Editor-At-Large: Farewell, lads. Your bare-arsed cheek is not funny any more

What do you think newsagents are going to have to learn in order to comply with the new guidelines which decree that magazines and newspapers that are full of crotchless and topless women have to be out of children's eye-lines? Apart from acquiring an impressive set of biceps, because they'll have to hoist kilos of filth up to the top shelf every single day, vendors are also going to have to acquire origami skills in order to ensure that "newspapers" like the Daily Sport have all the offending bits out of view! Can you imagine how many folds it would take to render the average front page acceptable? By my reckoning, certainly enough to make an origami swan.

This ruling finally nails the myth that men's magazines are fun. If they have to be wrapped in polythene and placed on the top shelf of the newsagent's shop, then they are porn, simple as that. For some time now we have seen the joyful exuberance of lads' culture, which initially seemed relatively harmless, go down a road in which women had to take off more clothes, and take part in more and more loathsome stunts to sell a brand. When James Brown ran Loaded a decade ago, it built on the Men Behaving Badly legend, and the magazine's content celebrated rather than humiliated the opposite sex.

Women such as Jordan, Abi Titmuss and Kelly Brook all saw their careers lift off as a result of regular exposure in men's magazines. But then things started to change subtly - Gail Porter, before she lost her hair and became a serious, committed actress, had her naked backside projected on to the side of the Houses of Parliament to promote a lads' mag. How could anyone think that was stylish, witty or inoffensive? The blokes running men's magazines just got more and more desperate to attract readers in a market that had over-expanded.

At the same time, we have seen boorish, laddish behaviour move out of the print media and on to television, with shows such as Channel 4's The Friday Night Project and8 Out of 10 Cats becoming bear pits into which any females only venture at their peril. When I took part in 8 Out of 10 Cats a few months ago, I had to have the recording stopped because a male comedian in my team thought it was really funny to talk about a well-known pop star having anal sex. It's like watching the dying squawks of a breed that is in danger of imminent extinction, exemplified by performers such as Johnny Vegas and Jimmy Carr, highly intelligent men obsessed with talking about women in a loathsome way.

The relatively innocent schoolboy humour of David Baddiel and Frank Skinner, honed to perfection on Fantasy Football League a decade ago, has been replaced by laddish twaddle like Petrolheads presented by Neil Morrissey, trading off his Men Behaving Badly credentials. In the Nineties, women who already had perfectly decent careers, such as Sara Cox, Zoe Ball and Denise Van Outen, were branded ladettes because they enjoyed a good time and were photographed drinking the odd beer. Interestingly, none of them ever sought out the label. But, because they are talented, they have survived the stigma of being tacked on to lad culture and all have flourished. Gail Porter has got her knickers back on, and has gone out of her way to be taken seriously. To be branded a lad in 2006 means you are a saddo, past your sell-by date.

Jam and Jerusalem? Now it's sex and shopping

Forget the Groucho, Soho House or any of those rather passé media clubs. The new place to be seen is most definitely at a WI meeting. This is the organisation that gave Tony Blair a slow handclap when he addressed its annual general meeting at Wembley just a few years ago.

Its image has moved with the times and their latest high-profile recruit is the Duchess of Cornwall, who has just become the 35th member of the branch in her local town, Tetbury, in Gloucestershire. I should not imagine for one moment that Camilla will be stripping down to her smalls for a calendar-girl style fundraising effort, nor do I think she'll be tipping up at meetings with a tasteful straw basket full of home-made chutney that she rustled up to deal with Prince Charles's organic courgette glut. She might, however, pick up a few fashion tips from fellow members, such as it's not a great look to wear tights with your espadrilles when perusing the pyramids in blazing heat. The WI doesn't exactly need Camilla to polish up its image - it's already booming, with new branches opening all the time.

The latest will be at the heart of shopping paradise, the Oxford Street branch of Selfridges, which will hold its inaugural meeting at the end of April. Top of the members' wish-list of celebrity speakers is Tracey Emin, apparently - well, she has made a fortune out of exhibiting quilts, though I don't imagine that many WI members would go so far as to embroider doilies of chairbacks with the names of every man they've ever shagged.

The WI doesn't stick to chats about jam, cooking, flower arranging and crafts - members mull over controversial subjects such as genetically modified food and organic farming. Somehow I don't think that the Selfridges WI ladies would be too interested in dry-stone walling, stick-carving or basket weaving - and would my slides of Alice Springs be just too dreary for their trendy agenda? WI members qualify for a £20 reduction in Saga home insurance - I'm sure that will come in handy at Highgrove.

Star spotting: My naked ironing gave sightseers an eyeful

I'm glad I don't live in the Cotswolds, because coach trips are being planned which will point out the homes of the stars who lived in this highly desirable area. Elizabeth Hurley might open the village fete, and Kate Moss pops down to her local for a pint, but they won't be happy when a charabanc full of pensioners draws up at the end of their driveway and a man with a microphone starts his (bound to be inaccurate) commentary. I once lived in a house which backed on to the Thames, and was in my living room, stark-naked, ironing a frock to wear to work, when a boat full of Japanese tourists moored alongside. The guide pointed out that 'Charles Dickens' lived here - not true. Kate and Co had better get thick lace curtains installed!

JK's ball: Scottish men's dress sense left me reeling

The other night I went to a charity event organised by JK Rowling in aid of multiple sclerosis. The evening was a glamorous fundraising masked ball held in the atmospheric surroundings of Stirling Castle, outside Edinburgh. The women all looked fabulous, in long dresses, with terrific hairdos and fancy masks. But the men! Dozens of chaps of all shapes and sizes in kilts with short black velvet jackets and sporrans, topped off with masks ranging from Dracula to feathered horrors to 'Phantom of the Opera' specials. Those who hadn't picked a kilt had opted for slightly short tartan trews which certainly didn't flatter their rear ends. Most of these chaps resembled photofits from an episode of 'Crimewatch UK'. Spooky.