“They were having a party, got drunk, got naked, and it got out of hand…fficeffice" />

These are the men I want fixing bayonets and charging forward. These men are confident people -they have to be -and so when alcohol is flowing some of them are going to be exhibitionists. There's absolutely no harm in that.

Soldiers get drunk and get naked. It happens and it's just for fun and no one should read any more into it.

I have been to Christmas balls where the wives were present and I have seen soldiers get drunk and get their kit off. “

Andy McNab in The Sun on that video of soldiers fighting that made the news some weeks ago.

“Ashley McSlab’s life was on the line. Osama was pointing the gun, unwaveringly at his head. He had to make an instant decision. Could he risk his life to stop Osama Bin Laden flying the remote-controlled, avian-flu ridden Swan carrying a dirty bomb on its back  into the underground?

Fortunately, even though he’d spent years out of the army helping orphaned children and that, his instincts were sharp as ever. He waited. Osama looked at the exit. Without thinking, Ashley leapt into action. His movements so practiced and so speedy that Osama didn’t even see it coming.

Ashley was naked, except for a blonde wig and a drunken smile.

“Son of an Infidel DOG,” Osama shrieked. “No…” "

Aggressor, of course, won’t be like that. It’ll feature a former SAS man with a spiritual side, perhaps he trained to be a priest or is half Native American. But more importantly, it will be worse written because - and I hate to point this out to these people at the bottom here - Andy McNab was trained to kill people, not write novels.

The fact he got caught and became something of a celebrity doesn’t make him Raymond Chandler. It makes him more like Jade Goody.

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This is not a GI diet book. It is not for American soldiers during the Second World War. Ha! Nor is it a GI diet book, in that it doesn’t concern itself with the Glycemic Index.

No, Patrick, Paddy, The Holf has come up with something totally different to the GI diets of 2005. He’s come up with a GL diet. It stands for Glycemic Load.

Now, I’m fairly convinced that the word Glycemic was made up by a bored photocopy salesman, (“Aye, well the Panasonic does four sheets a second and the glycemics stay absolutely sharp. Yeah, it breaks every five minutes – but so do all photocopiers.”)  So how a GL diet differs from a GI diet, I really can’t tell you.

I do have a sneaking suspicion that writing a book about a GL diet is a tad like writing the Dummy’s Guide to C-Mail. Computer Mail. “Yes, it’s like E-mail – but I call it C-mail, so you’d better buy mine too.”

Also, feel free to write to Bingo and tell him he’s being an intolerable clown - but if a diet worked, surely you’d only need at most one book to tell it in. Just one. Surely. I mean, it’s a diet. How much do you really need to know about it? It’s what to eat.  

The Holfster has 74 tomes listed on Amazon.

Now, now, I don’t want you to get all cross at David Hasselfholford and accuse him of being a snake oil salesman, who exists to cream cash of the fucking idiots who buy a new diet book every year in the hope that just by holding it the weight will tumble off.  Then when they’ve got their new perky bodies, Dave from Human Resources will stop looking past them to the blonde secretary and see them for what they really are: But really they think they’re beautiful anyway, on the inside, like in the Christina Aguilera song, even though they’re slovenly, screechy and stupid, so they shouldn’t need to diet. But Dave can’t see the beauty, so they have to buy this book and while they read it, they might as well have another packet of Wheat Crunchies, which don’t look as fattening as normal crisps. Then at the weekend, their gut might fit into that cheap, pink Top Shop T-shirt that has “Slut” emblazoned on it in gold sequins. And Dave might come in the pub and they’ll be able to tear off his jeans, ignore the drip of lager piss dripping into his novelty boxers and suck him off.

Holforderino’s more than that. He knows about shit. He’s able with his knowledge of science and food to help you stop getting cancer. As in his book Say No To Cancer, which is aimed at the masses of us who kept saying ‘YES! LEUKAEMIA!”.  He also knows loads about food allergies. It’s all about nutrition. Of course.

I’m tired of diets. They don’t work. People who flog them are evil.

Rosie and I recently had a break from sculpting articles for Tiny Tots magazine and spent some time discussing the following question: Is there anything repulsive than the thought of the ruddy-faced, sweating Titchmarsh rutting away on top of you?

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Rosie posited that licking Prince Charles’s hairy perineum was perhaps worse. I thought this had a certain regal dignity. We then raised the idea of podgy-pink naked Jamie Oliver tonguing at you. His slimy saliva dribbling gently down your flesh as he grunted low Mockney. Still

However, when this book cover, which no doubt combines innuendo, Titchmarsh and Christmas into a big brown Yule log, changed my mind, Titchmarsh is more than just repulsive. He’s desperately sad.

Somehow there’s nothing more depressing than Titchmarsh as Tictchmarsh tries to fill the void behind Titchmarsh’s eyes with ever larger reserves of self-regard, money and fame. Infinity can be defined by the empty soul of Titchmarsh added to the emotional vortex contained in Nicky Campbell.

His name, the jollity, inevitable tie-in TV series, this is so opposite to good, that “bad” doesn’t do it justice. People who buy this book should be smashed in the teeth with a spade. Actually, as I’m willing to wager Titchmarsh uses a “hoe, hoe, hoe” joke, people who buy this book should be forced to smash themselves in the teeth with a spade and then slit their wrists with a shard of their enamel.

PLEASE fuck off.

Ah, Sir Paul, singer of some of Rosie’s favourite records. Some might say that his ear for a melody has mutated into a swamp of sticky tweeness that is the equivalent of watching a Meg Ryan film while suffocating yourself in candy floss then burying your corpse under six foot of Forever Friends toys – but they’re just too negative – they probably even use the F-word (by that I mean, FUCK), too often.

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Anyway, Sir Paul in his infinite wisdom has decided that painting, songwriting, films and opera aren’t enough for him. No, he’s got so much creativity in him, he needs to write. He needs to express himself.

Of course, it was the quality of his prose - and not his name – that got him the book deal. No one could ever dispute that (see also Madonna, actually don’t, she’s a horrid muscular shell of a woman). Just as there’s no doubt Stella McCartney would become a famous designer if she wasn’t daughter to the stars.

However, there are several irritating things about this perfectly written tome. (I  ascertained these from the synopsis on Amazon, which is, yes, cheating but I reckon, I could have guessed most of them from the cover)

1. The main character is a squirrel called Wirral.
   
2. “Imagine a land where all animals are free.” Nothing has ever made me want to eat a steak more than that sentence.
   
3. The vermin’s habitat is destroyed and he is forced to move to Megatropolis. (I get the feeling that Megatropolis is a city of great beauty with loads of Art galleries and places to see bands)

Can nobody stop these ego-driven arseholes clogging up our libraries with this drivel? Just stick to what you’re good at, fer Christ’s sake.

“…My earliest memories are off a dreadful caterwauling. As I was squeezed out of the womb I could hear my so-called mother shouting in pain.

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Using my already enormous wit, I responded instinctively. “You have an awful voice,” I snapped. My first words! So clever. So sharp. So funny.

Later, when at primary school, I remember a bully punching me repeatedly in my fat stupid, untalented head. Not for nothing did I call myself “The Oscar Wilde of the Playground.

“You may be punching my stupid fucking cunt of a head in,” I sparkled. “But you have a terrible voice. You can’t sing!”

Aren’t I awful?

When I got a job in the music industry, I remember some of the laughs we all, on our own, used to have when I released my savagery on the demo tapes I received.

“You can’t sing,” I shot at the tape player. Did the small, inanimate machine have a comeback? Did it HELL.

I remember hearing a singer called James Lee Booker  or something, who came to perform for me. He was old. Didn’t have the look. I told him right away before he’d even opened his mouth.

“You, Mr Jan. B. Hooker have no voice. You cannot sing. It is awful,” I spoke thrusting the dagger of wit into his side. And twisting.

“Now send in those Westlife boys. I think I shall discover them today,” I said to my secretary. “By the way, Diane. You have an awful voice!” I japed. She laughed, even though her teeth seemed oddly clenched.  

That’s how tough you have to be in this business. Really tough and sharp. So when I took over from Nina Myscoff and that forgotten Nasty Nigel fucker as TV’s number one witster, I was ready to take TV by storm.

How many people would feel the lash of my tongue?

“You have an awful voice!” I parry at some hapless fucking maniac. “You can’t sing!” Thrust! “You have a simply terrible voice!” Jab! “That was a horrible singing voice!” Strike! “What an awful voice!” Smash!

Except for Steve Brookstein, whose talent I could spot a mile off. He was good. He could easily sound like he was nearly American! And I wasn’t afraid to tell him so. “You have a good voice!” I said. And look what happened to him. He became King of the World!