Meet Mr ScarJo

My flatmate, noted less for his taste in film than for his intrepid nature, had been sent out into the wind and rain to find the video store and select the evening's entertainment. When he returned, soaking wet but elated, the rest of us were huddled patiently around the television, 16 inches of Domino's finest waiting on the sideboard. He chuckled as he pulled the tape from his jacket. Was it a war flick? A foreign film? Some arthouse erotica? No. It was Van Wilder: Party Liaison. This frat-boy comedy – full of racial stereotyping, dog masturbation and, worst of all, Tara Reid – was my first introduction to an actor named Ryan Reynolds, the young buck who has just become Mr Scarlett Johansson.


On paper, I ought to sigh with exasperation at the very mention of Reynolds' name. He's been in a string of awful movies. He has teeth like tombstones and an acting range to rival Richard "Did I leave the gas on?" Gere. And, worst of all, he now counts one of the world's most beautiful women as his wife. Yet, for some reason, I like him. And that's probably why I also liked Van Wilder: Party Liaison, in which he plays a self-appointed social secretary at an American university, who's been avoiding graduation for about seven years. OK, Tara Reid was terrible as ever, but the racial stereotyping was probably meant to be ironic – and the bit where they, er... "wag" the dog had us all choking on our pizza. With laughter.

Reynolds, now 31, makes the sort of films that do well on DVD, especially among students who send out their least film-savvy flatmate to the rental place: Smokin' Aces; Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle; the remake of The Amityville Horror. But whether he's slicing up vampires in Blade: Trinity or wearing a fatsuit for Just Friends, he exudes good will and a sense of himself – and the films he's acting in – as faintly ridiculous. They're movies that don't stretch the actor or the viewer, and you have to respect a man for knowing his own limits.

So what's next for Reynolds? A raft of comic-book adaptations, if rumours are to be believed. He'll be in the new X-Men movie, Origins: Wolverine, as Deadpool, who may receive his own spin-off. And there's talk of his playing the Flash – a DC Comics creation whose superpower is the ability to run, really fast. I'm a little concerned about watching The Nines, a Charlie Kaufman-esque endeavour in which Reynolds plays three different characters. If he tries to make serious movies, and ends up doing it badly, I may have to start disliking him. Why stop making bad films, Ryan, when you do it so well?

Put yer ya-yas away, dear

They were the original rock gods, the band whose songs were the soundtrack to decades of excess. But now? Frankly, the Rolling Stones are maturing into a bunch of dirty old men. So, a message to the crinkled crocodiles of rock: you're old enough to know better than chasing 20-something skirt (whether it's Mick, 65, with Molly Miller Mundy, 23; or Ronnie, 61, with waitress Katia Ivanova, 20). It's not a good look: Freedom Pass in one hand and feisty filly in the other. Bring on the Zimmer frames – that should slow them down. By Rebecca Armstrong


What does breast milk taste like?

News that animal-rights campaigners are urging Ben & Jerry's to introduce human breast-milk ice cream has shifted the debate over breast-feeding from a question of health to an issue of taste (go on, we've all wondered, haven't we?). Regular imbibers know that mother's milk is often imbued with the taste of last night's dinner – from chicken casserole to prawn vindaloo. It also depends what time of day it is: hind milk, from an empty breast, is creamier, akin to old-style gold top; milk from a full breast is more watery – ideal for a skinny latte. So now you needn't try it for yourself. By Jonathan Brown


Last orders for the great British bowler

Has the bowler hat doffed its last? It's certainly been a bad week for what was once the headgear of choice for the British Establishment. First came the death of Paul Newman, who was admittedly mourned for many more reasons than his choice in millinery. As Butch Cassidy, he was perhaps the only man outside the Square Mile to get away with the bowler – in fact, he even made it look cool.

The demise of Bradford & Bingley marks the end of its logo, that of two faceless bankers in bowlers – and in this climate of financial bungling, who wants to look like a City boy?

Girls in bowlers have a patchy record, too (think Chicago). Last year, we were nearly won over by Keira Knightley posing naked in a Chanel ad, her modesty preserved by only a bowler, but the nascent trend was spoiled when Sienna steam-rollered in with some dodgy pin-stripe version.

Bowlers – or Derby hats, as they're called Stateside – might still have a future thanks to hip-hop, however. Rapper Nate Dogg is sporting a "pimped-up" white version. All it would take is a Jay Z endorsement and the lowly hat would be saved from sartorial oblivion.

Until then, dandies, if you're finding the departure of this national symbol of the stockbroker's trade too much to bear, may I suggest you head home, bake yourself a few comforting Homepride cakes, and stick on a DVD of Mr Benn. Or, for something a little more cutting-edge, how about Goldfinger...Tom Hoskyns