The Cutty Sark has burnt down and I, in common with most other London-dwellers, can't remember if I ever went to see it. Adam Nicolson, who knows a thing or two about boats, is talking on page 31 about how Britain is not terribly good at looking after its maritime heritage. The French are better, he says, and he describes being a member of the crew of a boat called the Belem. He tries to help out the landlubber reader by describing that the tricolour floating from the mizzen gaff was 'the size of a tennis court'. Such layman's terms are helpful up to a point. So it feels ungrateful to admit that I wouldn't know a gaff if I met one. And I'd certainly have no idea if it was mizzen or not.

John Major used to run the country, a fact that is strangely easy to forget, especially considering he did it for nearly seven years. He's written a book on the history of cricket, so he's profiled on page 33. The by-line mentions that, 'There are only two living former prime ministers. Soon there will be a third.' Newspapers have a responsibility in its reporting of the future to distinguish certainty from speculation – and this is speculation masquerading as certainty. While Tony Blair has promised to leave office at the end of June, we have no reason to think he won't be as good as his word. Where the arithmetic strays into speculation is concerning the other living former prime minister. Margaret Thatcher has given no guarantee not to die in the next five weeks.

Journalists tend to be careful these days about using the word 'literally', as its misuse is a favourite of many a cuttings column. Mike Selvey, writing a report from the test match on page 1 of Sport, is careful in his use of the word. But not quite careful enough. A Lancaster bomber performed a fly-past at Headingley, and Selvey says that 'nostalgia quite literally was in the air'. Nostalgia does not come in literal and non-literal versions. It's the air, I think, to which Selvey wanted to apply literality. 'Nostalgia was quite literally in the air,' is what he probably wanted.

Canterbury has a bookshop with an amazing record for employing people who later became very successful – mostly as writers. Alan McArthur is one of them, and he recalls on page 2 of Work his time there. 'The guy who organised the [academic and political] section was an anarchist with rally shiny black hair.' This particular anarchist seems to stick in McArthur's mind mainly because of his hair, and his 'massive political rows with other members of staff'. What seems not to strike him as noteworthy was the choice of an anarchist as the best person to keep something in meticulous order.

'Literally' is back on page 3, when an undertaker explains his career, and the less satisfactory pre-funeral period of his working life. 'I was literally putting the glue on Sellotape.' The charge here is of redundance, rather than inaccuracy. I am unaware of any metaphorical instance of this phrase. Though the next time I feel dissatisfied with 'gilding the lily' and 'reinventing the wheel' and want something with a more fingery feel, I will say, "Gentlemen, at this point in our discussion, I feel we are very much 'putting the glue on the sellotape'."

Someone's daughter is 12, and has started smoking. The Someone in question has sought the advice of the FamilyForum on page 6 of Family. One suggestion is to 'get her involved in…ice skating, dance classes, capoeira, trampolining or something'. Apparently she would then look after her health, and feel disinclined towards smoking. Or maybe she would try to do these things while smoking – this hugely increasing her skill. The average trampolining move is a challenge at the best of times. It requires even greater skill when you've got a fag on.

And, from our archive:

Guardian, 27th January

For any reader unclear of the precise preferred nomenclature for dogs which are above average size, the title of the wallchart advertised on page 1 provides unambiguous clarification: 'Big dogs'.

Another dog (though probably not a big one) appears on page 15, a bush dog puppy Pico, making an appearance at Edinburgh zoo. The photo caption states clearly, 'Bush dogs come from Central and South America.' In case we thought the dog's name referred not to the terrain of its habitat, but its political affiliation.

Marina Hyde on page 34 opines that, for all our faults, the British people do not have an appetite for a 'Fox-news style channel'. Such a channel would presumably concern itself principally with the fashion and beauty tips of leading neo-con figures. Mainly how Condi Rice does that thing with her hair.

Denis Law on page 2 of Sport recounts the day that he scored six goals for Manchester City, only to find the game abandoned before the end, and the result erased from the record books. 'Every time I touched the ball it went in the back of the net,' he recalls. While six goals is an impressive tally by any standards, only managing to touch the ball six times suggests to me a player not pulling his weight. Perhaps if he had mucked in a little more the gods might have smiled on him and let the result stand.

Page 4 starts with a football story with the headline: 'Victory for president Platini provokes panic in the Premiership'. We can all rue how different that headline might have been if there was a synonym of 'victory' that starts with the letter P.

Brian Clough's words are imagined on page 5 pooh-poohing the achievement of his successor. Frank Clark was now the Nottingham Forest manager as the side were promoted, but Clough sounds unimpressed. 'My cat could have got that team promoted. My granny would have made the play-offs.' Whether the analysis is accurate is neither here nor there. The point is, given that getting promoted is harder than making the play-offs, the suggestion is that the man's cat is a better tactician than his granny. I trust Clough's grandmother was safely dead, and never got to hear the slur.

Ruth Kelly has her photo on page 2 of Work, where she is answering questions about women's working rights. Her photo sits opposite a photo with some black on it and, not for the first time, my Guardian has managed to deface itself, this time with a black stripe across the minister's right cheek and nose. The effect is quite New Romantic, as if the minister for women is attempting her own twist on the Adam Ant stripe. I have scoured the article for further evidence of homage ('maternity leave is nothing to be scared of,' perhaps) but without success.

In graduate news on page 36, 'You've got to take your hat off to L'Oreal,' for innovative recruitment ideas. Yes, if you want to get recruited by a top shampoo manufacturer, perhaps you should take your hat off.

Sometimes, you are absolutely sure of something. Other times, it is necessary to introduce a caveat. Both of these positions are morally and intellectually defensible. It is right to express certainty or doubt, provided that that accurately reflects your feelings. And being able to understand the difference is a vital part of clear thinking and expression. Sir Craig Reedie is a vice-president of the British Olympic Association, which he used to chair, and is member of the International Olympic Committee. He clearly has a much clearer view than I on the fine line between certainty and doubt, as he comments on page 11 on the possibility of a Scottish Olympic team. He says, 'When Scotland is an independent nation, I am 99.999% sure the IOC will grant them [a national Olympic committee].' Contrary to what Elton John has been telling us all these years, the hardest word seems actually to be 'certain'.

Madeleine Bunting is enthusing about art on page 25, and mentions the popular successes of the work of Antony Gormley and Andy Goldsworthy. 'The critics may sniff at both Gormley and Goldsworthy (some do so very loudly).' I can imagine mild critics sniffing, but the idea that harsher judges might also sniff, but simply at a higher volume, seems excessively optimistic a picture. Perhaps life as a creative artist is not so hard if the worst objection you will suffer is people impersonating a noisy head cold.

There was a particular type of playground conversation in my schooldays that was designed to be a kind of linguistic trap. You were asked a tedious question, to which the only apparent answer is in some way wrong or incriminating. You would invariably ending up inadvertently admitting to homosexuality, or HIV-positive status, or some other unlikely affliction for a mid-80s 10-year-old. There were others rather more psychological in style, less howlingly funny than the brilliant gay/AIDS material, and less bullying in outcome. One of these was, 'Don't think of a purple elephant.' Agnes Poirier, writing about Michael Moore on page 27, clearly missed that week in the playground, when she defends Moore's film against accusations of propaganda: 'George Orwell would hate it. But forget about him for a minute.' I'm trying to forget about George Orwell, Ms Poirier, but I really don't think it's me that's making it so difficult.

The cricket commentators on Test Match Special, of whom the third editorial on page 28 is in praise, engage in very English anarchic digressions 'in between balls, returning seamlessly to the matter in hand when the action starts again.' It should be clarified that it is the commentaries that are seamless. The balls, in cricket, remain resolutely seamful.

Alice Wignall, on page 3 of Office Hours, recommends not taking your birthday off, but going into work and enjoying the attention. Her mind wanders to birthdays of her childhood. 'Ages 5 to 11 are the halcyon days…teenage years are obviously slightly more tricky.' If I ever meet Alice Wignall, I must remember not to ask her what happened on her twelfth birthday. It must have been something very harrowing.

I'm not a druid, and you can call a fool anyone who says that I am. Adrian Rooke is, though, and he's on page 6 of Weather talking about 'Weather and me'. He says, 'At Stonehenge…there will always be people celebrating the midsummer solstice.' Always? Surely the point of things like the summer solstice is that you only celebrate them on the summer solstice? Perhaps it's a crowd-calming rota system. But what would I know – I am, as I may have already made clear – not a druid.

And, from our archive:

Guardian, 26th January

British children spend too much on sweets and fizzy drinks, according to a report covered on page 10 of news. The report's author says, 'High-profile media campaigns have managed to jolt many parents into taking more control.' Another way to get a good 'jolt' is to drinks loads of sugary fizzy drinks, ideally with a healthy dose of caffeine included.

Paul Greengrass directed hijack film United 93, and is profiled on page 17. 'Guardian critic Peter Bradshaw was not alone when he wrote that he had difficulty breathing while watching it,' we learn. At first I was glad Mr Bradshaw had some company while penning his review. Now I am convinced that arts correspondent Mark Brown is telling us that Peter Bradshaw steals his ideas from other critics. Even when that idea is life-threatenening apnoea.

The US military are developing weapons that really hurt, rather than entirely kill you. The latest one is a heat ray that burns your skin, but only the very edge, according to an article and diagram on page 18. The system is called Silent Guardian, a title which, to British ears, suggests a left-leaning pathologist TV drama.

A Los Angeles drinks company is using Jimi Hendrix to sell its new range, it says on page 22. The company's boss is called Josh Glass. Surely Mr Glass never seriously considered any other career. Except perhaps glazier.

Klaus Schwab runs Davos, the big-money talking shop currently meeting in Switzerland. 'Davos is not a conference,' he says on page 29. 'It's a multi-stakeholder network of global decision-makers.' Are you sure you wouldn't rather call it a conference? Honestly, Klaus, that's quite a mouthful.

The minister for public health, according to a correction on page 34, 'is Caroline Flint, not Flynn. Obviously. Flynn Flint would be a ridiculous name.

Roger Federer is quite ridiculously good at tennis. He beat Andy Roddick really easily at the Australian Open, which Mr Roddick found rather frustrating, it says on page 10. Roddick at one point yelled, 'Goddamn everything, it's all gone…' though the applause for Federer covered the end of the sentence. Speculation gets a hard press but, on this one, it's all we've got. Possibilities must include: 'Pete Tong'; 'to Iceland'; and 'rapidly downhill'. Or the sentence really did end there, and he was staring disbelievingly at his empty bottle of Barley Water.

Zoe Williams must have a better radio than me. But then, she does have to write the 'Radio head' column on page 31 of G2. She is bickering with her boyfriend about whether Radio 4 or 5 is best (if you ask me, this argument is simply a displacement of the real issue in their relationship – but nobody has). Zoe says that Radio 4 is better because she, a 4-o-phile, could now pick out Tim Yeo in a line-up. My radio has never given me a photo of Tim Yeo (though I have to admit, I've never asked it particularly hard). If, as they say, the pictures are better on radio, Ms Williams is in for a disappointment when she sees Mr Yeo's real visage, as opposed to the one she has dreamt up listening to him speak.

The young man whose father's mother is the Queen is no longer on intimate terms with a particular lady, and this gives rise to a photo and headline above the masthead on page 1. Next to a photo of Kate and Carole Middleton stands the question: 'Not one of us: was Kate Middleton just too middle calss?' As the phrase 'one of us' is not in quotes, I first of all took it to be the paper talking for itself. I can imagine the Middletons being too middle class for the royal family, or the ranks of wannabes who call themselves royal experts. For a terrifying moment I thought they were too middle class for the Guardian – an unimaginable state.

            Simon Hoggart watched defence secretary Des Browne make a pig's breakfast of saying sorry to the House of Commons, and he tells us all about it on page 8. 'As mea culpas go, it was not exactly gushing.' I think that should be 'meas culpas', though I have to admit I haven't looked at a Latin grammar for about 16 years (for which I can only apologise).

            Corrections and clarifications, on page 34, is where the paper itself gets to lament its manifold sins, but I am often left with the impression that the apology has been rather too much enjoyed to be truly contrite. For example, 'St Andrew's Day is not a public holiday in Scotland,' it says, before adding, 'We were wrong to say it was.' The second phrase reveals an unseemly relish of the sorrow. I cannot think of an instance when, although St Andrew's Day is not a public holiday in Scotland, it would have been only right and proper to say it was.

            South Africa were about to play England at cricket, so Mike Selvey on page 9 of Sport is talking about their shameful reputation as likely to under-perform on the big occasion: 'they carry with them the stigmata of chokers.' I'm not sure if stigma, when used to denote a shameful past, rather than a bodily wound, takes the full Greek plural. It also sounds like they carry with them a large collection of neck-tight necklaces, of which 'stigmata' is nothing but the collective noun.

            Back to the burning issue of the relative poshness of a young woman who will never be Queen. Word is, according to class expert Peter York quoted on page 8 of G2, that some members of the upper class find some middle class vocabulary unbearable. Principal offenders seem to be 'toilet' and 'pardon'. These words, says York, 'are like chalk on a blackboard'. I tend not to say pardon where it's possibly to say 'huh?' and why say 'toilet' when you say call it the 'as it were'. But my main concern comes from the incrimination of 'chalk on a blackboard'. Is that not where chalk is meant to go? And is that not the only use for a blackboard? As long as the chalkist is not using his non-writing hand to ruin his fingernails on the board at the same time, I cannot see the harm.

            Split infinitives are morally wrong, but some idiots insist they are harmless. They claim that sometimes it is more stylish to use them, rather than officiously strive to avoid them. These people should turn to page 10 of EducationGuardian, where Chris Humphries, director general of City & Guilds, writes of 'the need to dramatically upskill the workforce'. Chilling.

George Bush has been trying to persuade young Americans to stop having sex with each other by giving them a silver ring. The photograph on page 3 suggests the policy has been at least semi-successful - the girls in the photo definitely have silver rings. But new research suggests that teenagers who are taught total abstinence are no more, and no less, likely to have sex than kids who get normal sex education. Bush 'braved ridicule' by recently extending the programme to 20-29 year olds. It is a well concealed insult. From this story, you might describe the policy as 'brave', but there stronger showing would be for 'ridiculous'.

            Couples have had their heart and brain activity analysed while doing various exciting things including, as covered on page 10, eating chocolate and kissing. The finding is that the chocolate got them going more. 'Readings from 12 couples in their 20s, who had electrodes fitted to their scalps, revealed that eating chocolate made the heart pound harder and for longer than a mere kiss.' This is presented as showing that chocolate is more pleasurable than kissing. Whereas it only reveals that chocolate is more pleasurable than kissing someone with electrodes attached to their head.

           The forthcoming elections in Wales are a source of worry to the Labour party, if a story on page 12 is to be believed. As well as a resurgent Nationalist and Conservative parties, Labour are likely to suffer if turn-out is low. This is why the Labour first minister, Rhodri Morgan, cites his biggest foe as 'General Apathy'. This mythical adversary, dressed in full military regalia (if he can be bothered), would make an excellent cartoon strip, should the Electoral Commission ever plan an advertising campaign to get the youth back into the polling stations.

            A series of Harold Pinter dramatic scenes, all held together by extracts from one of his speeches, has been held at a venue called the Workshop at the University of Leeds, and it is reviewed on page 38. It's called 'Being Harold Pinter', which must have seemed a very sensible title. But a review titled 'Being Harold Pinter, Workshop, University of Leeds' suggests that the University is genuinely offering a workshop to help people to be Harold Pinter. A laudable, but ultimately futile, ambition for almost everyone.

            Jose Mourinho manages Chelsea football team, and he talks on page 1 of Sport about the efforts to get their goalkeeper Petr Cech back and playing again, after a nasty head injury. He seems to be doing OK now, thanks largely to a special skull cap that protects him. Mourinho describes the rehabilitation period, including, 'In training…people coming to make the best helmet for him. There were a lot of question marks over him.' Sounds like a natty design for a helmet. Cech's helmet must have been created by the same person who did the Riddler's suit in Batman.

            Various bloggers are talking about what BBC3 should do, and their thoughts are compiled on page 10 of MediaGuardian. One blogger wonders if BBC3 and BBC4 should be seen simply as 'feeders for their big brother or sister'. The siblings in question are presumably BBC1 and BBC2. BBC1 is the brother, and BBC2 is the sister. I am alarmed at the certainty of my own sexing of the networks. I feel horribly like my mind has been manipulated by brand people.

Richard Gott tells the story on page 29 of when he was a member of a Foreign Office delegation to the Falklands in 1968. The expedition's job was persuade the Falklanders that they might want to be nice to the Argentinians. The reason for this was that the British government was 'thinking of ways of winding up its residual empire'. Well, they certainly found the perfect way. If you want to wind up a Falklander, surely the best way is to suggest they get chummy with the Argentines. Carry whoopee cushions as a back-up, but you're unlikely to need them.

Winston Gordon does Judo for Great Britain, and he's listing on page 20 of Sport what music he likes to listen to on a competition day, and why. Reggae is best for travelling. For the weigh-in, he goes for some soul. Then, while doing his packing, it's R&B and hip-hop. Before warming up, he moves on to drum'n'bass. And then music from the Rocky films. This is just before the fighting starts, so it is a very important part of his day – it's essential to get the right kind of music. Luckily, Winston has a little mnemonic to help him ensure the music is right: 'If the music makes me want to tear the other guy's head off I know it's the wrong kind.' That's a pretty sturdy check for any art form, really.

Writing a story in the media about a media story is a tricky task, particularly when the story is about how the media shouldn't have run the story. Peter Wilby on page 7 of Media is talking about the Mirror being criticised for running a picture of Kate Middleton, accompanied by a picture of Kate Middleton. The copy says, 'The Mirror ran a picture of Prince William's girlfriend Kate Middleton (pictured)'. This does not make clear whether what is pictured is 'Kate Middleton' or 'a picture of Kate Middleton'. A picture of a picture is valid reporting. Whereas simply a picture is surely a gross infringement of privacy. On such distinctions hang many a Press Complaints Commission enquiry.

A job advert, rightly mocked in the WPM column on page 1 of Office Hours, requires applicants to be 'heroic'. The listed qualities of heroism include: 'chivalrous…noble…one-in-a-million'. If a UK company wants all its staff to be 'one-in-a-million', its human resources department is in for a lengthy recruitment process. And the company's growth prospects will be limited too. You can only employ 60 'one-in-a-million' people, and then you're going to have to start expanding overseas.

Some things are categorised by weight. Newborn babies, for one, should have their weight asked after, when a new parent rings you, even if you have no idea what constitutes infant largeness. Likewise boxers are categorised by how heavy they are, presumably because there is no agreed unit of hardness. But now there is a new weight-differentiated thing, I learn from Jessica Lawrence, a fabric buyer, who is telling us the contents of her desk drawers on page 2. 'I've got a loft full of them in every different weight imaginable.' I would have needed many more than 20 questions before I'd have guessed 'scarves'.

And, from our archive:

Guardian, 23rd January

A photo on page 1 shows a skateboarder from the knees down, on a skateboard. The caption asks, 'Why has this skateboarder ended up with a right calf that is 10cm wider than his left?' I'm going out on a limb here, but I bet the answer is something to do with skateboarding.

A beach in Devon is full of stuff that has fallen off the back of a ship, and so shortly after it was full of people who wanted stuff. Page 3 is full of photos of people helping themselves. Given that their actions are, at best, legally questionable, it seems strange that they are willing to have their photos taken. In the copy, some people are even willing to be named. Though many take the sensible precaution of devising an implausible alias. Unless the guy who pinched the motorbike really is called 'Hector Bird', but surely we can rule that out.

A mooted dry ski slope in Suffolk is too tall, according to people complaining about it on page 9. It is the height of Nelson's Column, although it looks smaller in the pictured artist's impression. The artist must have imagined taking a view of the development from space, to flatten it out. The height is later clarified as being 'higher than 14 double decker buses stacked up'. This is a clearer description for people who have never visited central London (but who are in the habit of stacking vast vehicles).

Simon Hoggart says on page 10 that defence secretary Des Browne's voice squeaks alarmingly, and flutes up and down. This is a sound I can easily imagine. To clarify, he says it sounds like 'someone trying to play the bagpipes after losing a tussle with the regimental goat'. This is a sound I cannot imagine at all. I therefore do not find this a useful metaphor. If he were trying to describe the piper, and likened it to a squeaking politician, now that would be helpful.

Some writers are much easier to read when you imagine their accent in your head. Jules Podell, owner of the eviction-threatened New York nightclub Copacabana, was a stickler for detail. A reporter, quoted on page 13, wrote of him in 1953, 'Let him see a piece of lettuce staining the floor and he'll stop everything to have it cleaned up,' and also, 'Let a waiter show a spot on his white jacket with the crimson collar and a quick change is ordered.' You will struggle to make those two sentences really work until you conclude, as I did, that the reporter must have spoken exactly like Top Cat.

An article on page 26 about the 2012 Olympics is called 'The greenest games ever'. At the bottom of the column is a note on the writer: 'Tony Blair is the British prime minister.' That's it. I knew the name rang a bell.

This week's guest in the 'What gets me dancing' column on page 29 of G2 is Emma Chadwick. She's a ballet dancer. That's cheating. Surely the answer is, 'my agent' or possibly 'hunger'. No, apparently it's some '90s electronica'.

The Countdown letters game on page 36 is 'AMOSFTEVZ'. I can't get the 7 letter word you're meant to get. All I can think of is Amos F. Tevez, who was the long-standing barman in the Argentinian version of Emmerdale Farm.

On page 8 of EducationGuardian, we hear from the coordinator of Boston College's mobile education unit. She is called Hazel Blades, which is clearly Hazel Blears' superhero name.

Blasphemy is a tricky area. You should show respect for others' religious beliefs, but not pretend to share them, which would be a disrespectful lie. You have to be sensitive to their observances and, while not being expected to observe them yourself, should not disrespectfully flout them either. Into which debate drops a chocolate sculpture of a naked Christ, entitled My Sweet Lord and pictured on page 27, which is about to make its debut at a Manhattan art exhibition. I can't help feeling the local Christians who are unhappy about this are not playing their strongest card (which would be something along the lines of 'Do you mind?'). Instead, Bill Donahue, president of the Catholic League, said 'it was a classic case of non-believers attempting to sow seeds of doubt'. Anyone who has their doubt encouraged by this piece is surely not far from doubt to start with. I cannot see this 'classic case' making any thinking believer say, 'Hang on. Perhaps Jesus of Nazareth was not, as the church fathers have taught us, a true incarnation of God. Look, it's melting.'

It's not easy being England manager. Not easy, but fantastically well paid. Sven-Goran Eriksson, last I heard, is still getting some vast amount of money every day he doesn't find a new job (as long as he's actively seeking, presumably). Paul Jewell, who manages Wigan, says on page 1 of Sport that he 'wouldn't want the England job for all the tea in China.' Though, if he did agree to such a price, it would cost the FA less than their Eriksson deal. China-based tea barons now use the phrase, 'I wouldn't do that for all the money in Eriksson's contract.'

BT is the largest organisation in the world, bigger than NHS, the Chinese army, and the insect kingdom combined. It has many different parts, called things like BT OpenNet or BT WorldThing. Sandra Hewitt is trying to set up an office in her shed, and tells us on page 1 of Work how useless BT were in the effort. But at last there is a BT subsidiary with a realistic name: '[I had to make] two more calls to BT (aaargh).'

Christina McDermott, pictured on page 38, ran a live music club from her desk, didn't tell her employers, and got told off. She then changed jobs, did tell her employers she ran a music club, continued to run it from her desk, and got praised for 'good time management and organisational skills.' She is now the poster girl for moral relativism. It doesn't matter what you do, just don't get caught. And you can't get caught if you admit to it first.

There is no child who hasn't said, nor parent who hasn't heard, 'Are we nearly there yet?' It is the perfect, though failed, childhood attempt to be engaged but unburdensome. To the sayers, the 'nearly' seems a major concession to the adults: 'Look, Mum, if we're not actually there, I really don't mind – I'm pretty low maintenance. But I would welcome some kind of reassurance that we are at least nearly there.' But Nicola Haig and her brother, on the travels from their south coast home to their Scottish grandparents in the 1970s (detailed on page 7 of Family), were even more considerate. Their 'continual chorus' was 'When are we going to get there?' The very reasonableness of the question must have rankled the grown-ups even more. Now, in the era of SatNav, the question can be answered with military precision.

And, from our archive:

Guardian, 22nd January

A former Foreign Office minister has accused the police of heavy-handed tactics in arresting a No.10 aide in the cash for honours probe. He says on page 2 that they arrived at her door 'in a bid to make her crack'. I'd have thought a bright woman like that could make her own crack. And if the police ever arrive at my door offering to make me some crack, I'll scream entrapment.

A freighter is abandoned, listing, and leaking off the Devon coast. As well as leaking fuel, its containers are also spilling their goods. Some containers had 'car spares or new motorbikes', whereas others had 'potential menaces to marine life'. This seems a remarkably sanguine view of how well some car spares and new motorbikes will be going down amongst the marine population. Maybe your average squid is a keen speedway fan, and they have concealed it from us all this while.

This is one for corrections and clarification, really, but I can't resist it. Martin Wainwright on page 4 says that Jeremy Paxman asked Michael Howard 12 times if he had overruled the head of the prisons service over sacking a governor. No, he asked Mr Howard: 'Did you threaten to over-rule him?' I tend to remember things that are said to me twelve times. 'Did you over-rule him?' was the question that Mr Howard was trying to pretend that Paxo was asking, and thought he'd be able to get away with answering that one instead. He didn't. Twelve times.

A health story on page 5 mentions a drop in the number of women last year who 'had smear tests every week'. Good thing too. These women clearly have morbid fascination with their own cervical oncology, and they clearly need counselling, not further smearing.

A woman in South Carolina might have married James Brown – it's a legal grey area at the moment. Her lawyer comments on page 16 about her efforts to get some of the Brown inheritance. He says, 'You can't cut your wife out of your will in South Carolina.' I'm sure its excellent legal advice, but it would also make a rather fine title for a country and western song.

'British hotels attack budget airlines' is the headline on page 22, over a story about British hotel chains encouraging Brits to holiday at home and save the environment. The headline works well for the story, but it would also be the good subject for a Terry Gilliam animation.

Football managers change jobs very quickly. Page 4 of the Sport section represents a new record, however. Paragraph five starts with, 'West Ham's manager, Alan Curbishley.' Paragraph nine starts with, 'West Ham's manager, Glenn Roeder.'

A horse called Nickname is going to Cheltenham races in March, and may yet ride in the Queen Mother Champion Chase. But the headline on page 17 is misleading: 'Nickname on track for Queen Mother'. Any nickname for the Queen Mother is running very late. If you wait five years after someone's death before suggesting a nickname, it's very unlikely to catch on.

The Jake and Dinos Chapman retrospective at Tate Liverpool features soldiers massacring naked civilians and tipping their bodies into mass graves. But on page 28 of G2, Mark Ravenhill thinks the most disturbing thing is the 'number of toddlers' at the show. I know some people don't like other people's children, but that seems an extreme reaction.

The head of Channel 4 went on telly to defend Big Brother wearing a rubbish T-shirt. But when Emily Bell on page 4 of MediaGuardian refers to his 'awry T-shirt' my first reaction is 'Who's awry? Are they like fcuk?'

One cliché of restaurant-going is that when the clientele reflects the origins of the food, that is a good sign. For example, I only go into McDonalds if I can see a goodly smattering of luncheoning clowns. Likewise, an endorsement from a professional group is seen as an estimable vote of confidence – one toothbrush manufacturer exhorts us to 'brush like a dentist', as if this is a cool way to perform a heroic act. But the new survey reported on page 13 surely asks NHS staff a valid question - would they be happy with the standard of care offered by their workplace? The headline, though, suggests an altogether less remarkable finding: 'Many staff would not want to be patients in own hospitals.' I should think so too. It would suggest a dangerous deathwish if they were. I am only concerned it is 'many' not 'all'. A reluctance to enjoy the service you offer does not necessarily equate to poor service. Ask the undertaking industry.

Optimism can have a tough time of it. Expressing the negative comes much easier to many people – the British, the media, the British media. Lloyd's of London, we learn on page 31, has enjoyed a particularly profitable year, and this has been caused by an increase in levels of global niceness and loveliness. But the headline describes this trend with a tone of negativity of which most of us can only dream. Lloyd's good year is down to a 'Lack of disasters'.

You learn a lot about a person from how they respond to the unexpected. Harry Pearson on the back page of Sport tells a story about a woman dressed as a salami participating in a sausage race at half-time of a baseball match. One of the baseball players hit her over the head with his bat, was arrested, and charged with assault. A team-mate of the felon is the hero of the piece, however, finding meaning where the rest of us see only chaos. 'That's what life is all about,' he observed. I would love to know what personal creed he finds validated by these events. There are not many people who can witness a woman disguised as a sausage knocked down by a baseball bat, then turn to a friend and say, 'See? What did I tell ya?'

Michael Jackson is considering creating a 50-foot robot of himself in Las Vegas, Marina Hyde tells us on page 3 of G2. Asked of the rumour, Jackson's spokesman says, 'He's pretty grounded in Vegas,' from which Ms Hyde infers that Las Vegas gives Jacko the stability he lacks elsewhere. Sanity is relative, of course. The agent's statement might mean nothing more than, 'Michael seems normal in Vegas, because the natural wells of normality in the area are painfully dry.'

Peaches Geldof has a grasp of measures which is experiential, rather than purely mathematical, as she demonstrates on page 9 of G2. She has a dog called Snowy. (In a household where the humans are called things like 'Peaches' and 'Pixie' and, most indulgently of all, 'Bob Geldof', a teacup chihuahua should be called something like 'Caroline'.) Peaches explains that Snowy is the same length as 'a (six-inch) Subway sandwich'. And, if you've never seen one of those, it's exactly the same length as a six-inch ruler.

Can you take someone to so many nightclubs, they will actually die? Coronation Street's Tracy Barlow, pictured on page 16, is 'on trial for clubbing her boyfriend to death'.

BBC4 at 7pm shows the Lindsay Quartet doing a couple of Haydn string quartets. Perhaps the Lindsays have a reputation for being a somewhat hit-and-miss ensemble, but even so, it seems unkind to call the programme '4 Better 4 Worse'.

And, from our archive:

Guardian, 20th January

The police have arrested a woman from Tony Blair's office as part of the cash for honours probe. On page 1 she insists she's done nothing wrong: "I absolutely refute any allegations of wrongdoing of any nature whatsoever." She's not left herself much wiggle room there.

The supreme leader of the Taliban, Mullah Muhammad Omar, still evades capture, despite the Americans' best efforts. He is profiled on page 26, where he is called a 'master of evasion'. The headline also claims that he leaves 'a trail of devotees'. I would have thought that would make him rather easy to find. Not as easy as if it were a trail of slime. But then few actual slugs are on the US's most wanted list.

Frank Lampard credits his Chelsea boss Jose Mourinho with making him raise his career sights on page 1 of Sport. Mourinho made Lampard feel he could 'get voted second best player in the world'. And you can't get any better than that.

Oliver Cruickshank has given his CV to the Work section, and on page 39 a CV expert is giving his comments. One is that the entry 'Ma course' should read 'MA course'. Not necessarily. Perhaps it's a parenting course.

On Page 40, 'Dr Work' is taking readers' questions. One question is 'will wearing make-up boost my chances at job interview?' I would say it very much depends. Is the interview for a job at a cosmetics company? Are you applying for the position of clown? Is the person conducting the interview blind? Dr Work has been put in an almost impossible situation.

There are various options for people who can't keep up their repayments, according to an article on page 5 of Money. Some of the options omitted from the article include bank robbery, destitution, and suicide.

On page 10, Tony Levene 'fights for your consumer rights'. The first story concerns an 'Apology for ramped up bus lane fine'. The lesson here is surely that a bus lane is a bus lane, even if it goes up a ramp. Public transport needs to deal with inclines too.

Roy Hattersley writes about how nice it is to visit somewhere near where you live, rather than having to go miles to get there. Strangely, his article appears in the 'Travel' section, although his message seems to be the opposite. And then Mr Hattersley confines his comments on pages 2 and 3 to the area around where he lives, the Derbyshire Peak District. Which is no use if you don't live in that area. The heading on page one says that Mr Hattersley is writing 'in praise of holidaying at home'. Whereas in fact he is only talking about holidaying at his home. And as nowhere in the article does he give us details of how to contact him, I'm not sure Mr Hattersley is planning on being as liberal with his hospitality as the article would at first glance give us reason to suspect.

Venezuela is the subject of pages 8 and 9, where we learn that 'Capybaras have sex 30 times a day and spend the rest of their time eating, sleeping, swimming and sunbathing.' Sadly, it looks like you can't apply to join the Capybaras. It's not a job, or a secret society. It's some kind of rodent. The best kind, by the sound of it.

John Grimshaw is the chief executive of Sustrans, who are all about sustainable transport. He's given a Q and A on page 20. First question is 'what are you working on?' Second is 'Where would you rather be?' and he chooses the highest road in Britain: 'At 2,500ft, you can see all the mountains of Scotland.' Third question, 'What's so special about it?' This questioner is either really difficult to impress, or she's not actually listening to the answers.

Simon Hoggart describes Gordon Brown on page 16 as a 'Man of a Thousand Faces', though he only finds room to detail about eleven. The fourth face is 'Gordon the Daddy', and he quotes the chancellor as saying, 'I've got married, had two very young children.' Mr Brown is certainly right to observe that his children, when his wife and he had them, were very young. That tends to be the way. Then they somewhat relentlessly get older, tricky things.

Tim Campbell was picked as Sir Alan Sugar's apprentice in a television programme called The Apprentice, but now he's leaving Sir Alan's employ. Mr Campbell says, 'Sir Alan was really glad that I'd got the balls to stand on my own two feet.' He's preferring to the balls of his feet, presumably. Though I wasn't aware that this was a part of the body in which people are ever lacking. But, you know how it is, you hear a phrase for the first time, and suddenly it's everywhere. I expect, the next time I do something cowardly, to hear the criticism: 'You know your problem? You're all heels.'

Paul MacInnes is writing on page 39 about l'espirit de l'escalier – the experience of thinking of the wittiest thing to say just a moment too late. Mr McInnes imagines only thinking of the best line when 'on the bus home and halfway into a chunky KitKat'. Not a 'KitKat Chunky', or a 'Chunky KitKat'. Mr McInnes uses the miniscule c deliberately, I don't doubt. His opinion is that the traditional KitKat may be entitled to call itself 'chunky'. And that the chunkier version, a more recent brand extension, is an unnecessary development, given that the chunkiness of the original is entirely adequate.

The Birthdays column is meticulous about whether people are still doing the thing for which they are famous. If not, their job title is always prefaced with 'former'. Hence Lord (Alf) Morris described on page 42 as a 'former Labour minister' on his 79th birthday. Above him in the alphabetical list is Sir Roger Bannister who, while younger (78), still impresses me by being listed as 'neurologist, runner'. Admittedly, there is no mention of his still doing it competitively (the running, that is – most neurology tends to be non-competitive).

Amanda Lamb is a television presenter, and is pictured on page 22 of G2, answering questions under the title 'My life in shopping'. In doing so she teaches me a new word. One shop she goes to mainly for 'sportswear and yogawear'. Of course, yoga may require certain clothing, and why not coin a new term for that wardrobe? What throws me is the fact that this category is distinct from sportswear. I suspect that Amanda Lamb is creating new words not out of necessity, but out of a sheer love of neologism.

The 'Last night's TV' column on page 27 mentions a woman who is 'four times married and could not spell camera-shy'. It is not made clear whether her shortcomings in orthography contributed to the multiple marriages, caused the divorces, or perhaps had a hand in both.

And, from our archives:

Guardian, 19th January

The new boss of software group Misys is reported on page 26 as getting rid of several senior board members. One of them is the 'head of its ailing healthcare operation'. It should be remembered that, when it comes to healthcare, 'ailing' is where it's at. 'Flourishing healthcare' – now that's a white elephant.

In Corrections and clarifications on page 34, we read that 'Stephen Hawking was mistakenly described as a Nobel laureate' in a recent article. It goes on: 'He is not.' Well, there's no need to rub it in. I think 'mistakenly' covered it. Geniuses have feelings too, you know.

Jose Mourinho and his employers Chelsea Football Club are enjoying strained relations, though the latest news on the front of Sport is that there has been something of a thaw. Chelsea's chief executive has said that Roman Abramovich, the club's owner, backs Mourinho's management, 'a statement that seemed to hearten the Portuguese.' I've never been happy with that national adjective used as a singular noun. It always sounds like a plural one – as if the whole nation of Portugal derived satisfaction from Mr Abramovich's vote of confidence.

'Lauren says he is sad to be leaving Arsenal,' according to a headline on page 6. And the photo seems to bear this out, as he is looking genuinely miserable. Unfortunately, the photo shows him not waving a tearful goodbye to his old club, but holding up the shirt of his new one, at what was presumably meant to be a celebratory press conference.

England batsman Alistair Cook has been reminiscing about the Ashes series, especially the tests in Adelaide and Sydney. 'They were not nice places to be,' he says on page 9. The Australian Tourist Board should make it clear that Adelaide and Sydney are in fact terribly nice places to be, provided you are not suffering ritual humiliation at the hands of your fellow professionals.

One of the nicknames Peter Crouch has been given by Spanish commentators is 'Pantera Rosa', if 'The knowledge' on page 12 is to be believed. No reason is given, beyond the translation 'pink panther', but I'm assuming it's because Crouch is a gentleman, a scholar, and an acrobat.

Marina Hyde has the showbiz brief in G2, and tells us on page 3 the latest thoughts of Teddy Sheringham about his girlfriend Danielle Lloyd's behaviour in the Big Brother house. Teddy is 'remaining tight-lipped'. This is the news. I look forward to further updates of other subjects on which Mr Sheringham has maintained his silence. How much longer the Hammers visionary can withhold his analysis of the Hamas government is a matter of concern at the very highest level.

In Film and Music, a cartoon at the bottom of page 4 suggests that Sylvester Stallone recreate his iconic 'climbing the steps' scene from his training montage in the new film 'Rocky Balboa' (Balboa being Italian-American for '6'). The cartoon suggests that he might use a stairlift to conquer the climb. A film review on page 10 suggests he instead use a Zimmer frame. Perhaps the Guardian's cinema satirists could agree on their jokes slightly more. Or, preferably, much less.