I can't stop b*****swearing

The authors of the new edition of Collins English Dictionary suggest that only 16 words in the English language remain genuinely taboo. It's not that many, but it's about 13 more than I can bring to mind. When so little is left to shock us, could it be that we are finally moving towards the much mooted "collapse of the last taboo"?

Well, not really. For instance, it's interesting that, in an adult newspaper, I'm not actually allowed to tell you what the three words are that I identify as taboo. I can merely describe them. One is a sexual verb, one is a sexual noun and one is a term of racial abuse.

The words are almost certainly in your head. But I'm still not allowed to compose the letters into the shape of the words on the page. Taboo may be on its way out, but it's far from dead. And to tell you the truth, I'm glad,

There was a time when I identified the maintenance of taboos with a Middle England, Right-wing agenda that I loathed. Their taboos, it seemed to me, were simply forms of social control. Middle England, I decided, feared "bad" language because it was too blunt, too powerful, too honest. It was the same repressed mentality that tried to make sex and drugs go away by ritualistic regeneration of prohibitions and moral panics.

Politically, my position was quite clear. From the standpoint of the Left, all forms of taboo needed to be swept away, so we could live romantic, instinctive lives unfettered by the dead mythologies of the bourgeoisie. We on the Left were the free thinkers, the rationalists, the libertarians. And we swore like troopers almost as a matter of principle.

It took me quite a long time to realise what a load of baloney this was. Nowadays, thanks to the habits of my free-thinking youth, I'm embarrassed by the fact that I just can't stop swearing.

I swear in front of my kids (the swear box takes up a good chunk of my income), I swear at dinner parties, I swear in polite company. I just can't f****** stop. And it's driving me nuts.

I know it would be shocking to my younger self, but nowadays I'm desperate to have a clean mouth. I find it very hard to explain why, but it has something to do with a sense of civilisation, of the purity of language, of simple vulgarity. Hearing anyone swear habitually (including myself) depresses me. And hearing a child swear actually makes me wince.

I have very gradually come to believe that we need our taboos. They may be a middle-class conceit, they may be dishonest and a plastering over of authenticity and spontaneity. But it seems now to me that when language is ugly, thought will probably follow and become debased.

So there we have it: I have gone from being a foul-mouthed yob to being a linguistic snob.

Call me a hypocrite, say I'm a social climber - in fact say what you like.

Just say it politely. Please.

Expecting nothing more than a handful of local historians and a few oldies shopping for plots, I was met with the sight of a gaggle of Goths, resplendent in black, with white faces. There were tours of the cemetery, a display of 20 hearses, women with coffin-shaped handbags, penny-farthing bicycles, a Black Sabbath tribute band and a stall selling honey and jam.

It was like a cross between a funeral, a gig by The Cure and a village fête. I wouldn't say it was fun exactly - not unless your idea of fun is burying toads at midnight - but it made a change from Scout recruiting tents and bouncy castles.

Geri's kiss of death

The news that Geri Halliwell will appear in Sex and the City is oddly depressing. This is nothing to do with the absurd conceit singers have that they can automatically act. It's more that Sex and the City - one of my favourite American imports - has succumbed to the Ally McBeal syndrome. Put simply, this is an obsession with guest stars. As soon as Dame Edna Everage appeared in Ally you knew the game was up for a once-great series. And the recent Will and Grace featuring Cher boded ill for what was once an amusing way of passing half an hour. I fear same now applies to SATC.

I wish Geri well, but if she's going to be the kiss of death, can't she think of some other series to star in? Heartbeat would be a good start ...

I ate a pound of lard and lost 10lb

So, potato farmers are up in arms about the vilification of the potato because of the Atkins diet craze. They're relaunching the spud with a "fab, not fat" logo to reassure people that taters are good for you.

I have every sympathy for the farmers, but I've got bad news. It ain't going to work. Carbohydrates are the new saturated fats. Since I discovered Atkins, I avoid them like the plague.

In fact, I can't be the only Atkins fan who has rediscovered the joys of beef dripping. I bought a pound of this almost forgotten white, waxy block of purest lard when I was on my last Atkins kick.

It takes the cooked breakfast (another Atkins staple) up to another level of pure, ketosis-inducing delight. After consuming the entire block over a couple of weeks, I found, to my amazement that I had lost about 10lb.

Bad news for the potato farmers. And possibly fatal news for my arteries. But it has to be the best boost the British lard industry has had for decades.

You see the trouble with ...the Lurve Walrus

The frenzied mourning among women of a certain age for Barry White leaves me more than a little perplexed.

The hysteria seems to arise from the fact that Big Bazza was apparently the greatest sex symbol de nos jours. This is what puzzles me.

Sure, he could sing in a very low key and he penned a fairly decent tune or three. I suppose he wasn't bad-looking in a Hair Bear Bunch, homely kind of way - though personally, I never thought the beard really quite worked.

Yet an awful lot of women thought he was the cat's pyjamas. To them I can only say, as Barry himself might have, "Let's get real".

Because, for any real-life woman who found herself sharing the Lurve Walrus's emperor-size bed, it's hard to imagine hearing a more terrifying phrase than "Okay baby, now it's my turn on top".