Meat-lovers be warned: steak will be very rare Did yesterday's front page story about the perils of red meat consumption ("blamed for one in 10 early deaths") drive you to muesli at breakfast? I inquire because, back in January, there was a blazing Daily Telegraph headline that stated that a sausage a day, or two rashers of bacon, would raise your risk of pancreatic cancer by 19 per cent. I happened to be staying at the Chelsea Arts Club that morning and was woefully late down to breakfast, where stricken bon viveurs were prodding half-heartedly at alien cereal. When I brazenly ordered a cooked breakfast the chef told me the eggs were finished, but there was plenty of everything else. I felt like the kamikaze diners in La Grande Bouffe as I sat there with my platter of heaped bacon and three plump sausages. It's not that I don't give a hoot about my health, it's just that my risk assessment strategy tells me being born gives a person a 100 per cent chance of dying, so I proceed with that in mind. It is also true that every single person I have ever known who has lived to a great age happened to be a hearty red meat eater and prodigious boozer (Telegraph readers should note that heavy drinking raises your risk of tripping over your cat by 48 per cent, of insulting a colleague by 62 per cent, of saying "Yesh, offisher" by 75 per cent, and of waking up in bed with the wrong person by a whopping 98 per cent). These were active people who walked, gardened, shot, fished and swam. Their sheer gusto for life seemed to counterbalance all the steak, lamb and claret. When you take a more forensic look at the recent study on red meat, the scientists admit their findings could be skewed by the fact that some steak-pie lovers are portly, chain-smoking strangers to exercise. Either way, the health police look set to terrorise meat-lovers into submission in the way they have terrorised smokers. As one carnivore friend says, "Two years from now we'll have to wander down some dark alley near Smithfield Market and knock three times before slipping in." Mind you, I'm looking forward to Meat Club. Not so much bloody, as rare. I applaud the head of Brooke House sixth-form college for replicating an Oxford don's room on his premises. Even if the space doesn't achieve its stated aim (to accustom students to an interview environment), the benefits should be substantial. For, once you are familiar with the fusty air and furnishings of your average don's lair, you will realise there are few settings more tranquil and conducive to fine thoughts. Who needs minimalism, when you could have armchairs, bookshelves and a fetching little landscape from the college art collection? The scent of dust, leather and a spilt port is a tonic to the parched soul. If I ran an ad agency I'd scrap the "blue-sky thinking room" pronto and install a don's cubbyhole. Why stop there? Many modern homes are built with extraneous bathrooms, games rooms, or even the dread gym. How much more civilised to install a don's study, with log fire and desk from which to scowl at invaders. With a pipe, slippers and decanter your happiness should be intact and your IQ doubled. I was amazed to find myself the winner of Funny Women's charity stand-up comedy challenge last week, and my joy was complete when I was awarded a bottle of sparkling Blue Nun Gold. Some years back the writer Julie Burchill denigrated the staff of the Erotic Review (which I then edited) as the "sort of people who drink Blue Nun." I declared it was true, as we drank almost everything and enjoyed every last drop. Now Blue Nun has re-launched as a "sophisticated" female-orientated tipple. All I can say is that at 4am, when other bottles are drained, Nun brings joy to the thirsty, alongside heady memories of Abigail's Party. I can't wait for the resurrection of Babycham.