IT was an offer in my email box that some might find too good to refuse:
"Denis, do you want to date Kylie Jenner's lookalikes?"
One drawback was that I didn't know who Kylie Jenner was. An online search showed me a very attractive young lady who is an American television personality, sister of Kim Kardashian, 19 years old and lives in Los Angeles.
Oo-er, mother.
The other drawbacks were that I'm married, old enough to be her grandfather and live a long way from LA.
Tom Livingstone, the chap making the invitation, is doing so on behalf of Badoo, that claims to be the world's biggest and safest dating network. The potential dates are, as he says, lookalikes of the stars, rather than the real thing, so they could live a lot closer to home.
I have a friend who is online dating at the moment but not with a great deal of success. He exchanged photographs and messages with a young lady in Leeds. As he was about to set off to meet her for the first time, she sent him a text cancelling: she said she had to stay home and do the dusting.
I bet a Kylie Jenner lookalike wouldn't make an excuse like that. Even if she lived in Leeds.
Categorising potential romantic partners as celebrity lookalikes uses photographic face recognition to provide the type you like.
"Date people who look just like your favourite celebrity," says Badoo.
If you have a passion for Benedict Cumberbach you can click his link and find 748 chaps with long faces. Emma Watson has 87 lookalikes. Well, sort of. Some are more lookalike than others.
All types are available. Ed Sheeran, that ordinary looking lad-next-door. not surprisingly has 1,405 ordinary lookalikes. And for those with a strange sense of attraction, dates are also available for Boris Johnson and Jeremy Corbyn. Donald Trump lookalikes include a Russian army officer. Best not tell the FBI's investigation into the President's Kremlin connections.
Ones that might have more appeal include Tom Hiddleston, Idris Elba, Robbie Williams and Kate Moss - although recognition has to be in the eye of the beholder because many are less than spitting images.
Still, it's a fun way to find a soulmate. You can download your photograph and see what star's category you fit to add to the mix.
Mind you, I've just used the website catfly.com to find the celebrity that's my doppelganger and it says I'm a dead ringer for Johnny Depp. Suits me, although I doubt Mr Depp would be impressed. You have been warned.

WALKING is an aid to health. Every other week another report comes out that proclaims its benefits. A brisk stroll every day can help prevent heart disease, stroke, dementia, cancer, type 2 diabetes and asthma, boosts vitamin D and gives you energy, experts say.
It's logical that exercise should be beneficial and I walk regularly on medical orders. After a check up a few years ago, the nurse gave me a look that condemned fried breakfasts seven days a week and suggested I get my walking boots on instead. Which was fine. It's on the National Health so it didn't cost anything. The walking I mean; I bought the boots myself.
One website said a daily walk can add between three to seven years to your life which, at my age, has to be an incentive. But there is a difference of opinion about how to walk and how far. Is a brisk walk better than a slow stroll?
My wife occasionally accompanies me and is more of a stroller and, if I'm not careful, I tend to leave her behind as we take a woodland path. I am wary of this as, some years ago, Maria would take our dog Lucky for walks in the woods. At the time, she was experimenting with similar but alternative names for the beast, which we inherited, and famously took these same paths shouting out for "Nookie!".
The animal eventually responded but so did a flasher and she and the dog both ran home at Olympic pace. The name remained Lucky for safety reasons.
I went online for advice and was surprised to see one health site recommending walks with budgies. Good grief. Did I need a bird in a gilded cage to reap the benefits of exercise? Then I realised I had misread it: it was walks with buggies, for young mums.
A beneficial walk should be between 20 to 30 minutes, some say. Others declare a target of 10,000 paces a day. But how far is 10,000 paces? And do I have to do more because I have short legs? According to thewalkingsite.com, 2,000 steps is a mile, so a healthy target is five miles. Oo-er, mum. That sounds like a long way. Except a daily total also means the paces you take around the house and garden and back and forth towards the bar. A few times up and down stairs as well, would help.
Counting them out loud wouldn't work, of course, so I've invested in a pedometer on a strap around my neck to keep track for me. Twelve quid from Amazon seems a small price to pay for immortality.
Oh, didn't I mention? Another expert, albeit from America, claims walking 10,000 paces a day can trigger an anti-ageing process and help repair old DNA.
How far do I have to walk to be 32 again?

FEW will be surprised that a third of people in the UK suffer from flatulence. I suspect most of them are men who do not so much suffer, as perform the art with pride.
This was all right in the golden days of 19th century entertainment when variety star Le Petomane played to packed houses in Paris, including crowned heads of Europe, as a professional flatulant.
Highlights of his act included cannon fire, thunder storms, playing O Sole Mio and blowing out a candle from several yards away. Edward, Prince of Wales, was said to be well impressed.
Johnny Depp once said of Le Petomane: "He was a true artist. I'd play him in a minute."
Unfortunately, the type of flatulence most practised today is informal and often offensively odorous. Some believe it acceptable in male only company. Others, who enjoy blowing their own trumpet, impose it anywhere.
I had a friend who excused it by quoting his mother's health advice: Where ere you be, let the wind blow free. Which is acceptable in private circumstances but not in a crowded pub.
The statistic, that a third suffer from the condition, comes from a survey by Pharmacy Outlet which also discloses that a third of the population suffer from smelly feet. Pity the few who suffer from both.
While there is always a humorous side to body odours, the firm points out they could signify something more serious. The conditions can indicate problems such as irritable bowel syndrome or fungal infections.
"Seemingly innocuous ailments can develop into more serious conditions," a spokesman said.
Such as letting drop a smelly one in mixed company.
“Have you just farted in front of my wife?”
“Sorry. I didn't know it was her turn.”
Cue for a smack in the face.

MANY years ago, a work experience student from a local school, asked me where I got the ideas from to write a newspaper column.
"Give me a subject," I said, "and I'll write about it."
Unimpressed by my hubris, she said: "Chairs."
Clever girl. That punctured my ego. Still, I turned out 400 words about how I had always struggled with chairs because of my short legs and the dangers of sitting on a bench seat in a bar and finding that my feet don't reach the floor.
I don't think she was impressed.
Usually, I have two or three ideas at the back of my mind around which which I can write a piece and don't need a suggestion. Until this column.
My clippings folder is empty, my brain sagging in the hot weather and my home office is beginning to crowd in on me. A novelist might describe this as writer's block. Except I don't believe in writer's block.
An online search found bizarre advice from bloggers on how to overcome mental inertia. You need to have some fun, said one. Right, who's coming to the pub? Another suggested taking a trip, by bus, train or plane.
These are obviously people who have never written to a deadline. As a journalist, I have written to a deadline all my life. A system I also used when writing novels: sit down at a set time and write so many words a day. Forget about tempting the muse and waiting for inspiration; the muse is probably already down the pub. Writing is hard work so get on with it.
But wait, here's another nugget of a suggestion on how to get your creative juices flowing when your mind is as empty as the Sahara: invent an imaginary friend. I kid you not.
Give him a name, talk to him, listen to his problems and hopes, be a good friend, write him a letter ... hang on. I'm supposed to have writer's block.
Other suggestions include getting angry, swearing, ranting, taking a shower, washing the dishes or dancing.
Laurence Stern, the 18th century writer, had a very specific way of overcoming a blockage: he would shave off his beard, change his shirt and put on his best coat: "In a word, dress myself from one end to the other of me, after my best fashion.”
Such a ritual would suggest he didn't suffer from a lack of inspiration very often, if he had to grow back the beard before he could do it again.
That great author Graham Greene tapped into his creativity by writing about his dreams and, when you think about it, building images in words is basically day dreaming. I use a similar technique by taking a plot to bed with me and working through it before I drop off. At the moment, I'm halfway through a 19th century romp that follows the rise to fame and fortune of Irish rogue John Devlin. The book will probably never be written but me and John are having a fine old time along the way.
Now. What was I saying about writer's block? Would another 400 words about chairs be acceptable?

A FRIEND of mine has started online dating.
"You're doing what?" I said, as we talked in the bar. "Whatever happened to meeting a girl when you were out socialising?"
"I'm out socialising now," he said. "Look around this place. Do you see anyone suitable?"
There were three fat blokes further down the bar and a crowd of lads in the sports room watching football. Point taken.
It was all so different in the past when people met potential partners at dances or work or through a friend of a friend. Back then, young people went around in a collective (polite name for a gang) and paired off. Boys and girls would switch partners until they discovered compatibility and then got engaged. Job done.
This arrangement was best summed up when I asked a friend how he and his wife had got together.
"I was the last one left of our group," he said. "So she took me."
Both my happily married daughters said my attitude to online romance was prehistoric and that any self-respecting single of any age these days turns to the relevant app on their mobile to look for a suitable date. Apparently, one in four relationships now starts online.
The first dating site, Match.com, was launched in 1995 and now operates in 25 countries. There are 1,400 dating sites catering to UK singles. Users can be matched by age, location, hobbies, politics and religion. Some sites use "personality defining algorithms", which means filling in a questionnaire. This in itself is fraught with danger and obfuscation (otherwise known as stretching the truth or lying).
Top lies told by men are about their job, height, weight, physique and money. They also claim to know celebrities, have assistants or work in the film industry. There must be plenty of those living in Huddersfield. Top fibs from women are about weight, age, physique, height and money, bust size, glamorous profession, knowing celebs, having assistants and working in entertainment. A lot of those, too.
Which basically invokes caveat emptor: let the buyer beware.
But if you want a website, there are many to choose from: Happn, Match, Once, Hinge, Huggle, Zoosk, Elite and thousands more. They cater for every interest, age and belief; gay, Christian, senior citizens and beard lovers (it's called Bristlr). Every niche area is covered. Ourtime (for like minded singles over 50), DateYorkshireSingles, Gluten Free Singles. Tindog for dog lovers, Salad Match for salad lovers, Sizl for bacon lovers, Trekdating for sci fi fans, Tastebuds that matches musical tastes, Spex for people who wear glasses or like people who wear glasses and Farmers Only.
Purely in the name of research, I filled in a survey at comparison website Queek'd . The dating sites recommended for me ranged from eHarmony (the brains behind the butterflies) through Uniform Dating (everyone needs a hero) to Millionaire Match (the original and largest millionaire dating site since 2001).
By heck, had someone recognised my worth at last, by offering me premium membership for celebs and VIPs? Except that it added: salaries will be verified. So if I was to use any app to find a date, it would be back to being honest and say that I was six foot tall, athletic build and friend of the stars. Well, I once met Norman Wisdom.

WHATEVER happened to those happy endless days of summer we all enjoyed in childhood?
School ended mid-July and didn't start again until September which was as far away as Australia.
The weeks stretched ahead without stress, the need to duck board rulers and homework, or having to get up at the crack of dawn to put on formal clothes, heft a bag, satchel or briefcase full of books, and trudge off to a day of toil and confusion.
"Wake up son. It's time for school."
"I don't want to go to school, mum. The kids hate me and the teachers hate me."
"You have to go to school, son."
"Why?"
"Because you're 52 and you're the headmaster."
I still remember one particular end of term day with great fondness, standing on Oxford Road station in Manchester waiting for the train to take me home to Timperley in the folds of the Cheshire countryside. My last day in the fourth form and the future consisted of weeks of pleasure, idleness and the hope of chatting up a girl called Violet. And, of course, the sun was shining.
Nostalgia isn't sepia toned when it comes to summers past: it's invariably sun-streaked. Sometimes it was; on other occasions the rain persisted down. But even that didn't dampen spirits during days of freedom and exploration.
Cynicism only sets in with age.
"Summer? It was that three days in May followed by a long weekend in June. Don't hope for anything better. August will be a wash out."
St Swithin's Day didn't help. It poured down first thing, became dull and sulky and the sun only peeked out at the tail end, as if checking that the rain had stopped. The legend says: St Swithin’s Day, if it does rain; Full forty days, it will remain. St Swithin’s Day, if it be fair; For forty days, t’will rain no more.
So if what we had on that day sets in until school goes back? We can expect a typical English summer, which usually requires anyone planning a day out to pack the car with windscreen de-icer, shorts, T shirts, sweaters, track suits, Wellington boots, weather proofs, sleeping bags, flasks of tea and coffee, survival blanket and a long pole with a flag on the end to stick up through a snowdrift so the emergency services can find your vehicle in the Yorkshire Dales.
If you intend to attempt a day out by train, bus or bicycle, you need a backpack the size of a baby elephant and a certificate to prove you have completed a Bear Grylls survival course.
Brits, however, are eternal optimists when it comes to summer. They don their shorts and sleeveless tops at the first hint of May warmth and are undeterred throughout the following months, no matter what the heavens throw at us.
These days, trips out are taken by car suitably equipped for all seasons and those long carefree days of summer remain as memories of bicycle rides to the woods with Violet.

THE Summer of Love in 1967 was helped by the Scott McKenzie song San Francisco which became its anthem. Hippies had made the Haight-Ashbury area of the city an enclave of free thinking youth who wanted to wear flowers in their hair and believed all you needed was love as an alternative to what was seen as the strictures and corruption of government.
Teenagers reacted across Britain in response and we had better music: Whiter Shade of Pale, Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, Penny Lane and Purple Haze. Young people from Llandudno to London wanted to be part of the Magical Mystery Tour.
The 50th anniversary of that period will be commemorated and remembered over the next months and has already had its detractors. It may not have achieved anything tangible but it was a concept of optimism that has never left those who embraced the ethos and music of the time. It's legacy has been felt by succeeding generations of teenagers.
I got married in Blackpool at the end of that summer. I was living alone in my wife Maria's family home before the wedding. It was a mansion and was about to be put up for sale and I became caretaker. Minstrels' gallery, servants quarters, study and a drawing room with a bar. And rent free.
Just the location for the occasional hippy party, with the french windows open onto the grounds at the back and a game of midnight rounders in the nude.
And yes, I wore flowers in my hair, not that the manager of the off-license down the road was too impressed when I appeared in jeans. Afghan coat, beads around my neck, Zapata moustache and a daisy chain in my hair to ask for a Watney's Party Seven. And wasn't that a terrible beer?

Weather is always better in retrospect but I seem to remember high temperatures and sunny days. And the memories, and the message of love and peace, have stayed with me ever since.