Who would have thought that Kate would take time off from modelling and her affair with the enormously talented-and-not-just-famous-because-of-his-drug-habit Pete Doherty to write the novelisation of a 1986 Dave Bowie film? fficeffice" />

And look, she’s so high on cocaine, she can’t spell her name right!

When are people going to get over the Da Vinci Code? You’d have think that what with 70 per cent of the world’s surface now covered in copies of the book, the last thing the general populace would want would be a second-rate imitation. But apparently not.

According to my statistical analysis, if you laid all the books that have “Better than The Da Vinci Code!” written on the back end to end, you’d have enough books to cover an area the size of Wales. And at the rate they’re being published, surveys have revealed that by 2007, they will cover 20,000 areas the size of ffice:smarttags" />Wales, or about half of John Prescott.

I have a horrible feeling that if Wodehouse were alive today, Summer At Blandings  would be edited to include the accidental  theft of Emsworth’s prize Holy Grail and the farcical attempts of the Ickenham family and their young son Jesus to replace it before Heroderick Glossop pronounces him “potty”.

Meanwhile, the gimlet-eyed Baxter has spotted a sign in the design of a cow creamer and is attempting to prove to Constance that it means Beech is related to Mary Magdalene.

Probly make more sense than this, though.

An open letter to all broadsheet editors*fficeffice" />

Dear Sirs,

Please. No more style think pieces about how they’ve changed some empty-headed style hack’s life. No more, “my life in music through my iPod” features from your braying middle-class friends.

No more pictures with captions describing it as “iconic”. No more words about the design and the wheel. No more columns about the white headphones. No more copied out Apple press releases about their latest faddish variation and pretending that it is news.

No more excuses for lists of songs as “what’s on your ipod”. No more terrible features about iThings. Like iDogs, ihotels and ipads. No more.

If you refuse to stop, I’ll be forced to ban surveys. Then you’ll be fifteen pages of “news” short every fucking day.

Yours,

Bingo

As for Jones, the decision to write a book about “music I like”, helps explain why the magazine you edit is so fucking shit.

I mean, seriously. Has James Brown** written a book called: Stuff On My Desk?

The answer is probably – and Bravo are making a series out of it.

*By "open", I mean "unsent". But then, by "broadsheet" they mainly mean “tabloid” so fuck ‘em.

** Former Loaded editor and frizzy haired cock. Not the hugely over-rated soul singer and total mental.

Rosie and I had to take the cure recently. The pressures of her work at Tiny Tots became so intense, it was even affecting me. On occasion, I became so rattled I would awake at ffice:smarttags" />11am, and be unable to return to sleep. fficeffice" />

But, use the super-absorbent cloths and sop up the torrents of tears because we’ve been on holiday. Though it was not without stresses and anxieties. I am a man who contemplates an airplane seat with the same uneasy eye a French nobleman looked at Madame Guillotine.

We were also late for the flight, so I had to make a desperate excursion to "Books etc"* to grab three books without really looking.

Two formulaic thrillers and Moondust. It was a pleasant surprise. It is well written, with a good deal of research. Crucially it has a point - rather than a vague premise or snappy title which most popular non fiction seems to rely on.

I have two issues with it:

1. Overuse of the phrase, “I squealed with delight”. Three squeals is too much, Mr Smith. One makes you sound awfully camp. Two makes you sound like a 12-year-old girl. And three makes you sound like, horror of horrors, a Big Brother contestant. This is just a minor quibble when compared to…

2. The Richard And Judy Book Club emblem that’s printed on the front.** PRINTED ON. Obviously, I didn’t notice it, otherwise, the book would have remained as one of many etcs. What kind of shitcunt thinks associating the book with Judy Finnigan permanently is a good idea? Someone in marketing, that’s what type of shitcunt.

I mean, if you value Richard and Judy’s opinions, you’re going to be aware of the fucking book, from watching it on telly. Even if you’re too fucking thick to remember what books were featured***, surely a sticker would suffice.

I was forced to advertise the fuckers whilst abroad, which made me a more unwelcome advert for Britain than an Embrace-singing football hooligan. I took to reading it in private, whilst reading books with less offensive covers, (Mein Kampf, etc) in public.

(Still, at least I didn’t look as much of a cunt as the woman sat near us on a train who blathered on about the socio-economic situation of Sri Lanka and “how little the locals REALLY do for themselves” before picking out a copy of the Da Vinci Code from her bag. )

*The etc is particularly confusing because unlike a lot of bookshops, it only really sells books. Perhaps they wanted to call it “Books, books, books, books” but couldn’t fit it on the sign.

** You can see it. It's the white circular thing that looks like it should be a sticker in the right hand corner.  

*** Not too much of a stretch given that their audience is entirely made up of students and the senile.

I think you can do this one by yourselves.

This book came to my attention on the London Underground. fficeffice" />

I’m not really sure why advertisers chose to hawk their wares on the tube. Even as a captive audience you’re more likely to be the homicidal kind of captive, dreaming up painful ways to rip the heads of the cunts conversing about their car insurance even if they are all models, than the spending money type of captive.

Upon the poster for it, lay the message “As Good As The Lovely Bones Or Your Money Back”.

Who’s marking?

As far as I know, The Lovely Bones was a tale about a raped-and-murdered 14-year-old girl. (I’ve not actually READ it, of course). And this seems to be just some kind of quasi-spiritual shit but how do you compare the two?

What I’m not saying here is it is all down to the reader.

How many times have you heard this refrain? “Ooh it’s all opinion. It’s all subjective.”

Rat’s cocks. The following is an objective fact: Carry On Jeeves: Good. Anything by Mike Gayle: Warmed-up cunt. With a shit on top. 

It’s just these are nothing books. Straight blah prose, as notable as the middle paragraph on a style article from Heat magazine, summer 2002.

Is there some kind of Zeitgeist grading?

Is it dependent on which clangs loudest - the murderous similie (“he crushed my skull as if it were a white Ferrero Rocher only with blood instead of that chocolate sauce stuff”) or the hilarity of whatever invention the time traveller will hilariously invent (I said: “Why not make those trousers blue, Mr Levi?”)

Perhaps, weight, flammability and font come into it.

Whatever the criteria, just take it back - it’ll be shit. Then take back The Lovely Bones. Then set about the publisher with a every book about the Holy Grail published last year. Then finish him off with celebrity biographies.

It was only when entering this that I remarked on the author's hilarious surname. It's very pleasing to say to one's self. Over and over.

For most of the covers I’ve sworn at, sorry, reviewed, I have a good deal more contempt for the authors than the poor deluded saps who shell out for them. fficeffice" />

They’re either easily fooled ‘cause the inane blonde Claire in the office’s brainless cunt of a mate said she read it on holiday and couldn’t put it down or  they’re just plain sad, under-endowed, knife –collecting, camouflage-wearing tools who buy Chris Ryan books ‘cause they reckon he can immobilise a man by launching marmalade at the nape of the neck.

Well perhaps not a good deal more contempt, but more, nonetheless.

Not this time. Not this time at all. I have to say, fair fucks to the fuckers writing this book.

I fucking hate weddings. The heady combination of mediocre catering, meanderingly, sweaty speeches, middle-aged, am-dram DJs and with a helping of religion stapled on top makes me long for a revolver and a nip of brandy.

And what price am I to be paid to endure the stinking shitheap of enforced fun? What’s that? I’m not to be paid? I have to buy THEM presents? Yes, I have to buy my so-called friends presents, so they can wave their fucking relationship around as THE ideal for the rest of us to live up to. Yes, if you’ve not gone through a quasi-religious masquerade ending with a cunt playing Relight My Fire you can’t be in love.

Fuck off.. I’ve had e-fucking-nough. You can fuck off. I absolutely refuse to turn up (unless Rosie fixes me with one of her steely gazes).

Tell me “Oh, OURS is going to be different,” like everyone else, it won’t make any difference. It’ll still begin with some cocking religious thing that you had to sign up and lie to the priest about. “No, father/.rabbi, I come every week but my Sunday best is an invisibility suit”..

Then there’s possibly the worst part of an awful day. The interminable wait, as fruitless as a Scotsman’s diet, for some fucking photos that no cunt worth their salt would ever cast an eye in the direction of – let alone actually LOOK at. Just cut out the middle man and glue shut an empty photo album.

Followed swiftly - but never swiftly enough – by the chicken in a woodland sauce, not enough wine, unfunny speeches and shit dancing.

I tell you what, here’s a good idea, too. If you’re getting married, in the next year or so, remember to bring it up in conversation at every single opportunity.  Everyone will, after all, be thrilled to hear how expensive flowers are. And what a cunting nightmare your in-laws are being.