To chase a comet becomes a trivial pursuit

The news that scientists have created a modern " Rosetta Stone", which will be fired into space so as to liaise with a comet, has brought a wry smile to my saturnine lips. The new "stone" takes the form of the first three chapters of the Book of Genesis inscribed in 1,000 different languages, and its aim is to provide the scientists of alien civilisations with... well, what exactly? Let's just suppose these tendril- waving, multi- eyed boffins' language skills are up to speed, then they'll have no difficulty in cracking the code, but the world the Holy Book reveals to them will be curiously at odds with the one we actually inhabit.

Recent work in biblical archaeology suggests that far from being a collection of oral myths, passed down for thousands of years from the Abrahamic herdsmen of the Bronze Age, the first books of Genesis were in fact the work of spin doctors at the court of King David, concocting a national history to legitimise their ruler's dynasty. A posse of Simon Ben Schamas, if you will.

How its tales of fig leaf briefs are supposed to enlighten ET and his space-dwelling brethren is beyond me.

And beyond the rest of humanity as well, to judge by this year's Google Zeitgeist survey. This analysis of the world's most popular search engine reveals that the modern tree of knowledge is ripe with trivia. Knocking the coming Armageddon in the cradle of civilisation firmly off the top spot, with many millions of hits, was the World Cup; while the biggest rise in net queries concerned such weighty matters as Spiderman, Shakira and the Winter Olympics. Eminem and Jennifer Lopez are our era's Adam and Eve, respectively the most asked-about man and woman in the entire world.

Lest you condemn the Google survey as merely a grotesque compendium of mass nerdishness, it's worth noting that it analyses some 55 billion queries, and that the engine accounts for 80 per cent of the total daily internet searches.

And anyway, what it tells us conforms to what we already know about human intelligence: namely that far from being preoccupied by theological and metaphysical speculation, the vast bulk of our memory banks is used up storing pop twaddle and sport stats. The Christmas season in particular - with its endless newspaper quizzes, and family rows over Trivial Pursuit - is little more than a Festival of the Factoid.

To give other life forms even the remotest chance of comprehending us, we'd be better off sending them digitised images of David and Victoria Beckham, complete with computerised resumès of their entire careers.

On second thoughts, why not cut to the chase and send them the real thing?

Fancy a drink at Winston's place?

So, the Cabinet War Rooms in Whitehall are due for a £7 million refurb? Not before time either, they're a popular tourist attraction and a salient reminder of Our Finest Hour. Three cheers for Winnie, I say, because let's face it, he remains not only the Great War Leader, but also - by popular vote - the Greatest Briton ever.

Due to be added to the existing exhibition are a further suite of rooms used by the Great One, that include the Prime Minister and Lady Churchill's bedroom, their private dining room and kitchen, as well as a hall used by the Chiefs of Staff. The War Rooms already attract 290,000 visitors a year, but I can think of a simple innovation that will boost their numbers.

Why not install a bar? Let's face it, one of the real reasons that Churchill - a depressive misanthrope with a mean temper - remains quite so well loved is that he conducted our defence while half-cut.

My ex-father-in-law once told me about a lunch he attended at 10 Downing Street during the height of the Battle of Britain.

He was in awe of the occasion as he listened to Churchill, in his trademark siren suit, discuss affairs of state with a glittering array of Cabinet ministers and military leaders. Unfortunately, when it came for him to be introduced to his hero, he was unable to do little more than burble. "I was only 16," he explained to me, "and lunch had been preceded by cocktails, the fish course came with a fine hock, and then they moved on to claret. When I was introduced to Churchill, he was drinking a substantial brandy, while I was completely pissed."

Fratricidal Flipper

I can understand people getting in a pother about the Indian navy's training of dolphins to plant mines on enemy ships. Not only does it seem cruel to the dolphins, but apparently, despite their much vaunted intelligence, it's impossible to get them to attach the mines to the right vessels. More often than not, the feisty Flippers end up targeting their own side's tonnage. Hardly - as they say in the subcontinent - cricket.

Nonetheless, I can see a useful role for the bellicose spiraclebreathers in the forthcoming Middle Eastern conflict. After all, it's a well-attested fact that more Allied troops were killed by "friendly fire" during Desert Storm than by the Iraqis. Surely the fratricidal Indian dolphins should be commissioned into the American marines without more ado, then all subsequent "collateral damage" can be blamed squarely on them?

Joe kept 'right on' to the end of the road

Farewell then, Joe Strummer. I met you only once - at a party last year - but you seemed vibrant, engaged, completely without side, all-in-all a thoroughly good bloke.

Of course, being like you, a middle-class Mockney, I was more of a Sex Pistols than a Clash man. A punk band fronted by such a right-on Left-winger could only be the musical child of an ex-public schoolboy. Whereas the Pistols, well, with their much-exploited sneering and spitting, they were so very echt m'dear - they had to be the genuine article.

But of course, when I came to be a man, I put away childish things.

Combat Rock was the perfect accompaniment for a 6,000-mile drive I took around Australia in my middle twenties, and even today London Calling brings a tear to my eye; while all I feel like doing when I hear Anarchy in the UK is burning down the local cop shop.

Both punk front men, of course, reverted to their curiously split types, with John Lydon marrying a media heiress, moving to California, and returning to play shameless reunion gigs.

Strummer, on the other hand, became something of a squire, marrying into the gentry and hacking about Somerset on horseback.

Nevertheless, he cantered out of retirement last month to play a benefit for the striking firemen, confirming the old adage that while it may be better to socialise with the Right, it's the Left that have all the best tunes.