Billy Weir

We join Joe Cole at a train station, with a helpful caption telling us that Glasgow to London is 410 miles away and takes 316 minutes.

Iam not a man known for alarming outbursts of uncontrolled emotion at the drop of a hat.

You’ve got to hand it to the BBC — they’re nothing if not careful with our licence fee money. It would have been very easy when they’d had to dish out all that dosh to compensate Freddie Flintoff after that crash, to call it quits.

Monday evenings are a bit of testing time as it is and we’re not even talking about Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen’s House of the Year.

It’s official: Alison Hammond is the human equivalent of dust, for she’s never off the telly.

Take That or East 17? Neither, if I’m being brutally honest, but once upon a time, this was a question that dominated life.

Age is a peculiar thing. No matter how many buckets of Olay (or Oil of Ulay if you’re really old) you dollop on, it is not going to stop the years clicking on.

Move over, the Kardashians and Osbournes, there’s a new family in town. Discovery+ must have thought it had died and gone to heaven when the family in question agreed to play ball with Meet the Rees-Moggs.

You find before you a man filled with a good deal of fear and trepidation of an ever-approaching date in December.

I love a good rant — and all the better if it is a needless and pointless one aimed in the general direction of the television.