It seems that academics have added to the sum of human knowledge by discovering that young people get drunk because they hope to have more sex. It is good to see that the academic world is as sharp as ever. And that whoever it is who is in charge of research grants (their identity is one of the great mysteries of the modern world) is maintaining the standards for which they have established such a well earned reputation!

It wasn't like that in my day, of course. We didn't need booze as we had the war to provide us with unlimited opportunities for casual sex. Yes, throughout the war love was in the air! Except in single seater fighters, obviously. I remember on many occasion sidling up to some pretty little thing and whisper something like “Would you like to see my dishonourable discharge?” or, "Is this a V2 missile in my pocket or am I just pleased to see you?" and Bob's your uncle!

Weight

Scientists have, apparently, discovered a gene which causes fatness and they believe that an obesity cure could be available in a mere decade. Too late for poor old John Prescott, of course, but never mind. At least we now know that it wasn't the pies and Chinese meals but rather his genetic inheritance. This will no doubt come as a great comfort in his later years.

The real answer is, of course, exercise. We didn't get fat in the old days because we spent plenty of time doing healthy exercise, like hunting and shooting grouse. I suppose the poor didn't have that option but then they didn't have any food, so they didn't have to worry about it. Giving the poor access to cheap food was where it all went wrong, as there wasn't enough room on the country's estates for all those people to exercise on. There are other options, of course. I was a swimming champion when I was younger – i was a breaststroker - a hobby i have followed keenly ever since. And as I always said, once a breaststroker always a breaststroker.

Boris for President!

I read a story in the press about a man called Troy Buswell who, unsurprisingly, is an Australian politician has got into trouble for sniffing a seat that a female employee had been sitting on. What a fool. As my old friend Max Moseley could have told him. There are women who will do that sort of thing for you for a reasonable price and only some of them will sell their stories to the papers.

I am glad to say, however, that he is sticking to his guns and refusing to stand down. Just right. He can learn from our own newly elected Mayor of London, the upstanding Boris Johnson. Proof if it were needed that being the victim of press intrusion into ones marital indiscretions should not spell the end of ones career. Of course BoJo (we can't use his initials as a nickname, obviously!) wasn't up to anything weird like Max or the Australian, although those of you who have seen a photograph of his mistress Petronella Wyatt may disagree! But it has restored my faith in Britain. Only in this great country could an oaf with no discernible talent and burdened by a private education rise to such high office. If only somebody would give the young chap a bloody good haircut, although a bloody awful one would be an improvement.