the Literary Editors High Council last week

were meeting, as usual, in our Ivory Tower of Envy (you see, the bloggers and aggrieved writers are right), planning the triumph of elitism and phoning up children to tell them Santa Claus is a fiction. We'd decided who was going to win the Booker, and it came to Any Other Business.

"So, Darth Caledonia," said one of my colleagues (we all call each other Darth, by the way)

"See for yourself, Darth Tory."

The Daily Sport was running book reviews.

Admittedly, they ran 274 fewer literary reviews than the number of pictures of breasts they printed, but it's books coverage nonetheless.

But why? Darth Sarcasm raised the Playboy Excuse ("I buy it for the articles") but that seemed unlikely - after all, no one seemed to know they had book reviews

Darth Highbrow observed there was no necessary reason why a love of books and a love of boobs were mutually exclusive. Perhaps, sequestered in our Ivory Tower, we had failed to notice an opportunity