MY granddad was a newspaperman all his life. Not a big time journalist or a classy editor, just a bloke who set out every morning with two bags of papers on his back and delivered to the whole parish. Then he repeated the service every evening for 50 years.

Everyone knew when Jim Priestley was coming with the papers because they would hear him singing old songs such as, "Poor little Joe, out in the snow". Granddad Jim told me when I was a boy: "Bloody newspaper columnists think they could make a better job of running the country than the government. I'd like to give them chance - then, when they make a mess of it, put 'em up against a wall and shoot the lot." I suppose I would have been shot by my granddad many times for the opinions I have set out in this column over the years.

But we are approaching the time of year when we are urged to make some attempt, however feeble, not to put the world to rights but to attend to our own shortcomings. I mean Lent, of course, which starts next week. So what are you going to give up for Lent? I could readily give up dance, after my experience at the Royal Ballet's performance of Onegin last week. The first thing you notice, when the house lights go down and you gaze at the magical stage set, is that the toffs talk all through it. I would say that the ballet is even snobbier than the central court at Wimbledon in the 1950s - before tennis, like everything else, became yobbified.

The uniqueness of ballet is that it is a silent art. Well, the dancers don't talk or sing, but the din from their feet on the boards is like that from a herd of maniacs typing with their gumboots. On comes the prima ballerina. Then on comes our hero, Onegin, in a white suit. He does a few petits jettes derrieres then goes behind the sofa. Next on comes the villain. You can tell he's the villain because he's in black. He does some petits jettes devant then goes behind the lady's dressing table. The prima ballerina is supposed to fancy the hero in white, but it's obvious that he's a wimp compared with our villain. Whitey and Blackie are both unlikely suitors for the frigid anorexic passions of the prima ballerina, so they arrange a duel. What with, you might ask? Crme de menthe at ten yards?

When the curtain goes up for the second act, Whitey is rotating his derriere anti-clockwise at the declining moon. It's pretty obvious that, despite the languorous look, he's not worth much more than two squirrels up a drainpipe. The impression is curiously melancholy and altogether insipid - like a Charlie Chaplin silent movie without the jokes.

No, giving up ballet for Lent would be too easy. Perhaps I'll give up drink instead. I'll certainly save money and lose weight. By Easter I'll be able to get into my best suit again. I'll spend less time propping up the bar and more time doing paperwork from the diocesan office. The trouble is that Lent is supposed to be a time of self-denial. But with all those benefits, giving up drink would be a bigger exercise in self-pampering than carrying on drinking. That's my excuse, anyhow.

Published: Tuesday, February 5, 2002