This fact was put to the test on the night of the 22^nd because around midnight on the M6 in Cheshire I was involved in a car accident.  Hitting the inside crash barrier, spinning one hundred and eighty degrees then slamming into the central crash barrier before coming to rest in the fast lane facing oncoming traffic wasn’t the best way to spend my time I’ll admit and the fact that I managed to get out of the car without one single cut, bruise or scratch was probably nothing short of miraculous.   That alone should have been cause for celebration I suppose.  Just as the willingness of other people to help a stranger was a cause for celebration.  At least three cars stopped, their occupants hurrying to see if I was ok, a lorry driver held up traffic until the police arrived and another let me sit in the cab of his vehicle to keep me out of the rain.  I mention their acts of selflessness because, to my shame, if I’d been the one who’d seen the accident I’d probably have just driven past.  I’m not proud of that but Good Samaritan is not a label I would collect easily.

The shock of crashing was bad enough but one of the Highway Maintenance guys who turned up later provided an even bigger jolt (you know, the ones who cruise up and down motorways and, from a distance look as if they’re driving police cars which is why everyone slows down until they realize its safe to speed up again).  As he and I surveyed the smashed portion of the central crash barrier that I’d hit he informed me that I’d be liable to pay for it.

I won’t repeat the exact words I uttered but I discovered that no, he wasn’t having a laugh.  It comes off my insurance I realize but that wasn’t the point.  Not at that precise moment of time it wasn’t.

“If someone had been dragged out of that wreck half dead would you have been standing there with an invoice?” I asked as politely as I could considering shock was kicking in, it was now almost one in the morning and I was bloody freezing standing in rain that was coming down so hard it would have made Noah a bit apprehensive.  How long do the Highways Agency wait until they send a bill to the families of people who’ve died in car accidents I wonder?  I know that our motorways have to be maintained and I realize that when they’re damaged they have to be repaired it’s just that I didn’t know until I was involved that the ones who cause the damage are the ones who have to supply the cash for renewal.  Only fair I suppose when you look at it in the cold light of day but not when you’re standing on a hard shoulder wrapped in a foil blanket watching the remains of your car being loaded onto a flat bed truck ready for imminent disposal.  It was like watching a sick animal being dragged off to the vet.  I wondered if I should administer some kind of last rites but decided against it.

The question of how you reach home after having lost your vehicle was also something I’d never thought about until that night but it was a subject I also had to contemplate after being dropped off in the car park of Knutsford services around two in the morning.  But that’s another story.

I just hope next years birthday is less eventful.

This fascination with being called a writer has extended into celebrity circles but it has intruded way beyond the ghost written columns in magazines and newspapers that are attributed to ‘celebrities.’  Now we have a new breed of impostor.  The celebrity novelist.  I’m speaking of people like Martine McCutcheon, Katie Price, Penny Smith and the host of others who are published and marketed by publishers as if they were real authors.  They’re not.

This has nothing to do with the quality of their work it’s the fact that, in a lot of cases they didn’t even write the book (stand up and take a bow Jordan) or more to the point, the fact that they have never served the proper ‘apprenticeship’ that real authors have.  Celebrity authors don’t spend years writing a novel and then face the pain of rejection.  They don’t suffer with their personal demons as they pour out their stories and characters.  They don’t have the pressure of wanting to succeed and of craving the chance to see their name in print.

Here’s how it works for real writers.  You write something and get it rejected about ten times so you write something else and get that rejected so you keep going, sending off manuscripts, articles, short stories and Christ knows what else until finally a publisher gives you a pittance for your first bit of work and you’re delighted.  You then try and build on it, offering more manuscripts, articles and short stories and getting more rejections.  But all the time you’re learning your craft, discovering where you went wrong, listening to the odd piece of advice that someone deigns to give you.  If you’re incredibly lucky you get your novel in print, if you’re really privileged you make a living out of writing.  Whatever happens, you spend most of your time on your knees praying that someone’s going to like what you’ve done.

Here’s how it works in ‘celebrity’ land.  A publisher approaches a ‘celebrity’ with a huge advance and promises to publish their ‘novel’.  There you go, as simple as that.  A ghost writer is then hired to flesh out the meagre ideas that the ‘celebrity’ has and the ‘celebrity’ then goes on to reap the financial benefits.  Simple isn’t it?  None of the heartache a proper author suffers.  None of the worry.  None of the fretting over whether you’ve done something right or wrong in your book.  Just sit back and count your money.  The plethora of ‘celebrity’ autobiographies was bad enough but this wave of ‘celebrity’ authors is a worrying trend.  The only comfort is that no matter how many manufactured tomes these people have published they will never ever be writers.  No matter what their agents, Hello magazine or their publishers tell them.  Sorry to break it to them.

I’m just grateful it’s not fashionable or trendy to be a surgeon.  Turning up for an op to find Timmy Mallet or Christopher Biggins holding the scalpel might be a bit worrying.  Mind you, I’m sure Jordan wouldn’t mind dressing up as a nurse as long as it got her some publicity.  And who’s that working the anaesthetic?  It’s none other than Peaches Geldof.  And, if they messed up I’m sure those cheeky chappies Ant and Dec could double as porters to remove the body before the trolley was sluiced down by a former Big Brother winner (probably not Nadia judging by recent stories).

So, please don’t be fooled.  When you walk into a bookshop walk past the over laden tables at the front covered with the latest ‘celebrity’ novel on display.

The real writers books are kept in the back of the shop.

No doubt the owner of the Alsatian had read all the books by experts telling him how to control the beast as he kept making hand signals in its general direction that made me wonder if he was actually training to be a semaphore operator or to guide planes in to an aircraft carrier.  He might have understood what he was doing but the dog was oblivious and continued rushing around, leaping about and either attacking or cowering away from an Airedale terrier that was the cause of the rumpus in the first place.  The owner of the terrier just stood still while this hairy refugee from The Hound of the Baskervilles ran around him and the owner became increasingly agitated, finally falling over in what turned out to be the highlight of the episode.

Finally, the Alsatian owner got hold of his dog and did what he should have done in the first place; namely, put the bloody thing on a lead.  Had it been on a lead to begin with then the incident that left me cackling like one of witches from Macbeth wouldn’t have happened in the first place.

Dogs should be kept on leads at all times in public places.  It should be a law.  It’s not right that people who own dogs are allowed to walk them wherever they like and not have to keep them under control.  Not everyone likes dogs, not everyone is happy with some yapping canine bounding up to them and to hear the owner trot out that time worn phrase “He won’t hurt you,” is absolutely no help at all.  I’ve always thought I’d love to counter that statement by swiftly producing a gun from inside my jacket and aiming it at the dog as I announce “Maybe not, but I’ll hurt him if you don’t get him away from me.”  A touch extreme?  Possibly but I find this disregard for non-animal lovers irritating and at times intolerable.  You can’t walk across some stretches of open ground without feeling as if you’re a hare in a greyhound race.  Dogs of all breeds come hurtling at you while the owners saunter unconcernedly along smiling at their furry charges with that same wistful look that new parents usually reserve for their young kid when its just spilled a plate of food in public for the first time.

If I was to sit in a public place smoking I’d probably be issued with a fine but if was to sit there while my dog was running amok, no one would bat an eyelid.  Put them on leads or keep them in your house.  It’s bad enough that they crap everywhere (and I know people are supposed to pick it up in plastic bags but that’s not the point, many don’t).  Obviously owning dogs like bull terriers (a friend of mine once had one she insisted was a big softy but I was never convinced) is unnecessary and seeing some tattooed oaf stalking about with one of these monsters on a chain is scary if you’re coming the other way.  If you’re going to own a dog then choose something like a pug, a Pomeranian or a Chihuahua then, if its off its lead and it runs at me I can deal with it myself.

I can stamp on the bloody thing.

That was what the advert on the back of the paper said.  It guaranteed that if you followed the steps of the course then literary riches and fame were just a few weeks away.

This of course is rubbish.  You don’t become a writer by following a twelve step plan and paying to be told how to write but it set me thinking.  Why not advertise a course where people can become celebrities?  After all, that seems to be the career of choice for many these days so let’s have a look at the possibilities shall we?

Craving your fifteen minutes of fame?  Anxious to attend a film premiere?  Desperate to get into nightclubs for nothing?  Want someone to ask for your autograph while you’re waiting for your Happy Meal? Well then, become a celebrity.  It’s cheap and it’s easy (a bit like many who achieve that status of celebrity).

First step.  Make a video of yourself having sex with someone.  It doesn’t matter who it is.  Then, either get it stolen or ‘leak’ it onto the Internet.  Taking pictures of yourself and ‘accidentally’ sending them to someone else’s phone (preferably a journalist or someone who can splash them all over the press and media) is a good start too.  Filming yourself for YouTube is a possible tactic but I’d recommend trying to make the auditions for Britain’s Got Talent or The X Factor.  That way you’re guaranteed maximum coverage.  If you can get into the auditions (and remember the most important thing here is that talent is absolutely unnecessary, not one single shred of it) then you’re halfway there.  Make a tape of yourself having sex with anything after that (animal, vegetable or mineral) and post it on the Internet and fame will follow very quickly.

Once you’re noticed you have to abide by another set of rules.  You must get married as quickly as possible (you’ll sell your story to the highest bidder obviously) and then if you can follow that with a divorce all the better (more money and it gives you a chance to bear more of your soul to more magazines).  If you insist on staying in the relationship then get pregnant.  That way you can sell stories of your impending pregnancy.

A Godsend at this time is a miscarriage.  This will guarantee public sympathy and, of course, you’ll then have the chance to make twice as much money from the next pregnancy when it comes along.  While you’re waiting you can trot out the ‘my miscarriage hell’ story which will be superseded by the ‘my new pregnancy’ line once things are in place.  The birth of the child will lead to deals with nappy firms, children’s clothing lines and, of course, any pictures of the new baby will be sold for maximum profit.

If you can get your partner to cheat, send flirty texts to someone else or even better get someone else pregnant then your stock will soar.  If you can get him to do this while you’re pregnant then the sky’s the limit.  If the marriage fails you’ve got the heartbreak stories to sell.  If you patch it up you can tell the waiting world about that and then, of course, there’s the second marriage to come and the subsequent pregnancies/miscarriages/deformed baby stories.

A death in the family can be very useful too.  Mother or Father are perfect but distant relatives will do in the meantime.  Basically, as long as there is something in your life that normally would be kept quiet that you can expose to the world then you’ve made it.

A mild brush with the law is also a good move.  Hitting a toilet attendant.  Getting stopped for speeding.  Being drunk and disorderly.  Any of these are good and you won’t be convicted no matter what so go ahead and enjoy yourself.  If you do have to spend any time at all in prison it will be for about an hour and obviously the first thing you’ll do is sell your story once you’re free.

A drink or drugs problem either of your own or someone close to you is also a good bet for the sympathy angle.  A sex addiction is great as it allows the public to excuse you all your infidelities because you couldn’t actually help yourself and were forced to indulge by your addiction.  Never will you have to explain your weakness.  You couldn’t stop yourself.  All of this will of course be explained and elaborated upon in your autobiography but don’t worry, you won’t have to write it.  Someone with genuine talent will do that and then remain in the background while you reap the financial rewards and bask in the warm glow of public acceptance.  You could also become a novelist.  This works the same way.  You just put your name on a book someone else has written and lo and behold, you’re a writer.

You’ll notice that not at any time in this schedule do you actually have to display any talent or skill so what are you waiting for?  And if you want confirmation of what I’ve just told you then just pick up any newspaper or watch TV for more than twenty minutes any given night.

The proof is there.

I know it’s not big and it’s not clever to use expletives every few words and obviously overuse of four letter words tends to diminish their impact after a while but anyone who says they’ve never uttered a curse word in their lives is telling porkies in my humble opinion.

I know it’s not pleasant to swear, I know it’s not right to do it in polite society and I respect that.  I also realize that the use of swear words is purely a sign of a diminished vocabulary (it can also be a sign that you’ve got Tourette’s Syndrome of course but that’s another story).  It’s nothing more than laziness.  You can’t think of an appropriate word so chuck in an expletive.

However, there are times when even the most expansive knowledge of the English language is not quite good enough.  There are certain moments in life when nothing will do the job like a swear word.

In work, on the road, in the house, in the pub or even in a day to day conversation there are occasions when no matter how vast your understanding of the English language, you will find that your feelings can only be adequately expressed by a word of four letters.  Usually snarled, hissed or yelled.

Your boss gets on your nerves for one of many reasons.  Is it enough to nod and smile politely at his back as he walks away?  No it isn’t.  The only word that will adequately express how you feel about this person is one of four letters.  Whether that word begins with a B, C, D or T is of course your personal choice.  It may even be more than four letters, fortunately the vocabulary of swear words is extensive and growing everyday.  Obviously I wouldn’t dream of using any of them here and now as I am relatively calm as I write this.  However, if I was in my car and someone had just cut me up then I might not be so forgiving.  I would not sit behind the wheel muttering; “That was a really silly and potentially dangerous thing to do to a fellow driver?”  No, of course I wouldn’t and neither would any of you reading this if you’re honest.

Swearing has its place and, when it’s done with a flourish it can be devastating.  Swear words can add the kind of strength and power to an exclamation that no amount of flowery and well-informed speech can.

I am a fanatical football fan and I can’t somehow imagine watching a match without myself or fellow supporters giving vent to their anger, frustration or delight unless their words were accompanied by one or two expletives.  Screaming at the top of your voice “Oh come on referee, I’m sure that was a foul and you failed to see it,” doesn’t quite express the same feelings with the same vehemence as bellowing something at the man in the middle that brings into question his eyesight, his eating habits, his ancestry and his sexuality.

Similarly with this particular piece, you might agree with what I’ve said.  On the other hand, you might just think I’m talking s**t.

It was a cat; don’t panic, it was nothing important like a small child or an old age pensioner.  Just a cat.  And it was accidental.  I didn’t see this flea bitten moggy in the road, floor the accelerator and chase it all over the tarmac trying to flatten it.  What happened was a genuine mistake and, as I heard the thud and looked in my rear view mirror I’m certain I saw the same feline spring to its feet and rush away safely.  So, before everyone starts reporting me to the R.S.P.C.A. just calm down.

However, that did set me thinking (which is unusual for me).  If you hit a cat you can just drive on as far as I’m aware.  They don’t require licences so they’re fair game if they get in your way.  Dogs on the other hand have to be reported if you hit one.

Now let’s be honest, if you’re driving down a country road and a dog dashes in front of your car, you can’t brake and you slam into said canine who the hell is actually going to stop, clamber out of the car and inspect poor battered Fido for damage or for a collar tag bearing his details and address.  Personally, any dog that steps in front of my car when I’m in a hurry can expect short shrift.  As for reporting it.  Are you serious?   If the dog is dead then what’s the point in hanging about and even if it’s only injured it’s not going to grass you up to the first person to discover it lying by the road is it?

However, my point is that hitting animals of any size while driving can be a little disconcerting.  I was trying to imagine how the person felt who hit the creature I saw lying in the road yesterday.  At first glance this animal appeared to be a deer of some kind but it was much bigger than usual.  Having just passed Woburn Safari Park I became increasingly convinced that the thing lying dead at the roadside was an escaped antelope!  As I drove on I began to wonder what else I’d find.  Would I turn a corner and find a lion spread across both lanes of the carriageway?  Maybe a couple of gibbons pulverized by a passing lorry or a hippo flat on its back with its legs in the air?  As it turned out there was no other road kill except the apparently obligatory hedgehog.

However, on returning along the same route the carcass of bambi had been removed.  Now either some incredibly hungry and resourceful crows had been busy (equipped with a crane and flatbed lorry) and eaten the dead animal or someone had removed it.

Is there a special branch of the R.S.P.C.A. that specializes in the removal of animal corpses from the roads?  Some shadowy wing of this fine organisation that exists solely to scrape up and remove members of the animal kingdom flattened by cars and lorries?  A kind of R.S.P.C.A. CSI unit?  If so then they’re doing a fine job.

I just hope they didn’t find that cat I hit.

Why don’t people do this with celebrities then?  Who in their right mind would rush and buy something just because they’d seen a so-called celebrity wearing it?  Why, just because Jordan or Cheryl Cole has a different haircut do people suddenly feel the need to discover where they had it trimmed?  What makes them want to emulate that look?

It’s the same with celebrity perfumes.  What do they think buying Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera or Fergies fragrance will give them (apart from a smell closely related to drain cleaner)?  The same kind of lifestyle and riches these overpaid half-wits enjoy.  Can anyone out there who reads Hello or Ok magazine or any other celebrity publications please tell me why they do?

I saw a woman on the train the other day with one of these rags.  As I sat there listening to my I-pod she was leafing through one of the gossip magazines with the same kind of dedication of a scholar who’s just discovered the first draft of the Sermon on the Mount.  And that set me thinking on a deeper, more spiritual level too (as I’m wont to do while listening to Iron Maiden).  If there is to be a Second Coming and Jesus is actually getting geared up to return to earth, what the hell will the celebrity media make of him?

First up no doubt he’ll be shoved into a make over show with Gok Wan or Trinny and Susannah (“that robe is so last season, Lord”).  The beard and long hair will have to go no doubt.  Can’t have the Saviour waltzing around looking like a hippy can we?  And we’ll have to get some plastic surgery on those scars on the hands and feet, so unsightly.  After that he’ll probably be wheeled onto a building programme with Sarah Beeney to show off his carpentry skills.  Then it’s straight on to Celebrity Master chef where he’ll be able to demonstrate just how to make the most of five loaves and three fishes (“although perhaps you might want to use John Dory and soda bread, Lord, the flavours are more subtle.”)  If he did Celebrity Come Dine with me there’d be no shortage of wine.  He’d just keep nipping out into the kitchen to transform water into bottles of Riesling while swapping stories about magic with Paul Daniels.  Paul Daniels once famously said that he could emulate any of the miracles that Jesus performed.  Really, Paul, well why not try forty days in the Wilderness for a start?

Getting him on Celebrity Family Fortunes might be a bit more difficult as filling the other four places on the panel could be a problem.  Mary, fair enough, God if he’s got a minute to spare and maybe Joseph at a push but asking Judas to make up the numbers could get awkward unless there was a question about five things you’d spend thirty pieces of silver on.

Then it would be a stint on Celebrity Big Brother with Davina no doubt introducing him as “the Geezer from Galilee”.  If he was in there with some of the current crop of ‘ultimate’ housemates then he’d be looking around for the nearest road to Golgotha before the first day was over.  However, considering one of his gifts was getting the dumb to speak perhaps he could reverse that particular talent and strike the whole house speechless.  Forever.  I’d vote for him straight away.  Sticking the housemates in a cave but never rolling back the stone, not even after three days, seems like a really good idea.

At the end of it all a publisher would offer him a huge amount of money for his autobiography (“We love the fishing sections but you’re going to have to change the end, it’s too violent and there’s no love interest, that’s not good for sales.”)  How he’d feel when he’s outsold by Jordan’s latest book is anyone’s guess.

And what would the media make of his relationship with Mary Magdalene?  They’d crucify him.