AN old adage says honesty is always the best policy.

Unless, it seems, you are a Premiership footballer or a jug-eared TV presenter.

No, it appears in these cases frantically scrambling to the court with a team of expensive solicitors is a more desirable option than fidelity.

Much has been made of whether the stories under lock and key are in the public interest or merely of interest to the public.

However, I have an issue from a singleton’s point of view.

What if there is only so much sex to go around?

How dare Ryan Giggs start using up my share.

The subject also raises questions about telling the truth, which can be relevant even to those of us lacking the financial clout of the above.

I am by no means an unwavering advocate of honesty.

For example I would never let the truth stand in the way of my winning an argument.

Also the pious people who pride themselves on being fearless truth tellers are often quite annoying.

In most cases the phrase “I just tell it like it is” and “well, I would want someone to tell me” could be condensed into the more accurate “I find other people’s pain delicious.”

You can see regularly these filthy honesty merchants patting themselves on the back, normally after their acidic comments have sent a small child running off in tears.

That said I try to restrict my untruths to little white lies such as “it can’t be mine, I’ve been sterile since birth.”

I tend to think of the truth as a strange animal that must be used sparingly.

For example most men have been asked by their partner: “Does this dress make me look fat?”

The correct answer “no” is going to make her happy. However, a person who frivolously tells the truth might lengthen this adequate reply to: “No, that would be the chocolate bars and crisps.”

I don’t tell big lies though and certainly not in a relationship, not for any moral reason I just don’t have a good enough memory to support them.