The Columnists

If being gay really was a choice, it probably would have been mine.

We monkey-people tend to believe whatever suits us, but sometimes whatever suits us is discarded like a senile parent in favour of whatever we happen to believe on that particular day.

Here is the news, you impotent fools.

Although it helps, humans don't need religion to be stupid.

Is Amor Vittone a carpet-munching scissor sister at one with the Isle of Lesbos? Is Joost van der Westhuizen a shirt-lifting arse-bandit from Planet Gaymo?

If your parents ever told you "it’s not what you look like, it’s what you have inside that matters", you’re now probably old enough to have realised that you were raised by pathological liars.

It’s not entirely true to say I met my girlfriend through social media, but it definitely helped.

Journalists don’t usually slate other journalists in publication, especially if they work for the same media group. Like most other professionals, we think it far more civilised to stab peers and colleagues in the back with underhanded comments on Twitter – our communal office kitchen in cyberspace.

People, those who still talk to me, are often surprised - and sometimes annoyed - when I tell them I don’t drink, which usually happens just after they’ve bought me three tequilas and a beer chaser.

Damn, we just can’t get enough news about aliens, can we?

Too many years ago, when websites still had grey backgrounds, I wrote a magazine feature about alien vegetation, which was not nearly as boring as it sounds.

Perhaps whatever god Mel Gibson believes in has a sense of humour. In what will probably be his last movie for a long, long time, he stars opposite Hollywood’s most unlikely housewife, Jodie Foster, as a husband and father trying to save his family through his relationship with a hand puppet.

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