I do wish that Sam Leith of the Telegraph would start a blog. He’s got an eye for exactly the sorts of stories that would make the perfect blog posts:

A moral conundrum. I have these two friends, whom I
shall call Tim and Jane, who are in danger of falling out over the
Lotto. The problem is this. Jane, being a generous soul, once told Tim
that, if she wins the lottery, she will share a bit of the money with
him. Tim intends to hold her to this. Jane asked Tim if, should he win
the lottery, he would in turn give her a bit of the dosh. Nope, said
Tim, and is sticking fast to his guns.

I admire
Tim for his principles. How much easier it would be to palm her off
with a bland lie. His stand becomes all the more heroic when you
consider that Tim has never bought a ticket.

The
Da Vinci Code is an exemplary demonstration of the truth that, more
than any other genre, a thriller need not be well written to work.
Plotting and pace are all.

But seldom do books
manage to grate from before the first word of the opening sentence.
"Renowned curator Jacques Sauniere staggered through the vaulted
archway…" It’s the dog that didn’t bark. The first word – "the" – isn’t
there. My theory is that a shadowy order of monks has stolen Dan
Brown’s definite article, and is guarding it at an ancient Templar
priory.

Nobody could begrudge Joss Stone her
success at the Brit Awards. But I find it hard to understand how she
comes to be triumphing as Best British Urban Act. What’s an urban act,
when it’s in town? Pretty teenage Joss is from a tiny hamlet near
Tiverton in Devon. She may be a soul singer, but she’s about as urban
as the Wurzels.

At the moment we get these once a week. More, we want more!!