Author

Chelsea Pensioner Colin Thackery’s victory in Britain’s Got Talent provides hope for millions of us that it is never too late to fulfil one’s potential.

Back in the good old days, when men used Old Spice and fish was only served on Fridays, the threat of an early bedtime without any tea was a popular form of psychological warfare.

You would think that, as mankind continues its technological advance, spending a week under canvas would be considered a primitive pursuit but, on the contrary, camping is very much on the up.

I don’t know about you but I have fond memories of my time in both primary and secondary education but this isn’t down to a yearning for a return to lessons about the history of the industrial revolution or learning how to order a ham sandwich and a fizzy orange in German.

Last week I found myself at the loosest of ends as I limbered up for the next stage of my career - a triumphant act two as opposed to that tricky second album. I hope.

Although I am a self-confessed motormouth, somebody who has never shied away from proffering an opinion on absolutely anything, I have never resorted to protest.

Has there ever been an angrier time than the present day?

There is more than a fortnight to go before Easter but I would put a family pack of hot cross buns on the fact that many of you have already scoffed at least one chocolate egg this year.

My first experience of alien life-forms came at the cinema aged five, when my Old Man took me to see E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, one of the finest blockbusters ever made.

Last week marked a key anniversary in the history of the modern world.

Most parents believe success in life boils down to one thing, and one thing only, a good education.

There was a time, in an age long before drive-thru dry cleaners and stuffed crust pizzas, that I was something of a performer.

When it comes to family days out, there is nowhere that comes close to the zoo for providing good old-fashioned wholesome fun.

For many years I refused to get a sat nav, regarding it as an assault on my masculinity.

For the past fortnight or so, we have been bombarded with a seemingly endless succession of headlines about the perils of young social media obsessives who have been pushed to the brink and beyond.

Like most self-opinionated journalists, the words ‘I am very sorry, I was wrong” are very hard for me to come by.

We are still enduring the time of year when every other person is doggedly attempting to stick to some sort of diet.

I am delighted to report that, half way into January, my year has begun largely how the last one finished - in a flurry of baked produce consumption, alongside the odd glass or two of booze.