Wight trashed

Britain is today stunned and alarmed by the mysterious disappear-ance of the Isle of Wight and its 130,000 residents. Where the island should be, there is now only open sea.

The captain of the Southampton to Cowes ferry noticed at 8.13 am that the island was no longer there. "I couldn't believe my eyes" he said. "it was simply gone. I thought we must be sailing in the wrong direction but no, we were right on course. I tell you, I was knocked for six."

Relatives phoning island residents get an unobtainable signal. Brenda Pargeter of Leicester said "I'm desperately worried about my sister Betty. I've no idea whether she's alive or dead. How can an island just vanish?"

It seems there are no witnesses to the disappearance. It happened with no warning, in a matter of minutes. Police and Coastguard officers have mounted a massive search operation around the coasts of Britain, Ireland and France.

Already several theories have been put forward to explain the missing island.

* A sudden explosion ripped through it. But no debris has yet been found.
* It has drifted to another location. But this would happen slowly enough to be noticed.
* Collapsing foundations submerged it. But again, no debris or dead bodies have appeared.
* A powerful underwater vortex has sucked the island to the bottom of the sea.
* A colossal atmospheric force sucked it into the sky. It is now orbiting the earth.

The Association of British Travel Agents has advised holidaymakers with bookings on the island that in the event of it not reappearing in the next few days, full refunds will be made.

Anyone with information about the missing island is asked to contact Southampton Police urgently on 023 1010 2121.

Pic: where the island used to be

Hormone havoc

I've never experienced anything resembling the male menopause, and I'm dubious about its existence. But some doctors claim that 20 per cent of men will suffer from it eventually.

Not surprisingly, that rather astonishing figure comes from a doctor who makes his living from treating menopausal (andropausal?) men. Other doctors suggest a much lower figure of 2 per cent.

Given that the symptoms (fatigue, scattiness, insomnia etc) are supposed to result from lack of testosterone, and given that men's testosterone levels keep falling after the age of 40, surely if there really was such a condition practically every ageing male would have it?

Also, given that women have virtually no testosterone, shouldn't they be even more incapacitated and barely able to function? Or do women's hormones work differently?

But one man, Dan Hegarty (a doctor himself) claims his life was falling apart. He was nodding off at work, he was unable to read the paper, his marriage was failing. After topping up his testosterone levels, he says he got a new lease of life and all the signs of physical decline were rapidly reversed.

Well, it's hard to argue with that miraculous recovery. But how come I've never gone through any such physical collapse and at the grand old age of 63 my body still seems to be functioning pretty efficiently?

Is my body mysteriously compensating for my depleted male hormones or was Dr Hegarty really suffering from some sort of psychological loss of confidence and inertia which then righted itself?

All I know is that some doctors seem to be making an impressive income from identifying the andropause and treating men who've succumbed to it. Did I catch a whiff of snake oil?
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A Northern Ireland man applying for a nursing post in Australia was told he had to take an English language test. After protests from the Australian Nurses Federation, the test was waived. So what language did they think was spoken here? Irish? Welsh? Swahili?

Wild card

Female admirer: So what's your next post about, Nick?

Nick: I've got nothing more to say. I've said it all. Everything. I've covered all angles. Peeked in every window.

FA: Don't be silly. There must be hundreds of exciting and important things you've never even thought about.

Nick: Nope. They've all been aired. All my absurd neuroses, from A to Z. All my political dogmas, in mind-numbing detail. All my sexual fetishes, complete with lurid graphics.

FA: I don't remember anything about sexual fetishes. Are you sure about that? Give me some examples.

Nick: I'm sorry, but on legal grounds, for health and safety reasons, and to protect the privacy of individuals who're now in very prominent positions in public life, I can't make any further comments.

FA: How disappointing. You could have given us some fascinating insights into the dark corners of your tangled personality, the seamy undercurrents of your complex inner life.

Nick: I doubt it. I'm quite ordinary, really. I'm just your bog-standard bloke in the street, the man on the Clapham omnibus, the guy with the pie. Well, apart from the cross-dressing and the chicken impersonations, obviously.

FA: Obviously. But all these horrifying world events. The floods in Pakistan. The dwindling helium reserves. The sudden popularity of padded bras. You must have something to say about these extraordinary developments?

Nick: Nah, it's all been said much better by a thousand overpaid hacks. Why say it all again? You're not wearing a padded bra, I hope?

FA: Jeez, what do you take me for? I'm 100 per cent natural from top to bottom.

Nick: Sure, and the Pope's a Buddhist. Now if you'll excuse me, I think the guinea pig's eating my mascara.

Eye for an eye

If someone had attacked you so violently you ended up paralysed, would it be a fitting punishment for the attacker to be paralysed in return? An eye for an eye, as it were?

A man who was left crippled after being hit with a meat cleaver asked a Saudi judge to sentence his assailant to surgical paralysis. The judge is now getting medical advice on whether this would be possible, before he decides what sentence to pass.

The paralysis could be induced by severing the man's spinal cord.

Apart from the question of whether any criminal, however serious the offence, should be subjected to such a gruesome and debilitating punishment, it is extraordinary that the victim should have a say in what punishment is meted out.

In most countries this would be a matter strictly for the judge, precisely because the victim might demand something utterly barbaric.

It is extraordinary too that the traditional "eye for an eye" attitude is still seen as a sensible legal principle. If the real cause of the attack is a fit of uncontrolled anger, how is physical paralysis the solution? Surely it can only breed bitterness and more anger?

I also wonder what surgeon with any conscience or humanity could possibly agree to deliberately paralyse a presumably fit and healthy man, simply because a judge decides it is an appropriate punishment. How could he live with himself afterwards?

Lurking nasties

Goodness knows what's happened in the average hotel room before I occupy it, but I'm not too bothered. As long as it looks fairly clean and tidy, I'm not going to fret about all the nasty residues I might be unwittingly exposing myself to.

The fabulous Los Angelista just described a particularly unsavoury-looking hotel room she stayed in during a work trip. She said the bed looked so uninviting she actually slept on a chair rather than risk whatever might be living in the bed linen.

One of her commenters declared that most hotel rooms are so unhygienic (and he cites You Tube footage to prove it) he takes antiseptic wipes to disinfect every surface he's likely to use. He also puts the remote in a plastic bag and kips down in a sleeping bag rather than crawl between the sheets.

Well, this seems rather extreme to me, but who knows what horrible experiences he's had in the past, or what ghastly illness he's inadvertently acquired from seedier and grubbier guests?

Personally I've never contracted anything grisly after staying in a hotel (not even food poisoning), so I'm very sanguine about cleanliness standards. I wouldn't stay in a room that's visibly filthy but as long as it looks clean enough I'm not going to ask any questions. I'm certainly not giving the room an extra going-over on the off-chance that cholera or typhoid is incubating happily on the bidet.

Maybe I'm in the minority here. Maybe others are more germ-conscious than I am. I know there are plenty of women who still decline to sit on a toilet seat without a protective layer of tissues.

But I happen to believe my immune system is robust enough to resist the germs and toxins lurking mischievously in room 23's en-suite. As far as I'm concerned, they simply don't exist.
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Tuesday evening: I'm off to London for a couple of days to see my 88 year old mum. See you all again shortly.

Less is more

Buying things is so normal we're quite used to our homes being crammed with pretty bits and pieces, the latest gadgets, twenty handbags and a mountain of paperbacks. But suppose you were limited to just 100 personal possessions?

An American couple dissatisfied with their hard-working, hard-spending existence decided to take up the "100 items" challenge and drastically reduce their huge stack of belongings.

Tammy Strobel, who worked long hours for an investment business, was so unhappy being "caught in the work-spend treadmill" that she resolved to totally change her lifestyle. Her husband Logan Smith, a doctoral student, decided to do the same.

They gave lots of their possessions to charity. They got rid of their TV. They got rid of their two cars and bought bikes. They moved to a smaller studio flat with less room for stuff. Eventually they reached the target of just 100 items each. And they say they really do feel happier.

The sudden brake on spending has led to other unexpected benefits. They've paid off debts of $30,000. They have more money to travel. Ms Strobel has changed her job and works fewer hours. And she has time to volunteer for a non-profit organisation.

I'm impressed by their determination and their ability to change their way of life so radically. A houseful of stuff may be unnecessary but for most of us it's cosy and familiar and reassuring. The thought of losing practically all of it would be most alarming. Particularly the hundreds of much-loved books and the fabulous paintings and all the CDs that are virtually glued to my ears.

A smaller home would be hard to adapt to as well, now I'm used to so much space to stretch out in. Jenny and I would once again be tripping over each other and intruding on each other.

I suppose it makes a difference that we've never been the sort to keep up with the Joneses. We buy things because we genuinely want them and think they'll genuinely improve our lives. Which means it would also be harder to part with them. So we won't be taking up the "100 items" challenge just yet. Less is not yet more.

PS: Some brave souls have even given up their homes and now base their lives entirely on a few bits of technology like laptops, iPads and Kindles.

Pic: Tammy Strobel and Logan Smith

Needlework

I obviously missed my vocation. Tattooing is suddenly all the rage. Getting them, getting more of them, removing them. If I was a tattooist, I'd be doing very nicely.

I suppose it was the celebs who started the fashion, as usual. People like Pink, with tattoos all over the place. Now every Tom, Dick and Harriet is popping into the tattoo parlour to endure the agony of plonking a swallow on their shoulder, a snake on their ankle or "I love Susy" on their arm.

And once they've started, they're always tempted to add a second and a third. If they're hopelessly addicted they end up with every square inch of their body lavishly illustrated.

But there's always the risk that a few years down the line they decide the tattoo of King Kong or Dr Spock or Lara Croft was a big mistake. Or Susy has walked out and been replaced by Julie, who objects to being constantly reminded of Susy.

So the tattooists are in demand again, inflicting more pain as they laboriously remove the offending item and try to restore the decorated skin to its original state.

I've never been tempted by tattoos myself. When I was young they were associated with manual workers, heavy drinkers and hairy lesbians, but that wasn't what put me off. I just didn't like the idea of mutilating my skin for artistic purposes. I felt art belonged on canvas or photographic paper and not on the human body. I guess that's still my attitude.

I did once know a woman with extremely erotic tattoos on her buttocks. At least they were meant to be erotic, but I found them strangely off-putting. I couldn't help thinking of all the other men who had touched them and puzzled over them.

No, I like my skin just as it is, thanks. I intend to keep it that way.

Not quite married

Even though Jenny and I have been married for 15 years, we don't think of ourselves as married. We're still much more comfortable with the idea that we're cohabitees.

To me at any rate, the term marriage still implies all sorts of ugly expectations about roles and behaviour and duties which I don't go along with. The husband as breadwinner, the wife as housekeeper, obedience, submission, sex with the lights off, suburban sterility, you name it.

I know very well that all those stereotypes are out-of-date, and in theory marriages can be whatever you want them to be, but nevertheless just the thought of marriage gets all those preconceptions bubbling up and makes me feel instantly limited and put-upon.

Cohabitee on the other hand means nothing at all except living together. It doesn't imply anything about how you should behave, your lifestyle, the sort of home you live in, your domestic status. All it means is that you've chosen to live together, for whatever reason, because it's convenient or appealing.

It's entirely up to you how you live together. You're free to negotiate every little detail, from housework to sex, from organising to communicating, without any prior assumptions about what's traditional or appropriate. You can do whatever feels right for you, whatever comes naturally.

So whenever either of us accidentally mentions being married, or being a husband or wife, the other shudders and screeches and generally has conniptions. It's in bad taste, it's like farting at a dinner party or swearing in front of the vicar. It poisons the happy home.

The bit of paper's useful of course, financially and legally. But all the cultural baggage that goes with it - thanks but no thanks.

Loosening the reins

When I was young, it was still the custom for couples to get their parents' approval before they got married or engaged. Nowadays that would be considered laughable.

In the fifties and sixties, some parents would resort to anything to keep their beloved offspring out of the clutches of someone they deemed unsuitable - even locking them in the house. And in those days even smoking the odd joint or liking Mick Jagger could qualify as unsuitable.

There would be furious arguments between teenagers and parents about the freedom to choose your own girlfriend or boyfriend, and parents would claim the final say in the matter.

Thankfully that's all changed and most parents no longer assume the right to interfere in their children's relationships. They believe it's their children's decision, and if they make mistakes, then it's just a question of trying again with someone else. No big deal, and it's unlikely to ruin anyone's life.

Even cohabitation, which was still quite rare when I was growing up, is now considered not only totally normal but like marriage a matter for the couple and nobody else.

But some parents still try to influence their children's choices. They're convinced a relationship can only end in disaster and they have a duty to cut it short, even at the risk of their child snubbing them instead.

They object that the girlfriend or boyfriend is the wrong class, the wrong colour, a spendthrift or just a permanent loser. They think their child is too naive, too besotted, too young, too mixed-up. Their judgment is not to be trusted.

They still can't accept that their children have to make up their own minds and determine their own lives. They can't accept that the most unlikely relationships can prosper and survive despite everyone else's doubts. They can't quite cut the apron strings.

Future perfect

Could I really be afraid of the future? I decided to take the problem to my esteemed therapist Dr Melissa Flinch, at her luxurious consulting rooms in leafy South Belfast.

She offered me a herbal tea and an oatmeal cookie as I reclined in the well-padded armchair among a dense thicket of overgrown pot plants.

Nick: I'm afraid that I'm afraid of the future.

Melissa: Don't be silly. You can't be afraid of something so unbounded, so intangible. It's like being afraid of the weather, or speech, or a blank sheet of paper. You can only be afraid of something specific. Like spiders. Or flying.

Nick: But I'm afraid I'll be overtaken by some awful disaster in five years' time.

Melissa: Then you're just afraid of disaster. That's natural enough. But you're not afraid of some wonderful pleasure in five years' time, are you?

Nick: No, of course not.

Melissa: In fact, you must think pleasure is a lot more likely than catastrophe?

Nick: I suppose so.

Melissa: Well then, you're just a sunny optimist with occasional fits of pessimism. You allow for the very realistic possibility that you can't have pleasure 100 per cent of the time. Sometimes things go wrong. Sometimes they go very wrong. That's life, baby.

Nick: I guess you're right.

Melissa: Of course really you're just afraid of yourself. You're afraid of your inability to cope with any disaster that comes along. You're afraid of your own inadequacy, your own helplessness, your own confusion.

Nick: I'd never thought of it like that.

Melissa: Well, that's what I'm here for. I've seen a thousand tortured souls like yours. I know what's going on in your murky unconscious. I can unravel the tangled strands, lead you out of the psychic morass, restore clarity of thought.

Nick: What would I do without you?

Melissa: I shudder to think. That'll be £100 plus VAT. Mastercard as usual?

Nick: Cheap at the price.

I skipped happily down the front steps, the heavy burden lifted from my shoulders. All at once a rosy future beckoned.
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A new British survey says almost one person in five has consulted a counsellor or psychotherapist. Some 95% of those polled believe it is a good idea to seek counselling or psychotherapy for a problem before it gets out of hand, while 88% thought people might be happier as a result of doing so. Some 88% believe counselling and psychotherapy should be available to all on the NHS. This is a huge change in attitudes from six years ago.

The groping guru

If you thought Swami Korianda was just a wild flight of the imagination, think again. A self-proclaimed guru and healer who molested and raped numerous women has just been jailed for ten years.

Michael Lyons posed as the illustrious Mohan Singh, a spiritual sage who was skilled in osteopathy, chiropractic, acupuncture and nutrition.

He gathered plenty of followers from around the world, particularly women, who were taken in by his plausible manner and supposed esoteric wisdom.

But women who were given one of his special treatments often found that he would then casually feel them up or rape them.

His bizarre justifications for these attacks would be hilarious if they weren't also shockingly exploitative. He told one woman he was groping that he was "feeling her energy pulse." He explained to another that he was "enlightening her with his organic penis." Yet another was told he was "unblocking her chakras."

Even more disturbing was the fact that sometimes other women were not only witnessing the attacks but encouraging them, such was their naive trust in his sincerity.

Unfortunately such so-called gurus can set up their bogus cults and attract legions of gullible followers without any need for official vetting or approval. All they have to do is convince a few people of their spiritual powers and they in turn will convince thousands of others.

Those who are desperate to revitalise empty and dissatisfying lives will suspend disbelief and idolise such charlatans without asking too many questions about their abilities or claims.

Knowing he was wealthy enough to have homes in London, Manchester, Los Angeles and Miami would only be further evidence that his mystical knowledge had brought well-deserved material success.

It just proves once again that the best guide in life is your own inner instincts and not some glamorous, charismatic holy man who simply wants to get his rocks off. With you.

Pic: Michael Lyons

Fear of the future

My regular readers will know about my fear of darkness. But it's only just dawned on me that I also have a fear of the future*.

It came to me in a blinding flash. I was thinking about my various anxieties and realised they all had a common theme - I was nervous of what might happen in the years ahead.

I'm happy enough with the past. I don't regret anything I've done, and by and large I don't wish I had had a different sort of life. Fate has been kind to me and sent me wonderful opportunities and experiences. And the present is okay too. Whatever I'm doing, whoever I'm with, I just try to get the best out of it and make light of the negatives.

But the future's a different matter. It's so uncertain. There's no guarantee it'll be as pleasurable as the past, that things will go as smoothly, that I'll still be able to cope with whatever's flung at me. Disaster is as possible as good fortune. Unhappiness is as possible as joy.

I envy those who assume the future can only mean more pleasure, more success, more wisdom, a constant movement onwards and upwards. I just don't have that confidence, that faith.

Maybe it's because life has been so good to me up till now I'm afraid it can only be less good in the future. My luck can't hold forever. Maybe it's because I'm getting older and therefore likely to become physically frail or senile. Maybe it's because I know how easily some unexpected turn of events can shatter a comfortable existence.

Whatever the cause, I can't see any obvious way of combatting this fear. However much I tell myself there's no point in worrying about the future, precisely because it's unpredictable and unknowable, and because none of my imagined scary scenarios might actually happen, it doesn't stop the anxieties bubbling to the surface and stubbornly persisting. I can rationalise and intellectualise all I like, the rest of my brain takes no notice.

All I can do with this annoying syndrome, like all my other weird quirks, is to minimise it and stop it spoiling my enjoyment of life. I must let the future take care of itself.

PS: Maybe I'm going over the top here. If it's only the possible misfortunes I'm afraid of, and not the pleasures, maybe it's simply a fear of disaster. Or as the therapist Fritz Perls put it, catastrophic expectations. Or pessimism....

* Oddly enough, there seems to be no technical term for this particular phobia

Beyond vanity

When I was a boy, paying too much attention to your appearance was regarded as unseemly vanity. Particularly in the case of women. Tarting yourself up, using too much makeup, having fancy hairdos, and any sign of excessive primping and preening, was dismissed contemptuously as nothing but vanity.

Somewhere along the line that all changed and constant attention to your appearance was no longer vain but completely normal. Everyone wanted to "look their best" or "make the most of themselves". Naturally a woman wanted a more flattering hairstyle or a smoother complexion, anything less was "letting yourself go".

Now we've moved even farther and perfecting your appearance is not just normal but almost compulsory, a measure of self-worth. Spending huge amounts of time and money achieving the looks of a film star or a supermodel now shows that you value yourself, you believe in your potential and your talents.

Anyone who isn't feverishly botoxing, boosting their breast size, having a Hollywood or adding highlights clearly doesn't think much of themselves. They're content to be the sort of second-rate, unimportant low-achievers nobody ever notices. Improving your appearance is now as vital as taking a degree or buying your first home. It demands rigorous effort and single-mindedness.

For too many women (and increasing numbers of men) tarting yourself up is no longer a naughty pleasure but a daily treadmill, another domestic chore that mustn't be neglected. The innocent days of unseemly vanity are long gone.

How did this shift of emphasis take place? How did we slide so unwittingly into such an all-demanding obsession?
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The gap in life expectancy and health prospects between the rich and the poor in the UK is now greater than during the post World War One slump and the Great Depression. And that's after 13 years of a Labour government....

Banning the burka (2)

Never let it be said that I'm not open to argument. A ban on burkas and face-veils made sense to me on Saturday, but after a weekend of impassioned media debate, I've changed my opinion somewhat.

After reading several articles and letters either by Muslim women or people who know a lot of Muslim women, I can see that the demand for a ban seems to be an over-reaction to something that really isn't that disturbing.

Muslim women insist that for most of them wearing a burka or face-veil genuinely is a personal choice and isn't forced on them. Neither are they oppressive, they say. They don't impede communication* or identification**, they don't desexualise or ghettoise the wearer, they don't stop you working, and in hot climates they help to keep out sun and dust.

They say that those calling for a ban are simply misinformed about the actual experience of veil-wearers and how it affects (or doesn't affect) their dealings with other people. In reality it doesn't reduce their quality of life. If anything it improves it because they feel more comfortable and free from constant aesthetic and sexual judging.

They also point out that freedom of dress is a basic human right, they're as entitled to wear a burka or niqab as other women are to wear miniskirts, bikinis or make-up. As long as they're not harming other people, what's the problem? Any legal ban on particular types of clothing could easily lead to more draconian bans.

Well, the arguments against a ban have been very well put and I'm prepared right now to accept them. I'm not one to stubbornly maintain an ill-judged view when I'm clearly being outflanked and out-thought by those who are far more knowledgable than myself.

So keep those burkas coming, if that's what some women really prefer to wear. Sorry, Mr Hollobone, but I've just deserted your cause.

* Eyes, ears, mouth and hands are sufficient
** Face-veils can be lifted for identification if required

Banning the burka

I have a sneaking sympathy for the Tory MP who wants to ban the burka or niqab in public because they prevent "normal dialogue with other human beings."

Philip Hollobone says "seventy five per cent of the usual communication between two human beings is done with personal experience. You don't get any of that if your face is covered."

He is bringing a private member's bill into parliament to ban garments that hide women's faces. This follows a similar ban by the French parliament this week.

He says he has no objection to religious clothing in general, such as Sikh turbans, but burkas and niqabs are not religious requirements, merely traditional practice. Not only do they hinder normal communication, but the person's identity is concealed.

He will refuse to talk to Muslim women in his constituency surgery unless they lift their face veil so he can see them properly.

I must say I have some sympathy with his views, despite the fashionable opinion that covering your face or body is a matter of personal freedom and nobody has the right to request otherwise, whatever the reason.

I admit I find it disconcerting when confronted by someone whose face or body is covered. I suspect it's not entirely a personal choice but is heavily influenced by other people (particularly men) insisting that exposing the female body is provocative, licentious and indecent. I also think that seeing someone's facial expressions helps me to understand how they are feeling or thinking, which mere talking cannot do.

Naturally Muslim groups have condemned Mr Hollobone for "fanning the flames of intolerance " and increasing discrimination. But what about the flames of intolerance that insist female flesh is so shameful and disgusting it should never be seen by anyone?

A survey by the Pew Global Attitudes Project found that a ban on face-covering veils was supported by a majority in France (82%), Germany (71%), Britain (62%) and Spain (59%), but only a minority in the US (28%).

You can read an opposing point of view by Nesrine Malik here or by Martha Nussbaum here and here

Pic: Philip Hollobone

Budget breaks

Like many other Brits, Jenny and I decided to have a staycation this year - we're going to Scotland rather than some exotic foreign destination.

The number of trips abroad by British residents plummeted by 15 per cent last year, reversing a lengthy trend upwards in search of ever more unusual and dazzling locations.

The long drawn out recession has led many hard-up folk to think twice about jetting across the world, and they're opting for cheaper alternatives in their own country.

They're braving the rain, the gales, the cold and sullen seaside landladies to appreciate their own heritage and keep a bit more cash in the bank.

Jenny and I have chosen southern Scotland (in September) because we moved house last year and moving-in expenses mean we can't quite run to another Aussie getaway until we're a bit more flush.

The number of British trips to New Zealand is down by a whopping 30 per cent, and Canada by 26 per cent.

But our own cities are increasingly popular. Edinburgh saw an extra 133,000 visitors and Cambridge an extra 18,000. We're seeing the merits of beautiful places we've neglected for years in favour of some tempting tropical paradise thousands of miles away.

And it may be more than the cash factor. It seems that a lot of people are getting sick of the growing hassles of air travel - hidden extra charges, laborious security checks, crowded planes and off-hand cabin crews, unexpected delays and cancellations, strike action, lost luggage, inedible food, volcanic ash.

Suddenly jumping in the car and driving a few hundred miles seems like a much pleasanter option.
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People reading about the Belfast riots have been asking if Jenny and I were affected by them. No need to worry, these skirmishes always occur in the same local hotspots which are well away from our own leafy enclave. The First Minister and Deputy First Minister have rather belatedly condemned the thuggery.

Forgotten life

Can you imagine spending six years not knowing who you are, trying in vain to find out, your whole life an almost total blank?

Benjaman Kyle* was found beaten, unconscious and naked outside a Burger King restaurant in Richmond Hill, Georgia, on August 31 2004. When he came to, he could remember almost nothing about his life.

He thought his date of birth was August 29 1948, he thought he was called Benjaman, and he had blurred memories of Denver and Indianapolis. And that was that. Everything else was locked away inside his brain, as irretrievable as a teenage waist size.

Had he ever fallen in love? Been married? Had children? What work did he do? Was he good at it? Did he earn a lot of money? Did he smoke? Did he drink? What was his favourite food? He had little idea about any of these things, there was just a big black hole where his memory ought to be.

It must be so incredibly weird, not knowing all these absolutely basic facts about yourself and your life. How odd when people ask you simple questions and you have no answer, just a baffled ignorance.

The police, the FBI, the media, DNA experts and a private detective have all tried to track down who he is, but drawn a blank. He appeared on national TV and there was a flood of leads, but they all went nowhere.

Inevitably some people have claimed his so-called amnesia is just a big publicity stunt and really he can remember everything. Of course they have no proof. And what would be the point?

In reality he must be desperate to retrieve his past and fill the huge void where his life should be.

* He called himself Kyle as a reference to Burger King (BK)

See also his Wikipedia entry (which also has another picture)

Bashing the boomers

Once again some idiotic journalist is blaming the older generation (the "baby boomers") for the hard times facing the young as they pile up debts, hunt in vain for jobs and can barely afford a home of their own.

He castigates all 17 million of us over the age of 60 for reducing welfare benefits, bringing in university fees, pushing up property prices, accepting mass unemployment and letting working conditions decline.

Well, excuse me, but I'm not responsible for any of these things. I never supported them, I never voted for them, I never caused them. And I would say that most of the baby boomers never supported them either.

I think most of us wanted the next generations to have the same advantages and opportunities that we had. We never envisaged the big lurch backwards that produced the harsh realities of today.

The real villains are without doubt not us but the politicians. Time after time they've been elected on a harmless-enough manifesto, only to ditch half of it months later and do something utterly repellent. Like Tony Blair suddenly deciding university tuition fees would be a nice little earner. Like Gordon Brown scrapping the reduced tax rate for the low paid.

Blaming every baby boomer for the plight of the young is as ridiculous as blaming all young people for binge-drinking mayhem, or blaming all parents for playground bullying.

Many of us are as furious as the young about the obstacles they're having to struggle against, particularly when it's often the baby boomers themselves who're having to put their hands in their pocket to bail out their children and grandchildren.

So if you're searching for someone to blame, try looking at the House of Commons and its slippery, two-faced occupants.

Slowing down

Being jobless, I have the luxury of being able to take my time over everything. I don't have to rush to meet deadlines, or sweat to keep up with an ever-expanding workload. I can just trundle along at a natural pace that doesn't send my blood pressure rocketing.

I'm a splendid example of what's known as the Slow Movement, the worldwide campaign to stop us all hurtling around like maniacs and slow us down so we can enjoy things rather than ticking them off as Jobs Done.

Most people have accumulated so many daily chores and commitments they simply don't have the time to savour their favourite activities or just watch the world go by. They're zooming from pillar to post, frantically getting little Johnny to his music lesson, or doing Granny's shopping, or merely fixing that aching tooth.

The Slow Movement wants us to take everything at a more leisurely pace. Take more time over your meals, your conversations, your outings, your orgasms, your kids, your daydreaming. If you've too much to do, work out what's really essential or important, and dump the rest. If you're doing things out of a sense of duty or habit, then ditch them. Get your life back!

The prevailing wisdom says that by doing things faster you do them more efficiently. You're making better use of your time and being more productive. But do we really want to be "efficient" and "productive" or do we just want to enjoy life and soak it all up?

Yes, we want to speed things up if that means the endless queue at the airport check-in or a ten-mile traffic jam. But if it means bolting our meals or never having enough time for friends, what are we gaining?

Let's all just slow down and start smelling the coffee. And the roses. And the sweet fragrance of life.

Unputdownable or unreadable?

When is a book a good book? Is it only the literary critics who're expert enough to decide? Or is the ordinary reader's opinion just as valid?

I get constantly annoyed by the lingering belief that there's some kind of literary elite who know better than you and I what's a talented, well-crafted book and what's ham-fisted rubbish.

There's a continual assumption that only those who've studied literature at some fancy university, or hung out with famous authors, or are themselves authors, have enough discernment to tell the wheat from the chaff, the humdingers from the penny-dreadfuls.

I say this having just sampled two novels heaped with praise by the self-proclaimed experts, which seemed to me anything but praiseworthy. Everything from the plot to the characters to the writing itself seemed sadly lacking.

The cognoscenti of the book world would no doubt regard my opinions as worthless and uninformed. Yet I studied literature at school, I've read thousands of books and for many years I was a bookseller. Why would my opinions be any less valid than those of the literati?

Nobody would suggest that ordinary football fans are incapable of worthwhile opinions about football. Or that ordinary music-lovers can't have sensible opinions about music. Yet there's still this sniffy elitism about books.

So let's hear it for all those anonymous readers, Jo and Joanna Page-Turner, who're as entitled as anyone to proclaim the Booker Prize Winner a load of pretentious twaddle, or that well-known "literary giant" an overrated, long-winded dwarf.