status hasn't saved him from the big house. Behooded hoodlums were banged up for far less after last year's riots so it hardly seems fair that he gets away with it. I very much doubt he employed Basic Instinct-like behaviours to flash his minge at the cops, but then I wasn't there so I don't know. Either way, I hope you're not thinking about what that might look like. That would be awful.

Age gaps: Nothing but a number (derived from subtracting one number from another)

I'm missing something here. A 32-year-old woman and a 17-year-old boy have admitted they're seeing one another (I therefore presume shagging one another too). That's it. That's the story in its entirety.

Talk about a shit-storm though.

The lady in question is Caroline Flack who presents The Xtra Factor (whatever the hell that is), while the lad is part of singing sensation One Direction, who I'm led to believe are a modern musical act. Apparently the fact that there is a 15-year age gap between them has got some people very hot and bothered, as if he was nine and she some aging spinster with a pocket full of flying saucers.

For the sake of argument, let's put aside the fact that some boys/men have older women fantasies, and that she also happens to be a proper corker. Are either of them doing anything wrong? I grant you that it's unusual for two well-known people of such ages to get together, but I bet hundreds of millions of couples in the UK alone are in relationships with similar age gaps. Extrapolate those number across the globe and you're talking upwards of 14 billion people in similar circumstances. And they can't all be wrong.

I get why some people might say "Bit weird, innit? She's old enough to be his great aunt on some estates, yet here she is banging him like a porch door in a storm", but in truth, some people have labelled their tryst as 'disgusting', which is a bit harsh to say the least. There does come a point where an age gap becomes uncomfortable, but this isn't it. If he was 25 and her 40 nobody would be batting an eyelid. And the last time I checked the town charter, 16 was the minimum age for coitus, so she's OK on that score.

I can also understand people's concerns when the genders where reversed. That lad off The Green Mile is in his early fifties and he's married to a 17-year-old top-heavy blonde piece, and that's a bit odd. Don't get me wrong, I can see what 'assets' he was attracted to (tits) but she seems happy enough and they spend that much time in the limelight that he couldn't get up to any creepy mischief even if he wanted to.

At the end of the day, you can't choose who you fall for. If these two want to get it on bedroom-wise, let them help themselves. Wringing your hands and commenting on the inappropriateness isn't going to make them change their minds. As with all relationships, it will come to a tearful, bloody end soon enough, so let's let the kids have some fun before we're all in our cold, cold graves. Merry Christmas!

Light up, light up, as if you have a choice. Er, you don't...

I'm a non-smoker. Apart from a couple of years in the mid-noughties when I tried my hand at being a cool dude, I've never been interested in Lady Nicotine. Or cigs.

As a result, any legislation which bans smoking in public areas is AOK by me. Yes, it means that you're constantly stuck behind selfish arseholes at supermarket doorways as they strive to light up the second they leave the building, and the revelation that under the smoke lies only farts and B.O. in nightclubs hasn't been universally welcomed, but the health issues must surely be clear for all to see (not least now all the smoke has gone - arf!).

However, the latest development is a request to have smoking banned in cars, regardless of whether you are alone or not. And to me, that's a bit rubbish.

I subscribe to the notion of common sense; that people have their own minds and exercise the relevant caution in their day-to-day lives to ensure themselves and those around them are not put in any unnecessary danger. To that end, I expect people with passengers in their cars not to smoke, for example. Call me naive if you will, but I just expect people to be intelligent enough to make that call without being told it's bad and what have you.

If they want to get in a car alone, wind the windows up and smoke themselves into some kind of stupor, however, they can jolly well help themselves in my book. Providing they don't obscure their visibility with the smoke and/or piss about lighting fags when they should be concentrating on the actual driving, that's up to them. You would think they would know the health risks (those unsubtle "Smoking makes your ears explode and people call your sexuality into question behind your back" mottos on packets get the point across), so if they want to do it, leave 'em to it (potential slogan there).

If I got into a car and someone lit a cigarette without asking, they would be politely told to put it out. If they asked permission to light up first, they would likewise be told no. It's a simple system which we can all abide by which ensures that those who want to smoke can do, and those who don't like it don't have to tolerate it. Forcing folk not to smoke in the privacy of their own cars is just ludicrous, when we're told police numbers are at an all-time low. Surely they should be out there stopping and searching young people in inner cities for no real reason rather than pursuing someone through the courts because they had a fag on in a traffic jam.

What next - silencers on Christmas crackers to prevent heart attacks? Probably not, no.

End of the world III - this time it's personal

You've got to respect "Reverend" Harold Camping, who has recently announced his bi-annual prediction of the world's end.

Having predicted it would go tits up existence-wise on May 21st, he then revised his calculation to October 21st instead. Presumably he forgot to carry the one.

The most amusing aspect of this ridiculous man is he's done this sort of thing before, having predicted Armageddon in 1994. Whether he was talking about the pissy Hollywood action flick is unclear, but you have to admire his insistence that it was a mere mathematical error and next time he'll totally be right.

Personally, I don't see the point in trying to predict the end of the world. If you're wrong, you look like a right knob, and if you're right, everyone's dead so you won't be able to say "Told ya didn't I". Yes, you'd be able to wander around heaven looking smug at your accurate prediction, but those around you would presumably already believe you. It's us Hell-dwellers who would be most put out by him thumbing his angelic nose at us whilst imploring us to "Kiss it".

The thing is, the Rapture isn't the sort of news folk want to hear about. If you could predict the lottery numbers, you'd probably have a much more responsive audience, but if your game is telling people that they won't be seeing Children in Need this year, aside from a celebratory air-punch, I imagine they'd be a bit irked.

At the end of the day (geddit?) where there's religion, you're always going to have a healthy flock of lunatics telling us we're bad and we're off to Hell and the end is nigh, etc. If that is the case, then why don't you sod off and let us get on with it? If you predictions are accurate, you'll be upstairs playing air hockey with Jimi Hendrix soon enough anyway, so let us get on with our debauched lives in peace. Just let us have a quick crack at Imogen Thomas first.

It's a day for common sense

It's genuinely heartening to see that bloke from Manchester not facing charges after he stabbed some burglar's shit up when he broke into his house. By the sounds of it, he used reasonable self-defence against this punk, so he hasn't been done for murder. And that to me is common sense.

My own outlook goes way beyond this 'reasonable force' mantra. Personally, my attitude is "If you break into someone's house, they can do literally anything like like to you, including (but not limited to) the use of knives, killer bees and some kind of flame-throwing device to cause you harm, predominantly to the face if possible". I don't advocate the murder of the burgling scum, but I don't see why you shouldn't be allowed to bring the noise if they have the temerity to break in in the first place. For all they know, you just happened to be sharpening your best axe at the time. I appreciate this leans slightly towards a vigilante culture, but as long as you're not wandering the streets with a machete looking for bother, you should be OK to defend yourself by whatever means necessary should someone want to nick your LP's.

I've heard arguments about such acts infringing the burglar's human rights and whatnot when these events occur, but my argument is always the same - what about the rights of the victims? I have a similar outlook to those in prison. I couldn't give a fuck if you're cramped or have to poo in front of twenty other men, or that two inmates keep trying to disembowel you with razor blades melted into toothbrush handles - you should have thought of that before you started burgling/raping/murdering folk. My sympathy you have not got.

The acid test will come when another burglar tryies to do his thing and is met by a Home Alone-inspired scene of flying paint pots and sticky floors, ending with a good hiding from a sporting bat of some description. At that point the courts will probably have to say 'come on, play the game' and send the homeowner down, not least for referencing Home Alone in modern society. Until that day though, I see no reason why homeowners can't continue to introduce the pilfering underclass to their friend pain. Maybe then they might learn not to bother. Fools.

Just cos nothing rhymes with 'Sollecito'

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Nice rack, lend us a tenner

There has been a study published recently detailing the propensity for people to pose as legitimate folk on that Internet, find vulnerable people to groom, then con then out of literally thousands of pounds by tugging at their heartstrings. Those conducting the study have commented that it seems much more common than they first thought, with the numbers likely to be even higher when you factor in the number of people just too damned embarrassed to report the blag.

You'll be mortified to learn that I find the whole caboodle laughable, as if there is someone out there daft enough to part with their hard-earned just because someone they've never met tells them they've got nice hair. I mean, come on, I get that some people are vulnerable and liable to fall for someone who pays them the right kind of attention, but surely even they get alarm bells when they get requests for £45 cos their beau's clutch is shot.

Don't get me wrong; I can see it happening in a situation where the baddie spends months working their target, meeting them, maybe even interfering with them sexually (consensual of course) before dropping the bomb that they need ten large in the next few days or their fingers will be cut off. Within a few months, plenty of relationships have established a level of trust where such a request no longer feels like a confidence trick. But you've got the draw the line at handing over brass when the only evidence you've got of them is a grainy picture cut from the TV Times depicting a fringe cast member from Hollyoaks.

I wrote a blog of a similar ilk a while ago about a woman who had succumbed to such a ruse, and went on the radio to alert people to the possibility. She suggested that nobody could call her names worse than she'd already called herself, which was asking for trouble, but at least she had the balls to hold her hands up and say "Yep, the game's up. He got me" to at least show that this can happen to people. It's all well and good releasing studies saying it happens to thousands of people a year, but without a victim to come out and describe their experiences, all you're going to get is self-righteous idiots belittling their plight in blogs. I imagine.

At the end of the day, while there's money and emotions in the world, this is going to keep happening. It's a lazy stereotype (something of a trademark on here you might have noticed), but there's always going to be slick-haired lotharios preying on emotional-scarred women who just need a hug in order to get their hands on their wonga (not a euphemism). While it's never a bad idea to expose these sorts of goings-on to help reduce the number of cases, you eventually have to trust people to have a bit of common sense. To paraphrase Homer Simpson, if you're dumb enough to fall for this kind of trick, you deserve to be robbed of all your money. Doh!

Hut movement: Pricey

I'm all for preserving our nation's heritage, be it a famous building, a tree where gravity was supposedly discovered or the chair in which a TV executive first pitched the notion of Big Brother. Such artefacts are a part of our national identity, intrinsically sewn into our culture and as much a part of us as looting and sleeping with Ryan Giggs.

What I do object to though is well-to-do families bursting into tears and begging for public money to help preserve something which is very much within their moral and financial remit to protect.

This week, Roald Dahl's family have asked for a £500,000 donation to move his writing hut from the bottom of his garden into the museum built in his honour to preserve it. Now, if they were on the bones of their arse, I'm sure we could come to some arrangement to preserve such an important piece of history, but his granddaughter Sophie has to be worth a few quid from her modelling and pouting exploits, plus she could pull rank on her titchy husband Jamie Cullum, who must have a few notes stuffed under his car seat, if only to raise it slightly.

Lest we forget that the Roald Dahl estate must be coining it as well. He was a world-reknowned singer songwriter, and certainly to my mind the greatest exponent of bluegrass music in the Western world*, so I'd be amazed if they couldn't scrape at least a percentage of the sum together to preserve his beloved hut.

There's been a reasonable public outcry at this request, presumably along the same lines as my attitude. In these times of austerity and iPad purchasing we can't afford to be giving money to a wealthy upper-class bunch to move a garage from one place to another. I'm sure in the fullness of time they'll stump up, but you've got to admire their balls at chancing it. What next - the Queen asks to borrow a million quid to wallpaper the guest bedroom? I'll be in my cold, cold grave before that happens - there is no guest bedroom at Buckingham Palace.

* I'm joking of course. Dahl was a straight-up rhythm 'n' blues aficionado.