IT is less than 100 days before the Olympics begin. Normally they happen a long haul flight away and are of little interest to anyone but the athletes’ mothers, because watching fit people with numbers pinned to their chests running around in circles is nearly as bad as watching golf.

AN Easter walk over rolling hills sounds lovely, all wide-open space and baby lambs and blue sky.

DEAR me, but my heart goes out to that poor Samantha Brick.

IT’S only March but already there’s a profusion of willies on the gay naturist beach at the bottom of our hill.