A couple of amusing articles from The Guardian:

Patricia Cornwell is still on about painter Walter Sickert but The Grand Old Ripper suggests an alternative candidate for Jack the Ripper.

Surely, I hear sceptics muttering, if Gladstone was indeed Jack the Ripper, the last thing he would have done was to carry an accoutrement which instantly suggested his name. But no good Ripperologist would be fooled by this argument. That, they would say, is exactly how Gladstone wanted people to think. It would not have been the only occasion when the great man's political magic was demonstrated by his mastery of bluff.

And speaking of knifings, in Everyone does not have a novel inside them an author goes after those who blame their unpublished state on the industry.

Every industry needs quality control. One thing that differentiates the publishing world from, say, the medical world, is that stitching an abdominal suture requires specific qualifications, whereas writing a novel calls for skills which, though far less quantifiable, are absolutely necessary for success. Just because hospitals lack the resources to field hundreds of requests a week from people wanting to perform open-heart surgery, it does not follow that the medical world is some kind of shadowy clique.

I should have some interesting dreams going off to sleep contemplating these.