So here we are, all bright and shiny in our new clothes, courtesy of the doyen of red-socked twats the world over, Michael Crozier. I suppose it could have been worse. The cardigan above is rather more corpulent than before, but we’ve kept our initial caps, been spared the dreaded Nancyboy Grotesque and finally have a body font of appropriate substance.

At least you can read the thing now. It always did strike me as strange that a column whose natural constituency is embittered old hacks living in dimly-lit bedsits surrounded by cats and empty half-bottles of Tesco Value Scotch, should be rendered almost invisible by a Helvetica so thin that it was positively skeletal etched on to a grey tint panel.

What on Earth is going on at The Observer? I bought a copy at the weekend and it looked like it had been assembled by a blind man at the Pick ‘n’ Mix counter. As well as all the usual suspects, including two colour magazines, there was the baffling New York Times supplement (Why bother? Since when has American journalism been anything other than pretentious toss?), a riveting eight-page supplement from the Town & Country Planning Association (presumably handsomely paid for) and a 48-page Red Bull Bulletin, which was a tabloidy thing about motor racing.