Sports Calendar

Book round-ups. Turkeys tarted up. I feel sick

Who cares about celebrity reads of the year? Sea bass for Christmas lunch, eh? And don’t get me going on scarves . . .

No, MP does not stand for Mostly Plastered

What was Sally Bercow, the Speaker’s wife, thinking when she volunteered details of a past life full of sex and alcohol?

Try my red-eye pod, with menu and movies

Flying near the front is perfect 21st-century living ... saintly staff, decent food, good wine. Shame about the passengers

Kate Moss: an icon of willpower and strength

Don’t damn the supermodel for being honest. If you want to be thin, you have to eat less. And thin is much better than fat

Don’t steal Kenyan beans! Too many food miles

The rise of the middle-class shoplifter raises some difficult dilemmas. Will it lead on to muggings at fishknife point?

Too witty for words. I should quit on a high

Thank heavens for the rich guy who splashed out billions on a rail company. See you in the Buffett carriage

There’s no hope. And, frankly, all is not well

Every e-mail starts with a banal inquiry about how things are in my world. Don’t ask, unless you really want to know . . .

The humungous sadness of Britain’s fattest man

Like a child in his pyjamas, with toy Daleks and fizzy pop nearby, Paul Mason welcomed the TV cameras for a fee of £200

What use is a brain the size of a planet?

Stop swotting and turn on the television. The prizes go to the good-looking guy who everyone likes

The barcode is nothing to celebrate

It killed off the traditional shop and gave us the checkout girl. And what’s with a 57th anniversary anyway?

U-turn if you want to. I’ve turned already

Politics is soooo boring. What matters is that I’ve changed my mind about organic food, dogs, fat people and football

University is for sex. But I failed miserably

Higher education is full of angry academics who want to make up for long hours spent working instead of making hay

No one’s going to call me Lunchtime O’Booze

Poor old Keith Floyd. I don’t want to die at 65, befuddled and unfulfilled, like so many men with a supposed ‘zest for life’

I’ll never forget what Sophie whispered

You get yourself on to a TV game show – and then the awful things you’ve written come flooding back

The joys of cricket turned to ashes this year

After a dismal ‘yoof’-obsessed summer with no heroes and no one really watching, I think I’ll follow tennis next year

Newspapers, dead? Better monetise me now

I’m packing up my adjectives for a new life online, where I’ll be honing my tweeting, podshouting and blogorrhoea

Put on my dancing shoes? Fat chance of that

Obesity revolts me, but not as much as surrendering my identity to a jiggling mob. I won’t kowtow to the communism of dance