The News: A User's Manual by Alain de Botton – digested read

'Newspapers always ignore the really important celebrities – like Saint Gengulphus of Burgundy' … The News: A User's Manual by Alain de Botton. Illustration: Matt Blease

A newspaper doesn't come with instructions. At school, we are more likely to be taught the significance of Monet's use of colour than how to decode the Daily Mail website. Well, some of us are. And yet we consume news more avidly than ever. Why so? In the immediate vicinity of our north London cottage garden, all may be tranquil, yet the lure of background chaos is irresistible. Perhaps the answer is to be found in schadenfreude. We see a photograph of Sally Bercow kissing someone and rejoice in the knowledge that the mystery man isn't us.

It is early morning. Outside, commuters are struggling to get to work when the tube is on strike. I languidly put on a silk dressing gown and eat a breakfast of yogurt and granola. The newsfeed on my iPad tells me rent arrears are on the increase. Why should I care? Would we read Tolstoy if he had made Anna Karenina working class? The maid makes me another pot of coffee.

News organisations are coy about admitting that what they present us with are selective fragmented narratives. They claim to be objective, when none are. The problem isn't bias, it's the nature of bias. The politics of right wing and left wing are a meaningless cul-de-sac. We need a bias towards the beautiful and the majestic. More stories of the sublime, written by cultural commentators. How do we mostly interpret the world? Through the Hegelian dialectic of architecture. Where are most news organisations located? In buildings of staggering ugliness. Were News International to be relocated to the Rococo Basilica at Ottobeuren in Bavaria, then their news agenda would be infinitely improved. Here is a photo of the Rococo Basilica.

The two emotions on which the news plays are fear and anger. In so doing, it toys with our weak hold on perspective. Here we need to be mindful of Euclidean geometry. The recent news bulletins have been dominated by stories of flooding. And yet the damage is limited to a few villages in Somerset and Cornwall. The majority of us in London have been completely unaffected and are free to keep our lunch appointments, so what's the big deal? (Unless you are one of my friends with a second home in the west country, in which case your distress is perfectly understandable.) Here's a photograph of a hideous 1950s bungalow under water. Isn't it better if it falls down?

One of the main claims all newspapers make is that they enable people to make up their own minds. Yet Gustave Flaubert hated newspapers because he believed they prevented people from thinking for themselves. I feel the same way. From this, we can easily deduce that I might have written Madame Bovary had I been living in 19th-century France. Yet how often does this important fact make headlines?

Foreign news is so often reported as a series of wars, famines and earthquakes. I drop in for an hour to visit the Uganda desk at the BBC. The reporters are busying themselves with stories of petty corruption, while ignoring a new exhibition of a minor artist opening in Kampala. Thus the value of wide-ranging Ugandan discussions is lost.

What are we to make of economics? Not much. So let's move on to celebrity. It's become fashionable among my dinner companions to dismiss celebrity culture, but in so doing they let the illiterate determine the celebrity agenda. The broadsheet newspapers should be doing more to promote celebrities from whom we can learn and improve ourselves. Men such as St Gengulphus of Burgundy, the patron saint of difficult marriages.

It is easy to be overwhelmed by the news. The ancient Greeks set aside a week each year to watch the tragedies of Euripides. We should adopt a similar policy. We should save all the year's bad-news stories for bumper editions spread over seven days. That way, we might be instructed by them rather than defeated. For the other 51 weeks, there should be more stories about the wars that aren't taking place and the earthquakes that didn't happen. Therein lies happiness.

Digested read, digested: Bad news.

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Power Trip by Damian McBride – digested read

I've spent many years writing things for other people: heartfelt conference speeches about my bosses' triumphs. Where did it get me? Out of a job, pissed and a bit broke. So now I am writing under my own name. And if I have chosen as my publisher a well-known Conservative blogger, who will time the serialisation of my book to be as disruptive as possible to the Labour party, let me assure you that I in no way intend to be disloyal to the Labour party.

Looking back, you could say I've always been a bit of a bastard. At Cambridge, I betrayed friends and threatened others with physical violence. But all I can say in my defence is that I have always tried to act in accordance with my Catholic faith, and it's not my fault that being a macho liar and a bully are precisely the qualities that politicians most value.

If you'd told me I'd spend my early working life looking through VAT forms, I'd have said you had the wrong man – but thankfully, I was still able to fit in 10 solid hours in the pub each day. I was soon identified as a steady pair of hands by Gordon Brown and was asked to join his team at the Treasury as an adviser. It was here that I first met the two Eds, who now appear to have absolutely no recollection of ever meeting me.I always found Ed Miliband to be extremely considerate when it was to his own advantage, but Ed Balls was more my kind of man. I once woke up in his bed at a party conference and made a grab for him, thinking he was some bird I'd pulled. Happy days.

I will obviously have to pad out the pages with lots of boring details you will want to skip. But to me, it was so all-absorbing, I didn't realise I had been dumped by my girlfriend until a year later. The hard-ons we got from sitting around government offices talking about how exciting it was to be at the centre of power had to be seen to be believed. Just imagine how important it feels to get a sentence into a budget speech and get driven around by chauffeurs.

Some people have asked what it was I actually did in government. What I did was survive for nearly 10 years, briefing against Gordon's enemies and killing any stories that might be damaging to him. Governing the country was always a secondary consideration; what mattered most was not to let anyone else have a go at doing it. Besides which, it was far easier to leak a few stories to lobby journalists about how we were going to be doing something, rather than actually do anything concrete. Gordon always thought the highlight of my career was me telling the papers he was responsible for Pink Floyd reforming at Live 8.

I should stress that never at any time did Gordon or the two Eds have any idea whatsoever that I was leaking stories to the media or briefing against colleagues. Every time something to our advantage dominated the headlines, they would all three gasp with amazement and say: "Wow! What a brilliant coincidence. Aren't we lucky to have so many coincidences! Are you sure you didn't have anything to do with this?" And I would reply: "I know I've got a reputation for being a bit of a liar, but I promise I'm not lying this time. Believe me, if I'd known the minister was shagging his secretary, I'd have told the Mail ages ago." And they would say: "You're so sweet, Damian."

Eventually, we all managed to force… I mean, Tony resigned. But Gordon's time in office was not as happy as it should have been. Mostly because of Ed's shit of a brother. Sadly, I had to resign after the only two emails I ever wrote plotting to smear rivals were leaked to the Telegraph, but my strong faith and the advance for this book have been a great comfort.

Digested, read digested: Sic transit gloria mundi.

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