Right, so, we're calling a moratorium on a few things: for starters, Twink, full stop. And weight-related nicknames for Irish crime lords – It's enough to give a thug a complex. We're also pretty much done with male journalists reinventing themselves as parenting columnists. No, seriously. How many times can you read the same old shite about the joys of being a new daddy? We've heard it all before. Some of us have even been there. We just didn't feel the need to share. Sure, everybody needs a gig, and when you're stuck at home with a little bundle of chaos the temptation is always there to milk it for a few quid, especially if nobody wants to publish your bad novel – but spare us the bloody clichés. For every Anne Enright, whose book Making Babies actually offered insightful and provocative insight into the shock of new parenthood, there are half a dozen mediocre hacks wittering (and, in some cases, Twittering) on and on and on about baba's first days, months and years. The kids don't have a say in the matter – the poor tykes can't even speak yet. So go and get a life. And write about that instead.