Autobiographies of the rich, famous and the slightly bonkers

A trip to my local library resulted in the smuggling home of one of the finest faux-autobiographies of all time: I, Partridge: We need to talk about Alan.

The net result of this borrow has been two-fold:

1. The introduction of "Farted myself awake" and "Needless to say, I had the last laugh" into my every day vocabulary, and

2. A like for borderline autobiography

So, farting myself awake the other weekend, I took myself to the Hot Librarian Zone that is Fleet Library, and came home with Patrick Moore: 80 Not Out and - the very pinnacle of bad autobiography - Eamonn Holmes: This is MY Life

The Holmes, I was told, is everything you can expect from the bloke who went to court to stop jokes being made about his weight on television. And I quote from the Amazon reviews:

This book is terrible. I have no inkling how Holmes manages to sound as irritating, pompous and egotistical on paper as he is in real life, but he somehow manages it. Avoid at all costs. If I could give zero stars I would.

In fact, it was only when I got it from the library (large print edition, as the author intended), telling the hot librarian to tick the "ironic borrow" box on my account that I realised that the "my" in "This is MY life" is capitalized and bolded.

And true to form, it was both entertaining, terrible and just a little bit dull. Needless to say, I had the last laugh

Sir Patrick Moore is one of our great national treasures, and his 2003 autobiography is - to start with - a refreshing change from the angst-filled tales of early life that usually pad out these editions. The first two pages of Moore's life are dealt with in the opening two pages, as he prefers to dwell on his professional career and personal views. And it's fascinating. Fascinating with at least one jaw-dropping moment in every chapter.

Moore is known as one who harbour unusual political views. He's staunchly anti-immigration, but anti-hunting and anti-capital punishment, so it's difficult to pigeon-hole him as a true right winger. But he sets his stall out early doors, describing the enemy in WWII as "Hitler, the Wops, The Nips and the Vichy Frogs" and carrying on from there. A chapter on his work as a novelist says that one book would never see the light of day because "there are no sex scenes... and no homosexuals". One can accept these as the words of a man very much of his time, but a later reference to the "Stephen Lawrence industry" left me genuinely outraged.

Can you forgive him? Hard to tell. The chapter in which he stood up to and mocked Northern Irish religious bigots is genuinely funny, and was a brave act back in those days. And his stock reply for doorstep God-botherers is also hilarious: "Sorry, I'm a druid. And a busy druid." And then he asks: "General Pinochet - was he all bad?"

But then he continually changes subjects, poses questions which he then doesn't answer, and devotes an entire chapter to newspaper misprints and funny headlines, which aren't.

So. Moore: Of his time, slightly mad, unintentional laughs.
Holmes: "Saved GMTV through non-stop Man United chat"

If anybody can get hold of the Don Estelle book (A byword for the bitter self-penned biography, currently retailing for a small fortune on Amazon), do drop me a line

Hobbies of the rich and famous

"Cheese!" says Alex James out of 1990s popular beat combo Blur in his new book 'I really fucking like cheese'.

From Primula and Dairlylea to the frightening Japanese Green Vein Godzilla (via a cautionary chapter on the napalm-like qualities of Cathedral City on toast), James really opens up on his favourite subject, first addressed in the Blur song "There's no other Whey"

"Cheese!" he says like a demented Wallace and Grommit, "Cheese cheese cheese cheese! I've got a cheese farm, which makes cheese! Cheese cheese cheese cheese!"

Until you tell him to shut about about bloody cheese, which he does. Eventually.

But bass-slapper James isn't the only celebrity to have an unusual hobby that keeps them from going off the rails.

TV's James Corden - North-West counties Swingball champion

Punk's Johnny Rotten - Quilting

Being weird's David Bowie - Telling people it's prounounced "Boe-ee", until they get used to it, then telling them it's "BOW-ee"

Geezerhood's Vinny Jones - Finalist in the Belgian national pinball tournament, where he lost to a deaf, dumb and blind kid

Serial granny killing's Harold Shipman - Granny killing

New Romantics' Steve Strange - The "Deltic" locomotives of the English East Coast Main Line 1961-1978. This was also his Mastermind specialist subject, in which he won his heat (but subsequently clammed up in the semi-finals on Class 47 Brush locos on the Great Western Railway)

Tennis's Andrew Murray - Mushroom growing and learning the words "Game, set and match to Federer" in as many modern languages as possible

Politics's Nick Clegg - Whatever David tells him to do for a hobby

No celebrity - as yet - has owned up to collecting Rupert the Bear annuals, widely regarded as a gateway drug to "the hard stuff". We all know what happened to Barry from EastEnders.

BOOBLE HAT

I started, as it often does, with a video. In this case, Doctor Who composer Murray Gold playing his "I am The Doctor" theme on the piano.

As usual, I am less impressed with the playing than I am with your man's choice of headwear. And to paraphrase the Doctor himself: "I wear a red bobble hat now. Red bobble hats are cool"

Alas, the internet's Mr Andrew Fanton says: "Booble hats aren't cool, they're WARM and SNUGGLY."

I concur. Bobble hats are EXCELLENT. However, BOOBLE hats are even better. Not only are they warm and snuggly, they are also incredibly sexy.

And, at once, others jump on the Booble Hat bandwagon, imploring me to go on Dragon's Den and pitch the idea of the Headwear that's going to sweep the nation.

They are to be the new Ugg Boots. I shall not rest until Kate Moss wears a Booble Hat.

Alas, I don't think I shall ever wear one.

I fear I may end up looking a tit.

Weekend owl

Poor, poor Hoots MacGee.

Weekend Video: Florence and the Machine - Shake it Out

In a weekend which will be mostly spent taking daughter to see Ms AndTheMachine at the Bournemouth BIC, a song that has suddenly become an important part of the book which I am writing.

Summary: Book!

The Second Knocking of Our Lord Jesus Christ

This picture's been doing the rounds on the internet as the faithful ask "Is Jesus welcome in your house?"

Frankly, as a deity-curious atheist, the answer is a no. And we also have a strict trousers-and-no-sandals door policy which would leave Our Lord and Saviour kicking his heels out in the street

I'm pretty certain that poor, dead-yet-still-alive Jesus would be made more than welcome in some households, as this letter to a popular magazine describing a deeply religious experience proves:

Dear Fiesta, I couldn't believe my luck when Our Lord Jesus Christ came knocking asking for a cup of sugar. I'm a busty divorcee who hasn't had it in ages, but that was soon to change the second he showed me his holy spirit..."

And then...

"Oh God! Oh God!" I shouted in the throes of passion.

"That's right! Shout my name! Shout my name!"

I've been told that He's an expert on getting nailed, so this scenario isn't exactly out of the question.

So, no. Not welcome. Not even for a cup of sugar.

Press Freedom: A new twist

For years, the printed press in this country has been running amok, and it is clear that self-regulation just isn't working. And that is why we're watching the long-running Leveson Inquiry into media ethics, as we try to find a way of reigning in the worst excesses of the industry.

But, frankly, while papers are free to print what they like on their front pages, then subsequently - and months later - publish a tiny apology on page 22, nothing's going to change.

We need new ideas, and I've come up with this spunker:

That's right: Force errant newspaper editors to publish their mastheads in Comic Sans (The Font of Champions) until they're sorry.

Short of following these people home and crapping through their letterboxes (it being the only language these curs understand), it will be the only language these curs understand.

I am not mad.

HAT THROWING: A WARNING FROM HISTORY

I'm throwing my hat into the ring to be a judge in the World Championships of Hat Throwing.

It's a world where throwing your hat - accurately - into a ring is paramount, and those who cannot throw their hat into the ring are cast out as losers.

After a recent split from those who throw their hats onto a spike or a so-called hat-stand, very much like the game of quoits, the World Competitive Hat Throwing Council re-asserts its drive for utmost accuracy and fair play in hat-throwing and will have nothing to do with the branch of the sport that is little more than a fairground game.

And, as such, we are now at war with the World Competitive Hat Throwing Board. While they have the weight of numbers, we have the dead-eye accuracy which will have this struggle over by Christmas, and the traditional World Competitive Santa Hat Throwing Championships.

Hats, everybody!

I am not mad.

North Korea Watch: Kim Jong-il birthday special

North Korea, run by a bunch of raving lunatics, won't let the fact that he died last December get in the way of the celebrations of Kim Jong-il's 70th birthday. In fact, the fact that he's now absent will probably be an advantage, with hordes of sexy first aiders being able to stand down.

So, how do you mark The Day of the Shining Star, now that the Great Leader is lying, nicely embalmed in the local Hall of the People? Through the medium of chocolate equine statuary, that's how.

Alas, it proves - once again - the Danny Baker theory that no decent statue has ever been made since the advent of trousers. Still there's plenty of room on the plinth for a likeness of Kim Jong-un pulling off a dog, so who are we to argue?

Life goes on, and it's Thursday, which means Kim Jong-un's allowance is in his Post Office account! Time for larks, japes, a visit to the tuck shop and the mail order purchase of a comedy SS-20 missile system from Crazy Mahmud Ahmadinejad's Joke Emporium.

You enemies will laugh and laugh and laugh as they vaporise like the Yankee Imperialist Puppet Warmonger Clique that they are.

One trillion won = £4 17s 3d in the old money

Sadly, there's been a problem with Kim's pocket money, and the cheque's bounced. Thankfully, the manager is more than obliging...

However, some of the disloyal staff are fleeing, their minds corrupted - undoubtedly - by anti-revolutionary filth spewing from the mouths of Yankee infiltrators. Never mind, a touch of full metal jacketed Juche-style re-education will sort them out. Best job in the world.

And then home to watch the Oscars on North Korean television, using the latest viewing equipment from North Korean factories staffed by loyal worker-soldier technicians, their chests bursting with patriotic zeal. But what fresh horror is this? Yankee Imperialist Zionist dog Sacha Baron Cohen insulting the memory of the Songun Revolution's Eternal Shining Star Kim Jong-il?

The shit, as they say, is going to hit the output of the Pyongyang No.3 Juche Revolutionary Electric Fan Factory.

INTRODUCING JANE

This is Jane, known to readers on that Twitter as @RoombaQueen, and to the rest of you as "Oh, you poor thing".

As from the end of this month, we will be officially living together in a ground floor flat with a grumpy old Jack Russell terrier called Snowy.

We call this state of affairs "Doing a live" (rhymes with 'sieve').

We hope to be doing a live for many years to come.

Let's hear it for Doing a Live!