Why not continually phone up local newspapers with your opinions about that week's news and then sound all sad and confused when it is explained that the newspapers do provide a letter's page for that, but not a fucking answering service?

Why not then say you can't write a letter on your own because your eyesight is bad and then when it is suggested you get someone else to write the letter, like a family member or neighbour, for instance, reply that you haven't got anyone, even though you obviously have because they're prompting you, loudly, in the background?

And why not then reluctantly hang up only to dial the same bastard fucking number, instantly, thinking there is a cast of thousands at the other end of the line who unlike the first person to answer do actually provide some kind of typing pool service for lazy pensioners?

DO NOT spread yourselves around me like a gaggle of seagulls with beak ache, rifle through the free newspaper and exchange your opinions on the least interesting stories, spray each other with perfume, laugh so loud that your wigs wobble, bully the only male in the group until he uses the emergency hammer to break the glass and throw himself out of the window or tut about anybody so much as an hour younger than you. Thank you.

Four books.

Each with a handsome, clever protagonist.

Each with a sinister baddie whose identity is known almost from the start.

Each with a beautiful and brainy female co-star who apparently has nice tits but doesn't drop her knickers until the end.

Each with fairly interesting but ultimately fucking useless pieces of information about which I along with many others will sit in pubs and debate about (until I become one of the Enlightened Ones, and then become the equivalent of a Dan Brown non-smoker, which is, of course, in many ways much worse).

Each with rather large clues as to what is going to happen much, much later on after many needless and frankly quite unbelieveable chapters (example: Angels and Demons, at CERN in Switzerland, watching people "sky-drive" in a vertical wind tunnel, being explained that a metre-or so of material is enough to bring a man down safely from the sky, then for a timely discovery of a piece of tarpaulin much, much later while hovering over the Vatican in a helicopter with a big bomb under your arse.)

Each a load of absolute bollocks until you start slagging off Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular (which is, in fact, fair enough).

And now four hundred million sweet, sweet dollars in your money barns.

Bastard.

There's one in our office.

He's about 76.

Or something.

Whistles all the time.

No actual tunes or anything.

Just that really fucking annoying warbling thing.

Like he's a fucking military band or something.

What's Mr Bloody Blair going to do about that, eh?

EH?

Just be honest for once.

You think Anthony - second from the left - is dying of something, don't you?

Jordan and Peter have already provided the public with a generous amount of insight into their fabulous lives, in the form of documentaries, a magazine column, weekly photo shoots in everything from Gardener's World to Sainsbury's Magazine and a webcam direct from Mrs Andre's (if that IS her real name) knicker drawer.

Anyway, this is a line-up of songs a good deal more solid than Peter's shiny pecs. The album will confirm, repair, or shatter your faith in humanity, depending on your attitude. If it's the latter, you clearly have a face like a squirrel scrotum, and we recommend a trip to Battersea Dogs Home, and a subscription to Hello magazine.