Back when I was seven and all my junior school friends were wearing guitar brooches with Paul's face on them (the Spice Girls didn't invent teeny pop culture, despite what they tell you) I had a brooch with George Harrison's face on instead – it wasn't so much that I didn't like Paul, more that I felt sorry for George because nobody else seemed to love him.

I did go right off Paul though in his post-Beatles reincarnation, singing drivel like Mull of Kintyre. I have a terrible feeling there was one called Mary had a Little Lamb too, but I could be hallucinating on account of having given up chocolate until Easter.

In terms of entertaining the nation, those were Paul's days in the wilderness. During those beardy, woolly, Linda-is-my-woman days he was as fun-filled as an episode of Panorama, as warm and lovable as Nicky Hambleton-Jones and as interesting as Natasha Kaplinski.

But now, having made the fatal mistake of marrying a woman seemingly on the basis that she looked like his late wife, legs aside of course, Paul is making up for the boring years big time by going through the Divorce From Heaven, as far as we the salivating public are concerned.

We have been anticipating the beginning of the court case that will settle this marital split as if we were about to witness Gunfight at the O.K Corral. Even the timing is perfect, cheering up the bleak midwinter days of early February, and in a lull between Britney having another breakdown in front of the paparazzi and Amy running around London showing off another nice bra.

Plus, it's perfect gossip fodder since this divorce is essentially bloodless. Who can get hurt? Paul with his £800m fortune is as rich as Croesus and will always be a national treasure even if Heather claims he used to whip off her leg and smack her round the chops with it... probably especially if we discover that.

And Heather is about to become as rich as Croesus's ex-wife, and therefore will definitely be having the last laugh on all those people who have declared her to be round the twist.

Allegedly it's all taking place in private but, heck, that's like pretending anything that happens in your office is private. Rumours are bustin' out all over anyway, and that's the way we like it.

It's the biggest, bestest soap opera ever, without the obvious drawback of the body count of the Diana inquest, and a real chance for the nation to get together in a moment of shared emotion

In fact not since Britain declared war on Germany has there been such a feeling of pulling together against a common enemy.

So let's hope Paul and Heather really go for the marital jugular, it's the least they can do for the rest of us lesser, poorer beings.

We may have Paul down as the good guy, but he has Mull of Kintrye to apologise for and Heather just has a lot of explaining to do – so they may as well do all that it in front of all of us.


The hots for Gene


WHY will women stick with the spin-off series Ashes to Ashes even though, like all second attempts, it can never be as good as the original Life on Mars? Because of Gene Hunt of course. There is, undeniably, something truly, awfully sexy about this unreconstructed, unapologetic alpha male.

When Gene comes over all blokeish – which is all the time – when he gives women that blatant up-and-down, sizing-up look, when he pulls on a fag and knocks back the booze, turns his back on the girl and treats her just a little bit mean it's all... very attractive.

Poor old Sam, with his considerate modern manners in Life on Mars just didn't stand a chance. He was, by comparison with Gene, a colourless, considerate, boring shadow. No wonder John Simm didn't want to do a third series.

A man like Gene would of course be hell to live with. The allure of being dragged back to his cave would soon pall when arguments about who was going to scrub its floor and who was going to care for the cave babies raised their ugly head.

But every now and again it's quite thrilling to watch a man in action who knows no uncertainty and who would definitely protect a girl from the lions. It's fantasy but it's fun.


A holy bungle


The Archbishop of Canterbury Dr Rowan Williams has found himself at the eye of a storm over his remarks about sharia law.

Dr Williams, the religious leader with the demonic eyebrows, made headlines when he said, to general astonishment, that the adoption of some aspects of this law system, which is based upon the teachings of The Koran, were unavoidable.

It must be a nasty sensation to be one day quietly sitting in your study drafting what you see as a thoughtful speech, and the next be defending your words to an incredulous country.

But really, shouldn't a man leading the Church of England be just a little more in touch with public feeling, at least enough to realise that his remarks were about as at odds with public opinion as it is possible to be, as well as the basis of all kinds of scaremongering?

Shouldn't he, basically, have just a bit more common sense?