Hardeep Singh Kohli: Pressure of judging keeps stacking up

I knew that being a Man Booker judge was not going to be easy, and I was right.

Every few days the letterbox winks open with another literary offering for my deliberation. Occasionally, when the deliveries are too numerous, an anonymous motorcycle man in full body leathers buzzes the door and asks me to sign for more armfuls of books.

Obediently I stack the books. Occasionally I remove them from the envelopes and packaging and look at them. I read the titles and the names of the authors. I then put the books back in a pile and watch them from the sofa on the other side of the room.

The books are piled systematically. The first week when there were just a few, I piled them by size, largest first and so on. The small tower of knowledge and insight tapered pleasingly as it reached modestly for the ceiling. Then when their numbers swelled, I attempted to pile the books alphabetically by surname. This caused problems since an author in the 'Ms' had an oversized tome that unbalanced the author with the surname starting 'L' who had opted for a more modest, if a little more densely packed, book. I reverted then to a system that cross-references the publisher with the author and the combined numerical value of the ISBN. This, although time consuming and requiring a grid system for reference, is now my preferred method of stacking. (I have considered a colour-coded system and a system where authors who I think would get on with each other would be placed side by side.)

I think you'll agree I have been very diligent in every aspect of my judging. Every aspect except the single crucial one of actually reading any of the 120 or so books I am contractually obliged to read. If a watched pot never boils then surely a glared-at book remains unread. I'll let you ponder that while I rearrange my stacks. Again.

I won't let defeat get under my skin

So I lost. I didn't even come second. Charlie Kennedy (right) won and Aamer Anwar (far right) was second. I speak, of course, about last week's election for Rector of Glasgow University.

Anwar had my favourite novelist's backing, Ian Rankin, so secretly I had already felt the cold hand of defeat on my back. The university should do well under the gubernatorial steer of Mr Kennedy, a fine and upstanding Scotsman with experience of political life at nearly the highest level.

I expect Hillary Clinton will soon feel the same way as I do. She too will be raking over the warm coals of her ignominy, seeking clues for her defeat. I too have rake in hand. I think I lost the war over my desire to have the students of the university better moisturised. I think that opened a can of worms about the relative aesthetic charms of said students and my campaign was skewed by my opponents, accusing me of being a skin fascist.

I was never critical of the dermatological disposition of the students. Never once did I, as my opponent accused me, say the students had bad skin. Never. I merely suggested that overall skin levels could be improved; we could use my rectorship and my link to brands such as Clarins to elevate skincare for students much higher up the agenda.

My shortfall was in style not in substance. I think I also failed so miserably because I am slightly lardy.

Look at my opponents. Mr Kennedy is relatively svelte these days, Anwar appears

to be on some sort of political hunger strike and the Harvie fella is a Green so he's probably a vegan anyway. I lost, fair and square.

And like every losing candidate in every election I have one task left to carry out. Having congratulated the victorious Mr Kennedy and offered him my support as a graduate of the University of Glasgow, I will now complain about the unfairness of the electoral system.

Prince – so hip he needs a replacement

Some weeks ago I was bleating on about the fact that I was entering the 40th year of my life. The inevitability, the mutability of time passing and my inexorable journey into the twilight world of baffies and a Werther's Original.

It would be safe to say that sorrow for my wretched self was the overwhelming sentiment of that Sunday. That was until I heard about the plight of the artist formerly not known as Prince but now latterly known as Prince. The 49-year-old epoch-smashing, trend-busting, style-defining god of pop/funk/rock/sex/love is having a hip replacement. What an anti-climax to a life awash with luscious ladies, all-night orgies and general rock star debauchery.

Prince was an icon for my generation, a musical genius who straddled every genre and created beautiful and challenging music. He was a movie star, a polymath producer and performer who created musical milestone after musical milestone. His mistakes were as spectacular as his successes but he was at least brave enough to try; he feared not failure.

Similarly he was risk-taking in the fashion stakes. He was at the very vanguard of style. I was so taken with the black loon trousers he wore in 'The Kiss' video that I purchased a pair from a hip boutique in London and wore them around campus at university. How they laughed at me. Unfortunately I managed not to factor in the notion that Prince was a svelte, sinuous sex symbol; I was a fat Sikh boy from Bishopbriggs.

And now the purple one is having a hip replaced. Doesn't seem fair somehow.

I can't help thinking that it was all those nights making raunchy, pelvis-gyrating, flare-wearing pop videos that did for the hobbit of love. Throwing your body around stage, into the pits and then springing up to grapple with Sheila E or Cat or Uddingston's finest Sheena Easton (above left) must have had an impact on the pair wee fella's joints. What next for the pixie of pop? Varifocals? A comfortable cardigan? Presenting Farming Today?

The fact that Prince is only a few years older than me augurs badly for my future. Rest assured, I shall desist from all forms of sensual, hip-gyrating dancing. For the sake of my hips, you understand.