FOLLOWING in the style of certain national tabloids, this week's column is on pages 8, 8, 8, 8 and, er, 8. Pedants may argue that all of those digits are the same, but I didn't get where I am today by listening to pedants.

The numbers collected at the bottom of a newspaper's front page are one of those handy little cultural indicators that say so much about our obsessions of the moment, usually various twigs and branches of the celebrity tree.

So it is, say, that the Daily Express's "world exclusive" and "story of the decade" on John Leslie this week stands comparison with the Daily Mirror's page-munching exclusives last week on Tony Martin.

By this page number abacus, a shamed TV presenter eventually left without a stain on his character can be measured against a farmer imprisoned after killing a burglar, but now free to bore the pants off a Daily Mirror reporter.

It's hard to say which reporter got the dullest deal - the poor Express sap having to listen to John Leslie or the Mirror scribe with the unenviable task of writing down Tony Martin's ramblings.

The ins and outs of reporting on national tabloids needn't detain us. But such stories do provide a handy yardstick (metre-stick?) for measuring what is "interesting" at any given moment, at least until something else comes along.

What does seem odd about these stories is the notion that any sane person might want to read all those words.

It is possible to feel that TV presenter John Leslie had a rough deal during all those tumultuous months when various sexual allegations hung over him. Equally, Tony Martin has become a folk hero to many, who may wish to read at length his justification for fatally shooting a burglar in the back. But do even those who sympathise with John Leslie or believe Tony Martin was right want to read so much?

The mass of such coverage is explained by newspapers having paid a packet for a story and wanting their money's worth. But oddly, the more words expended on such stories, the less I want to read them. So pausing only to wonder at this weird form of celebrity inflation, in which the words rise and interest disappears with a popping yawn, here is a final thought.

If and when the end of the world arrives, I look forward to the next day's papers: Armageddon: pages 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 all the way to infinity.

SALES of bread machines are up 13-fold, with men buying many of the machines, apparently. This gadget appeals to men because, well, it's a gadget. Anything which gets people interested in baking their own bread is fine by me, but I'm not about to buy a bread machine. Because I am one.

Making bread is a personal obsession, as I may have mentioned before (on pages, 2, 3, 4, 5...). My wife says I could bore for Britain on the subject, but what a very interesting subject it is.

According to a leading article in one newspaper this week, the next fad could be "slow-baking, hand-kneading the old-fashioned way".

Well, I'm already in on that fad. And as for the same article's reference to a traditional sourdough recipe that takes two days, I can only assume this was a misprint. Two days!

I could show you one that takes a week at least and sends guests scurrying from the house wondering at the strange smell.

Updated: 11:24 Thursday, August 07, 2003