Philip Sidney

The furore over Jonathan Jones’s criticism of 'Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red' (or the Tower of London poppies, as they’re more familiarly known) has been both understandable and unsurprising, an early foray in what promises to be a four-year-long argument over how best to commemorate the dead of the First World War. Jones’s article caused outrage by condemning the memorial as ‘prettified and toothless’, symptomatic of ‘the inward-looking mood that lets Ukip thrive’.

Spare a thought for the authors in the running for the Samuel Johnson Prize for Non-Fiction: the announcement of its shortlist yesterday was somewhat overshadowed by the award of the Nobel Prize for Literature, with the nation’s literati stampeding as one to frantically Google 'Patrick Mondiano novelist'. The clash is rather a shame, as this year’s set of nominations are an interesting and unusual bunch, in what the Financial Times says is ‘a vintage year for non-fiction’: if the novel is indeed dead, there won’t be any shortage of worthwhile alternative reading-matter.

Calm down, dears: the strange coughing noise that was heard across Britain at around 8.30 yesterday morning was not the last gasp of an exhausted Mother Earth, nor was it the harbinger of a country-wide Ebola outbreak. No, it was simply the sound of nation’s middle-aged, middle-class men choking on their cornflakes while listening to Grayson Perry being rude about them on the Today programme. Perry was appearing to promote his guest edition of the New Statesman, proudly entitled the 'Great White Male Issue'.