The 16th of October, 1980. That was the first day that word was thrust in my face. I remember it clearly because it was the day after Gentleman Jim Callaghan, my then idol (and also the name of my first pet gerbil), was ousted as leader of the Labour Party. I was ten years old – or should I say ten years young, since I certainly wasn’t old, considering I was only ten – and, unable to suppress my anguish any longer, I sobbed uncontrollably throughout a 55-minute afterschool recorder lesson at Primrose Hill Primary School. Griselda Thirion was the culprit. “You look incredibly ugly, Edward,” she spat, as tears dripped down onto the sheet music for “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. David, standing by my side, didn’t prevent himself from chuckling at me, as he so often did back then, leading others to follow. Who’s laughing now, Dave?

We’ve just been passed the front cover image for Lana Del Rey’s debut album. Check it out!!!

Topping off Yep’s comprehensive review of the year, here is 2011 summed up in lookalikes. You’re welcome.

The crushing reality of Christmas has hit once again. Check out some of the, erm, special and heartfelt gifts we were given by loved ones this year while we go to the bathroom to gently sob.

One word to describe Wiley’s past year would be ‘mental’. But the same could be said about any of the years the grime granddad has been in the public eye since he is, without question, insane. His current weapon of choice for unleashing his schizophrenic stream of consciousness is his Twitter account, which he uses to bombard anyone who’ll listen with his own incomprehensible brand of half-baked witticisms and increasingly surreal threats of violence, often sounding like an old drunk bloke on the back of the bus who tries to grab at your groin. Regardless of his foibles, he’s definitely our favourite man ever, and to celebrate, here are his best tweets of the year.

A week last Tuesday I was at the checkout in Whole Foods – the Kensington branch – when something very much awry occurred. I’d like to point out at this juncture that I was just going about my very normal, everyday life – I was even wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Everything seemed fine until I handed the middle-aged lady at the till my Coutts Gold Card and I noticed her suddenly glancing at a message that had flashed up on the computer screen in front of her. Then she asked me the most bizarre question. “Would you like cashback, Mr Grant?” she said, trying desperately to effect an air of normality.

Boy Better Know Mobile? I’m envisaging lots of miffed middle-class mums in the suburbs if this takes off. ‘Jeremy, why has £10,000 been taken from mummy’s account?’

There’s nothing that gives me more pleasure when I come home on a cold winter evening than the sight of a fat, succulent bird splayed out on my kitchen table. (That’s not to say I’m a fan of coq au vin – that’s always been more Michel Roux Jr’s kind of thing, the fruity devil.) The mere thought of a piping hot lump of white (or brown) meat for me to devour is enough to send me into raptures. Sometimes it’s hard to stop myself taking a running jump onto the beast when I burst through the kitchen door.

We fought them in the fields of Flanders, we fought them on the beaches of Dunkirk, we fought them in the skies over Dover, we fought them in the sands of Egypt, we fought them in the jungles of Malaya – and this week, we fought our most iniquitous foe yet, in the FIFA headquarters in Zurich. And we won. Score!

It can be easy to forget that very, very posh people still exist in London. Unless you spend a significant amount of time in the more well-to-do parts of west London you’re unlikely to see these frothing thoroughbreds swanning about. When you spot one it’s hard not to find yourself transfixed by every facet of their being. They appear frighteningly naive and cut off from the rest of the world; they’re so well-spoken and nasal it’s hard to fully understand what they’re saying; and they’re trapped in their own very traditional little fashion bubble, which hasn’t progressed one jot in at least the last three decades. Made in Chelsea, for me, is like a wildlife documentary show. Witnessing how these people interact I know how David Attenborough feels when he discovers the hunting habits of a rare form of mountain tiger. Here is a breakdown of this intriguing species.