Charles Ramsey - hell, that dude know how to tell a story! The sensational rise of the charismatic restaurant dish washer and part time rescuer of abductees has become a story himself; a modern day parable of the Good Samaritan complete with racial subtext, added product placement and swearing.
...

Jeremy Hunt is a big fan of ballroom dancing and I reckon he must be pretty good at it. With nimble feet he glided away from the his part in the shameful News Corp takeover bid fiasco and now he's skipping away from renewed questions about his judgement and competence...

"Mum! It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" Trills my son as he tries to raise my enthusiasm for the local leg of the torch relay for which he is committed to play rousing patriotic tunes with his school Jazz band.

Theo is 12. His world is straightforward. Britain is great. 2012...

Why oh why didn't I panic buy? I watch Britain's Got Talent! I know who Gazza is! Hell, I may never have made a purchase from Greggs but I've eaten a pasty in my time! I hang with the crowd! I do things other people do! So, dammit, why didn't...

My 17-year-old self is staring at me open mouthed. She is hiding in a disused stable block avoiding double hockey, a game she knows little about and cares for even less. She will famously score nil on the athletics register in the summer of the Upper Sixth by claiming important...

When I was 13 I read Jackie and My Guy magazines. They contained photo stories where girls faced dilemmas about which guy to go out with: the office boy with the terrible jumper or the bad lad with the motorbike? The problem pages were taken up with period pains, acne...

Poor Seb Coe. Well, not really. Peerage, high profile job, Olympic medals, home in Surrey and all the rest of it, but I do feel a little sorry for him. A few days ago he dared to suggest that parents should be able to take time off to watch their...

It's been a long time since I did any shoplifting - 31 years, to be precise, but I must have been better at it than Antony Worrall Thompson, because I didn't get caught. At least, not by the staff of Woolworths, the store that was unwittingly supplying me with 7"...

Since 1983, my Christmas has largely been characterised by disappointment. Back then, the disappointment revolved around an LP-shaped gift beneath the tree which I hoped with all my teenage heart was Michael Jackson's Thriller album.

This is how I know Father Christmas doesn't exist. Smiling in anticipation, I ripped it...

Picture the scene: the time is now, the place is Primark. Two young women, all hair extensions, faux sheepskin and pushchairs, are causing a dynamic blockage to the already-too-narrow pathway through men's loungewear. The air is thick with obscenities and stiflingly hot in the wantonly eco-cynical way of the High...

Now Movember's over and charitable chaps who've given over the space above their upper lips to pay homage to Merv Hughes or Groucho Marx reach for the razor, a 'copy'n paste' invitation comes my way via Facebook to participate in 'Fannuary'.

The concept is simple - no waxing, shaving...