There’s a new book out – in paperback, mark you – called “My Best Friend’s Girl”. The poster advertising the book kicks off with the strapline “What would you do for the friend who broke your heart?”, spelt out in friendly lowercase letters, possibly from a set of fridge magnets. I don’t imagine that this is a phrase many of you often see spelt out in fridge magnet letters; personally, I’m more used to seeing words like “bum”, or “fridge” or “buy milk”. What would you do for the friend who broke your heart? I’d probably send them an expletive ridden email and delete their number from my mobile phone. But you can’t make a novel out of that, you’d barely get a thousand words out of it, depending on the number of expletives in the email. Anyway, the eye-catching part of this poster is an excerpt from a review which reads “I was laughing and crying from page one”.

I’m intrigued as to the kind of book which, within the space of the first 100 words, reduces you to a blubbering wreck, before making you smack the floor with helpless hilarity. I think it’s more likely that the person writing the review is suffering from some severe anxiety disorder. Sitting as I am in a van whizzing up the M40 (no, I didn’t know you could get to Manchester by going up the M40, either) I thought it might be a worthwhile challenge to try and write such an opening to such a novel. But the head of my neighbour, a gently slumbering drummer, keeps lolling into my field of vision and putting me off. I’m thinking of maybe a heart-rending deathbed scene, rounded off with a nob-gag, but god knows how I’m going to shoehorn it in. Anyway, I’m feeling quite queasy, and we’re pulling into Oxford’s Welcome Break Services, so maybe I’ll shut up. Do ensure that you tune in to Radio 2 at 10.30 this evening; Scritti Politti are in the studio with Mark Radcliffe, chatting, playing music and performing general maintenance.