Oh, I Give Up...

After weeks, even months, of resisting, I've finally done it.

The final straw was when my wife asked me to.

So, I've done it.

Yes, I've joined facebook.

Well, there goes all my free time...

Car Trouble

You know, really, in life we're not self-reliant at all. We like to think that we rely on ourselves to get through situations, but it's a lie. You know who we really rely on?

Things. Stuff.

It's true. Our computers. Our telephones. And, yes boys and girls, our cars.

Picture the scene last weekend. My wife is out at a hen day, and is giving a couple of friends a lift when the car suddenly, inexplicably cuts out. And then, the thing that all motorists dread more than anything else in the world.

A light on the dashboard you don't recognise.

It usually looks like something that might strike horror into your heart. A giant spanner, or an artistic depiction of an exploding car. Either way, with the car playing up and a funny looking light on, everyone does the same thing. Pull over. Bail out.

And so, Gillian sits on the side of the road with two friends and awaits the lovely AA man. Who arrives and can find nothing wrong.

So a few days, and about £400 later, I wish I was more self-reliant.

Fancy a walk?

Why Does TV Have To Be So Good?

I have a problem. Even, an addiction, if you will.

My wife is hearing this. I can hear her agreement from here.

There is just so much good TV on at the moment. My schedule runs thus.

Tues: The F Word. Bad language, but culinary genius.
Weds: The Apprentice, obviously (followed by the obligatory spin-off on BBC2)
Thurs: Now, here we have a problem. The excellent House clashes with the also marvellous Hustle. So it's the former for me, while taping the latter.
Fri: My day off. Gillian watches Ugly Betty. I read something
Sat: Doctor Who, clearly
Sun: Doctor Who repeat on BBC3 (with commentary)
Mon: Usually watch Hustle taped from previous Thursday.

And then we go round again.

Damn you, television. I want my life back!

Help Me. I'm Scared...

Today is a day that could easily spell the end of my summer - even before it's begun.

Big Brother kicks off this evening, and about this time every year I mumble something about how I'm not going to get sucked in. I'm not going to watch it. I'm not going to waste weeks and weeks of my summer watching the very cesspool of human existence playing up to cameras and being embarassing.

At least, that's what I say every year. For about three days. And then I watch out of curiousness. And that's it. Is it the autumn already?

I feel like I have a fighting chance of not getting sucked into the launch show tonight, by virtue of the fact that it clashes with that wondrous piece of reality television, The Apprentice, and I'm fairly confident, even at this stage, that I'll be watching Sir Alan rather than Davina. But that won't help me tomorrow.

I don't even really enjoy watching Big Brother. The housemates are usually pretty repulsive, and I can't say I even look forward to it being on. But once I'm sucked in - I can't help it. I'm like a druggie dying for his next hit. When he gets it, he doesn't really enjoy it, but all he feels is relief that he's no longer craving.

Help me. Please.

My New Life

Windy. Rainy. Cold. Must be Bank Holiday Monday.

Indeed it is, my friend. And this has been my only chance to check with you in any detail all week. Literally.

I have a horrible feeling that this is how it's going to be from now on. My new job started this week, and I knew it would be busy. But I don't think I realise quite how head-explodingly busy it was going to be.

The problem is not the new show (weekdays, 1500-1800, www.premier.org.uk), but rather the fact that I am also second-in-command. The reality of this means that I spend all my mornings in one of the following ways...

a) Endless, back-to-back soul destroying meetings.
b) One long, soul destroying meeting.
c) Running around, tearing my hair out, attempting to sort out a problem that has arisen.

That lasts about 3 hours, after which I have no real time for lunch, and have to dive head-long into preparing for the show. Then we do the show. Then we record a trail for the next show. Then I go home. Sleep. And do it again.

So, I apologise my friends, for not being your ever-present companion. But I will do what I can to keep you posted, so please keep popping back.

And if you have a moment to send me lunch, I'd be very grateful

Hideously Busy

Too Busy to talk....

What the...?

Today I discovered something rather interesting. Interesting, but pointless.

Whilst looking for something else, I came upon something that I had been given a long time ago. It had been buried amongst a myriad of stuff on my desk and forgotten about. I recall being mildly diverted by it at the time, but dismissing it pretty quickly.

I am referring to a bizarre substance known as Rescue Remedy. In fact, now I think of it, I believe that I may have heard some radio commercials for it. Something about someone getting stressed in a supermarket, if memory serves. The idea of it is that it calms you down when things are getting on top of you. All it does is produce a taste in your mouth that is roughly akin to what I imagine it would be like to like the inside of a tramps mouth.

Here's what it says on the box:

Bach Rescue Remedy Spray provides support at times of emotional demand such as before a driving test or interview, exam or flight, or when you simply need a little help.

Essentially, you spray it on your tongue in times of stress and it helps you feel better. It tastes very vaguely alcoholic, not terribly nice, and really just encourages you to throw the box angrily to the ground, whilst shouting "I paid how much for this useful piece of junk!". Not very relaxing really.

I've not idea why I have it, and I can't remember who gave it to me. It's been years since I had a driving test or interview. I haven't done any exams since my A Levels, and I've not even been on a plane for a couple of years. That means someone obviously thought I "needed a little help". Fine. If you think I need help, do my washing, don't give me watered down alcohol in a small spray.

So, my advice to you would be to steer fairly clear of it all. If you're stressed, kick something (note - not someone). Preferably the spray, out of the window.

Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays...

...I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oooo-oooo-ooooooot the whole day down.

You know, Bob Geldof was right. Well, apart from the shooting. And the obvious lack of personal hygiene.

Yes, as faithful readers will be aware, today is my first Monday at work in about four and a half years. Right now, I should be snoring on my sofa, as my daughter plays with small toys around my feet. But no. I'm here. I'm back to a normal life.

I must say that I'm not terribly keen on this working-on-Mondays lark. I definitely had the Monday blues this morning, and last night I experienced something that I'd forgotten about. Something that I think everyone who works weekdays goes through. It's that feeling you get on a late Sunday afternoon; the realisation that the weekend is all but gone, and all that awaits you is five long days of hard toil. I used to call it the "Antiques Roadshow" feeling.

Despite the fact that the first day of my new weekend-free life was spent up to my armpits in 33rpm records and about thirty-seven sets of dining chairs (who put sets of dining chairs in their loft?!?), it was actually a really good day. We got a lot done, the whole family was together, and then I enjoyed the screamingly-embarrassing Eurovision Song Contest. Serbia won, but you'd be forgiven for thinking it was the Former Yugoslav Republic of Dullsville based on the winning tune. Mind you, at least it had a tune. The Ukrainians were gay spacemen, and the French had a dead cat on their shoulder, so I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.

Oh, and on Saturday I also discovered that I had a freezer, an oven, a washing machine and a tumble dryer in my shed. It tells you something about the previous state of my shed that I could have four large kitchen appliances in there and not know about it. Now we're going to have to get a skip. That'll please the neighbours.

So, that was my first Saturday off, and today has been my first Monday working. It wasn't a bad day at work. It was just a day at work.

Speaking of which, I'd better do some. Although really, in my heart, I know it's time for Ready, Steady, Cook...

Dump Day

You may or may not be aware of the fact that I have worked Saturdays for about four and a half years. This has meant that I have had to take leave anytime I wanted to do any of the following.

(a) Go to a wedding.
(b) Have a day with my wife
(c) More recently, have a day with my wife and child.
(d) Watch Saturday Kitchen

Annoying, I'm sure you'll agree.

The good news is that my last Saturday working was last week, which means that today, Friday, is genuinely a last day of the week. I'm actually getting the Friday feeling I haven't had since people last said "What war in Iraq?" Lately, my Friday feeling has been on Saturday. And that's just silly.

Of course, the plus point has been not having the Monday feeling most people get. I get a Tuesday feeling instead. See how complicated my life has been? Finally, I shall be able to join the ranks of normal people who work normal days.

It also means that, with Saturdays free I can have days out with my family, enjoy their company, and get some quality time with my wife and daughter. When facing the prospect of such a free day, and all the possibilities before us, obviously we thought long and hard - what shall we do with our first Saturday together? All this has lead to our decision to spend tomorrow.....taking things to the dump.

I should point out that the decision is my fault as much as anyone elses. In fact, it's entirely my fault because Gillian asked me to make the final decision. The fact it we desperately need to take forty-eight tons of assorted nonsense to the dump. When we moved in our house a year ago, the previous occupants left what can only be described as an EU rubbish mountain in our garden, shed, and loft.

Our parents are helping us, it needs to be done, and we're going to get it over with, so we can enjoy the hundreds of future Saturdays spread out before us. So I really have no right to complain.

Have a good weekend. However you're spending it...

Apologies...

I'm sorry.

I feel like I've let you down. In fact, worse than that - I've let myself down.

I know I haven't been blogging much lately, and I don't want you to think it's because I don't love you. Because I do. I really and truly do.

Please know that there's no-one else. I haven't been seeing another blog. It's not you. It's me.

The truth is, I've been horrendously busy over the last few days.

To demonstrate, here's how my diary looked yesterday.

9.30 Meeting
10.30 Meeting
11.30 Meeting
12.00 Meeting
2.00 Meeting
2.45 Meeting
4.00 Toilet Break
4.05 Meeting

That's no exaggeration. And, without being too graphic about it, I really was holding on until 4pm.

I realise that I need to spend more time with you, and I'm sorry. Forgive me. Please accept these chocolates and flowers as a token of my love.

Thank you, sweeties.

Can You Keep the Noise Down...

So, a while ago I told you that I was going to have my ears syringed owing to the fact that the level of waxy build-up had reached the point where, in a birthday party situation, I wouldn't need to go and buy any candles.

That day was yesterday. I hadn't been to the doctors for about fifteen years, and when I walked in they seemed to give me a very funny look ("Oh, I thought you were dead!"), and I wondered in when summoned to see the nurse.

She had a cursory glance in my ears with that thing they use before exclaiming that she was surprised I could hear anything at all out of either of them. "Pardon", I said, hoping for a cheap laugh, but I think she'd heard it before.

I didn't realise that they syringe ears with a little machine now, which looks like something that might launch a vicious attack on your plaque in a dentists surgery, not something that will restore the ability to hear. Last time I went, they actually used a whacking-great-big syringe. Admittedly, the world was in black and white, and I took a carriage. But I didn't realise that technology had progressed so.

She got cracking on my right ear - the one that wasn't quite so bad. It all came out quite nicely, I was told. All of a sudden there was a "pop", and I could hear a mouse cough six miles away. I felt like Brave Starr (remember him? Ears of a puma, anyone..?). It was incredible. I had to stand up and turn around so she could do my other ear, and the room moved around a little (I was warned it could make you a little dizzy) but I got away without embarassing myself and sat down facing the other way. She now attempted my left ear. I haven't been able to hear properly out of this one since Wham were still together.

She gave it a good go, bless her. But it soon became fairly obvious that there was too much wax in this one for even the hardiest of ear-syringing equipment. At one point, she started brandishing a pick-axe, but I think she decided that that might be a bad idea. Essentially, the drops that you have to use for a few days beforehand, to soften the wax, hadn't quite penetrated the furthest echelons of the wax to the left of my head. She sent me away again, under orders to carry on using the drops to soften what was left in that ear, with instructions to come back to have it done again if necessary.

The resulting effect is rather startling. I can hear like a superhero out of my right ear, but barely at all out of my left. I could hear a whisper at a distance of several miles, but only if it happened to my right. If a small nuclear explosion occured two inches to my left, I might be vaguely aware that someone might have sneezed.

The oddest thing about it is that it totally removes your ability to know where sounds come from. If something happens to my right, I turn to my right. But if something happens to my left, I also turn to my right because I can hear it better through my right ear than my left. I'm moving to the right more often that Margaret Thatcher in the 1980s.

But it's undoubtedly better than it was. In fact, on one side of my head, it's even better than that.

The problem? I daren't use my iPod in case one side of my head explodes.

Angry from Sainsburys

Yesterday, I got cross. So I'm using this blog as therapy. There are people all over the world who pay anonymous people an awful lot of money to listen to their woes. I have you. And you're free.

So, it was my day off and I went, as usual, to do the weekly shop. And, as usual, I had my one-year-old with me. I managed to get the final parent and child space near to the store. Those things are great, in a way you can only understand if you've dragged a small child from the back of a car park twelve miles away. If you have to park far away with a child, you then have to struggle with them to get a trolley, and put them in the trolley, and then have them scream the car park into oblivion before you even get into the supermarket. The kid's had enough before you've even got to the satsumas. And they're right near the beginning.

I arrived, and was just getting Lucy out of the car and into the trolley, when a woman returned to her car, parked next to mine (also a parent and child space) and drove off. Unless her child is invisible (extremely unlikely, I'd have thought), she had no child. I don't want to sound rude, but she was also fat, and therefore probably lazy. As she drove off she scoffed a sandwich. So, not only is she rude and lazy, she's also dangerous.

A couple of years ago, I wouldn't have given a monkeys about this, but now I am a father, it winds me right up. As do those people (and they do exist) who are forty years old and go shopping with their mother and park in the spaces. No, that doesn't count. You might be parent and child, absolutely technically, but it doesn't count. I don't stub my toe and park in a disabled space, do I? Well, not very often.

I am calmer now that I've shared it with you. Thank you for listening. You're lovely.

Unless you're a fat, lazy, sandwich-munching, parent-and-child-space stealer. Then you smell.

So there.

Is It Me Or Is It Friday?

I think it must be.

Don't have a lot to say today. Other than have a lovely weekend. It's been quite a quiet day, really.

Erm. And that's it.

So. Have a good weekend!

Pardon?

After days (actually, make that weeks) of nagging (actually, make that correctly pointing something out), I concede that I have a problem. With my ears.

For a few weeks now I have been becoming slowly deafer, to the point where now a small nuclear explosion could occur two feet to my left, and I would only be vaguely aware that someone may have coughed. I am getting over a cold which has inevitably made it worse (you don't want to know about the unearthly substances coming out of my facial orifices), but still - I think I can safely say it's not all due to the sniffles.

As a child, I had multiple ear problems. I have manifold memories of going swimming on holiday, but needing to put cotton wool in my ears. Embarassing. Maybe it's still there? Maybe that's the problem.

So I have bitten the bullet. I have made an appointment to have my ears syringed. I've got the drops to start putting in - but the problem is it isn't until a week on Friday. So my wife has to put up with another week and a half of shouting at me. I don't mind, but the neighbours might have something to say about it.

In a perverse way, I'm quite looking forward to it, even though I hate the doctors. If memory serves, the sense you get after having it done is that someone has literally turned up the world. Everyone seems to start shouting, and you can hear an ant cough six miles away.

I will, of course, let you know how it goes and you'll be most welcome to post comments.

But please don't shout.

Am I A Girl?

So, last night was The Sound of Music.

I really detest the film. I mean, I really do. It's just a load of puke-inducing twee tripe, so my expectations weren't high for the show. I knew Gillian would really enjoy it, and a night at the theatre tends to normally be a nice experience, but I was sceptical.

But, you know what? I really enjoyed it. It's much better than the film (it's shorter, for a start), and maybe just being with lots of other people watching it, being part of the shared experience, it was really very good. Connie (who won that TV thing) was excellent, as were all the cast really. The children were great. Not bad really, coming from someone who agreed with the comedian who said the The Sound of Music was the only time in his life he "found himself cheering for the Nazis".

Don't get me wrong - you still won't get me in front of the film, but I did enjoy the show. And I do hope that doesn't mean I'm any less of a man. One of the most amazing things to me was the sets and how they turn one scene into another. How do all the bits of flying scenery not bump into one another? Or one of the Von Trapp children?

So, there you are. Surprise, surprise - I had a good time! Those of your following my sleep patterns will be pleased to know last night wasn't quite as bad, so I'm feeling like less of a zombie today. I don't think it will last.

Whoever came up with phrase "sleeping like a baby" obviously never had one. Or was deaf.

The Hills Are Alive With the Sound of Snoring...

You didn't realise it was Christmas today, did you?

Well, erm, that's because it isn't. But it's the nearest thing to Christmas without it actually being Christmas. For this evening is when I escort my lovely wife to the West End musical The Sound of Music. It was my Christmas present to her, but you have to wait so bloomin' long to get tickets we're only going today.

The problem is that we've had another couple of really bad nights with practically no sleep, so I'm slightly concerned that I'm going to slip into a rather peaceful snooze during this evening's proceedings. Gillian loves TSOM, but I'm not overly keen myself (to put it mildly), but am looking forward to a trip to the theatre - it's always a nice experience. I just hope my snoring doesn't annoy anyone. If I do fall asleep, it's bound to be due to the fact I'm so tired (bit of a walking zombie today, to be honest) rather than being any sort of critical judgement on the show, or the performances therein, both of which I'm sure will be marvellous.

What's made the sleepiness worse today is that the air-con's broken in the office, and it's rather a warm day. I'm reminded of those student days, when you'd be out until really late and then find yourself the following morning in a warm lecture hall experiencing a coma-inducing lecture. Sleep would inevitably take over.

Here's hoping my lovely daughter will start sleeping properly again soon. In fact, I felt rather a large pang of guilt after my last entry where I questioned whether children were evil. I got home that evening to discover she really wasn't very well and had a fever of 102. Oh. That might be it then.

She seems a bit better now, but sleep is yet to follow.

Tonight. Please. Pretty please.

Are Children Evil?

You might think this a slightly unfair, perhaps even nasty question to be posing, especially seeing as I'm a father, but then you weren't in my house at 4 o'clock this morning.

Children - more specifically, babies, I suppose - are masters of cunning. For the first three months or so, they are small, screaming people. They scream pretty much indiscriminately at day or night. The rules state (at least, in all the books I've read) that there can be several reasons for babies crying. The baby can be hungry, tired, have a wet or dirty nappy, or be (wait for it) bored (if that's a reason to cry, I'm amazed I don't scream my way through more meetings). Apparently, if you gradually eliminate all the possible causes, you'll hit upon the right one and shut the baby up. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Yeah, funny.

After the initial three months of this, they then lull you entirely into a false sense of security. They start sleeping through the night. "Well, I don't know what all the fuss is about", you loudly declare to anyone who happens to walk past you, "This baby sleeping business is easy!". Other parents throw you unpleasant looks of scorn. You don't realise that these are because your sound sleeping won't last.

Lucy, my daughter, is now nearly 14 months old. I love her to bits. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her. But, sadly, all rational thought leaves my brain, when forced to deal with her random, reason-less, restless screams, of the type that she is currently torturing myself and my wife with. All I want to do is get her to go to sleep. Doing that requires you to be loving and soothing, at just the moment you want to (and often do, frankly, if you're me) scream at her to shut up.

Children aren't really evil, of course. Well, except that kid who used to do that Frosties advert ("They're gonna taste great") - I'm fairly sure he's hiding a red pitchfork somewhere. There could be any number of reasons that Lucy's not sleeping at the moment. She could be teething, she could be too hot with the unseasonable heat we are experiencing, or any number of things.

They worst thing that it's quite hard to think straight or concentrate when you're so tired during the day. You end up making either slightly irrational decisions, or not being much good at all. They say that Margaret Thatcher survived on four hours of sleep a night. I guess that explains a lot...

The Tube (Still) Sucks

A couple of months ago now, I published a comment here on how the tube sucks. It was titled "The Tube Sucks". Funnily enough.

After publishing it, I did feel a pang of guilt. We have one of the most advanced, and certainly the largest, urban public transport system in the world, I thought. Of course, every now and then, something will go wrong. And for a while afterwards, apart from the odd slight delay, all was fine.

This week though, this week, has been a nightmare. I don't just mean a normal nightmare, where you're chased down a long corridor by a octopus brandishing a car aerial (just me, then?). I mean a bad one. A really bad one. One featuring Richard Madeley, or something.

Tuesday. I was slightly late in due to a slight hold-up. OK. We live with that.

Wednesday. I got to the tube station, only to discover that the entire tube line was suspended, and that I should "seek alternative routes". What are they then? Space travel? Transmogrification? Fortunately, my tube station is also a mainline station, so I managed to get a train into London. But it did make me late and the poor unfortunates at other stations would not have had the advantage I did.

Thursday. Today. I get on the central line. It gets as far as White City. Then just stops. For ages. The driver comes on the speaker after a period of time not unlike what it would have taken to finish the journey, and informs us that he's "experiencing a problem with the train". An engineer was looking into it. We were, from that point on, all fairly convinced that we were going to be turfed off. Fortunately, another train going the same way pulled into the opposite platform, so we all got on that. Two rush-hour trains-worth of people on one train. More hairy armpits than I like to put my head into on a Thursday morning. Eventually we pull out.

At Oxford Circus, I disembark and head toward the Victoria Line which will take me to my destination. I get there. It's suspended. Faulty train at Green Park. Did the driver on the central line tell me this while I was on there. If he had, I might have liked to get off at Bond Street a stop earlier and availed myself of the Jubilee Line. Idiot.

So, instead, I have to go Bakerloo, then District, and get to the work in the most roundabout way possible.

So, there we go. No more mister nice guy. The tube sucks again.

It seems to be getting worse each day this week. Maybe tomorrow the central line will catapult me to Cockfosters, or something. Mind you, I've always wanted to go there. I think the name amuses me.

Countdown to Bedtime

One of the things about having a blog is that, often, you end up treating it as a bit of a confessional. If you feel guilt, blog it, and an amazing burden is lifted from your hefty (in my case, extremely hefty) shoulders.

Over the Easter weekend, the TV schedules were awash with a type of programming that is pretty trashy, incredibly cheap, but undeniably addictive. I love them. And if I start watching one, I may as well kiss the rest of my evening goodbye. I refer, of course, to those "Top 100" shows.

If you are unfamiliar, they always run thus. Take a topic - perhaps a type of TV programme or film, such as musicals, comedians, "tear-jerkers", horror films, etc etc etc, conduct a loose survey of people to find out which are popular, construct a rudimentary chart which, in reality, is really just an excuse to show lots of clips, and put it on Channel Four for five hours on a Sunday night. Oh, and get Jimmy Carr to do some dry-witted links. And there you are. Bob is, indeed, your mother's brother.

The problem is always that they don't end until about 1am, and you've got to get up the work the next morning, but you're so hooked you have to see what the number one is. This is despite the fact that previous experience dictates that you'll always be inherently disappointed at whatever's number one. You stay up until the crack of dawn, tut at the winner, and then get up for your morning commute approximately forty-five minutes later.

I believe I recall some Channel Four bigwig recently saying that he was going to stop commissioning the Top 100 shows. The reason being, of course, that there's nothing left to count. It's all been done. Top 100 numbers between one and one hundred, perhaps. Now, there's a ratings winner.

I'm waiting, as I'm sure you are too, for the now-inevitable Top 100 Top 100 Shows. If they ever made that, I'm sure the ones I've seen over the last few days will chart highly. Musicals (Number one - Grease), Kids TV Shows (Number one - The Simpsons - that's not a Kids show I shouted at the screen), Tear-jerkers (Didn't actually see the end of that one, but it was probably Titanic), War Films (Saving Private Ryan if I remember correctly) all had me staying up far too late.

Perhaps the Top 100 Jimmy Carr Top 100 Show Links might be an idea with legs. It would at least be mercifully short, and we can all be in bed by ten.

Happy Easter!

Phew! That was a ridiculously busy week, but I seem to have got through it relatively unscathed. Thanks for your patience, you lovely blog-reader, you.

I've spent most of this week either working, or falling asleep on my sofa (instead of helping my wife look after our daughter - sorry, sorry, sorry...), so don't even have a lot to say today. Other than, Happy Easter!

While you're consuming your own weight in chocolate, you might want to spare a thought for what Easter really commemorates. Interested folks can go here.

Oh, and one other thing. From mid-May, you might be interested to know that if you are a listener to my Saturday Breakfast show on Premier, (if you are, you are extremely wise and lovely, if not a charlatan and a fool) I shall be embarking on an entirely new challenge, that will at least mean I'll be working Monday to Friday like a normal person.

And we start on DAB in London on Monday. Hurrah!

Right, I'm off to find a creme egg...

Very Busy...

Hello, faithful reader.

Alas, I am rushed off my size 10s, so I don't have a lot to say today. Or a lot of time to say it.

Except that, wasn't Doctor Who good on Saturday?

Erm. That's it, really.

Give Me a P...

Driving into work this morning, I was stuck for really some time behind another driver.

Now, let me get something straight. I have every sympathy for learner drivers. If I'm stuck behind an L Plate - that's fair enough. We all had to learn, we've all been there, we were all slow once. Some people still are. I'm mentioning no names.

But this person wasn't a learner. Quite the contrary, in fact. They were displaying a symbol upon their vehicle that demonstrated that they had, most certainly, passed their test and were a fully proficient and qualified navigator of the road.

The P Plate.

The P plate drives me mad, if you'll pardon the pun. If you don't know what a P plate is (you're not from the UK, you've been living under a rock, you thought it was a dyslexic learner), it's essentially a sign you put on your car which says that you are, not a learner driver, but you have passed and are a new driver.

These are not compulsory, like L plates are for learners, and so there is really only one reason why a new driver would want to put these on their Nissan Micras (they're always Nissan Micras), and that is that they might have passed their test but they're still not entirely convinced that they're very good at it.

You see, the P plate says, "Yes, I'm a driver, but I'm new, and I wanted to warn you about it because, frankly, I could go straight into a lamp-post/pedestrian/articulated lorry at any given point, and I thought you should know". Why else would you want to warn drivers that you are new at it?

The road is a dangerous enough place as it is. And if you have a P plate, I want to ask you something. If you are not confident enough to drive without feeling the need to warn others of your presence, DON'T DRIVE AT ALL!

You don't get P plates in other walks of life. If you're lying in hospital, and your surgeon appears next to you saying "I'm taking out your appendix later, but frankly, I've not been doing this long and you might want to tidy some things up now". A lawyer doesn't stand up in court and begin his case for the prosecution by saying "By the way, I might be wrong about all this evidence and points of law because I'm new!" Even with driving in other situations, it doesn't happen. A new bus driver doesn't say to those boarding his bus "This is my first day, you might want to find something to hold onto".

So don't get on the road and endanger me and my family if you're a rubbish driver!

Get the bus instead. And if the drivers new, hold on tight.

Baa-rking!

When I first saw this story, my mind immediately travelled to a good friend of mine who comes from Wales, but now lives in New Zealand (and I happen to know is a regular reader of this fine blog). I don't know why. He has never, to my knowledge (and although he is Welsh) co-habited with even one sheep. But isn't it funny how the mind works?

The web is a great source of fairly pointless, but endlessly entertaining news stories, quite a few of them about people living with an awful lot of animals, knee-deep in faeces. What I particularly like about this one is the fact that it involves sheep. We've all seen similar stories where people live with thirty cats, or lots and lots of dogs. But sheep? Well, they're...big. Where does he live? Whipsnade?

My favourite line of the story has to be "The sheep, which Mr Watts occasionally walked around the neighbourhood on a leash...". Nice picture. Imagine the pooper-scooper.

But at least he kept a sense of propriety about it. As the Sergeant quoted in the article says, "He lived upstairs, and the sheep were living downstairs". Oh, they were on seperate floors? I didn't realise! That's fine then!

I love Americans. And they love sheep.

Meetings!

Meetings.

Meetings. Meetings. Meetings.

Meetings. Meetings. Meetings. Meetings. Meetings.

I think you get the picture.

Oh - I just typed the word "meetings" so many times, it's beginning to look a bit odd. Ever had that?

Anyway, meetings.

I spend quite a lot of my time in them, for various reasons, and during the course of most of them (and I'm talking about work here) I spend the entire duration wondering when I'll actually be able to do some work.

Now, I realise that's the wrong attitude. Work meetings are work, and I know that, but I can't help wishing that I was back at my desk getting through the lengthening to-do list in my diary. The irony being, of course, that most of these meetings end up with me needing to add extra things to my to-do list. But now, I've got less time to do them, because I spent all the time in the meeting.

Sometimes, I chair them. And I still end up with more to do. Surely the fun in chairing a meeting lies with being able to delegate everything. Maybe I'm just not very good at them. Man.

A further layer of irony is added when you consider that the only meetings I enjoy are those where you spend most of the time messing around (these are rare) and therefore get very little meeting-based work done. These are largely more "creative", "brainstorming"-type meetings. I'm not sure you're supposed to say "brainstorm" anymore - something to do with political correctness, and offending people who...erm, actually I don't know. People who've got a meterological phenomenon occuring in their head? I can't think of any of those.

I'd stay and chat for longer but I've got to go to a....you get the picture.

Midnight Caller

Sometimes, if you're like me, you get ideas for things in the strangest places. Occasionally, something happens, and you think - I really must blog about that. But then, something else important distracts you (your baby is sick, the dinner's burning, Gladiators is on FTN) and you completely forget about it.

On some rare occasions, such ideas occur in the middle of the night. Normally, such times are a result of waking from a particularly unusual dream ("I know! I'll blog on Kermit the Frog riding a llama through my kitchen!"), but even if I do remember these in the morning, I soon realise that writing on such things would be a ridiculous idea, was really the result of being half asleep in the middle of the night, and would almost certainly lead to my being removed from my house under the mental health act.

But the other night, something did happen that I genuinely wanted to mention, and then genuinely forgot. We were having a difficult night with Lucy - she wasn't really sleeping. It was about 3 in the morning. The phone rang.

Now, when that happens it's always horrible. Who would ring now? Only someone with bad news. Good news can wait until the morning.

I have the dubious honour of having the phone on my side of the bed, and so I reluctantly answered it with a bleary "hello". I was careful to make the greeting as bleary-sounding as humanly possible, so whoever was disturbing me knew that they had awoken me. Even though that hadn't, really. Because we were struggling with Lucy.

"Hello", said the female voice on the other end, "Is that Tom?"

"What? Who's Tom?" I asked, blearyness deliberately increasing.

"Oh. Is Tom not there?"

"No. What?" (I added the "what" to really create the illusion of being half-asleep. I think it worked quite well).

"Dear, I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry"

I had intended at this point to throw in another "what" for good measure, but she hung up, tail between her legs.

So, it was a wrong number. No bad news. Just a confused woman. I did go to sleep in the end, and promptly forget all about "Is that Tom" incident, and so I'm telling you now - three days later.

Have a good weekend. And if your name's Tom, I've got a call for you...

Crazy Weather

I'm sorely tempted to move abroad.

Last week was glorious. The sun was shining, the temperature was warm. Heck, I even came to work most days without my jacket. Amazing. I was struggling to find somewhere to secrete my iPod on the train.

This morning, it was snowing. Snowing, of all things. Quite a blizzard too. I could have been carrying one hundred iPods. I wasn't though, obviously. That would be stupid. I've only got two ears.

I don't mind cold weather. I don't mind warm weather. I wouldn't want it warm all the time, but nor would I want it cold all the time.

You see, that's the good thing about seasons. Sometimes it warm, sometimes it's cold, but generally speaking, you know where you are.

But then, when it's glorious one week and snowing the next, you have to ask yourself, when's the next flight to the caribbean leaving? I suppose we only have ourselves to blame. It's probably global warming caused by all this modern technology of ours, messing with the seasons. Mind you, it didn't seem very warming to me.

Anyway, regardless of weather, this evening I'm tucking myself up at home. Gillian's out, and assuming Lucy goes to bed ok (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!! Sorry.), I will be relaxing in front of the new series of House which kicks off tonight. Lovely.

Either that or she'll scream and I won't get to see any of it. In which case, I might have to rely on a kindly, but copyright-busting, you-tuber.

Isn't technology a wonder? Apart from making it snow at funny times, obviously.

Phones & Credit Cards

There's very little as exciting as waiting for a new mobile phone to arrive.

It arrived at about 10.15 this morning, but it may as well have been the evening, such was the length of my anticipation. Then, of course, when it does arrive you have the agony of waiting while it charges before you can enjoy it in all it's glory. Eventually, the moment comes when you get to switch it on for the first time. Can I tell you that, so far, I'm not disappointed.

The most exciting thing about my new phone is really a very simple, low-end thing. The fact that it has (wait for it) - an FM radio! Wow! I've never had an FM radio on a mobile phone before. Even my iPod doesn't have an FM Radio! Much fun was had setting the presets, and no doubt much fun will continue to be had on my walks to the station from now on. Listening to my FM radio, of course. FM radio! Just said it that last time for the hell of it, really.

So that was one thing that brightened my day today. The other was a hilarious story which you can see here about an American guy who goes to extreme lengths to see if anyone will check his signature when he pays by credit card. Clearly Chip & Pin hasn't reached across the atlantic yet (or hadn't when it was written), and frankly, I'm pleased about that, otherwise his adventures wouldn't be there for us to read about. Oh, and make sure you click on the link to read the second one when you get to the end. It's equally great.

That's about it today.

FM Radio!

Sorry. I'll stop now.

Call Centres: Pros & Cons

Today, I had intended to have a bit of a winge on the subject of call centres, but then - just half an hour ago - I took a call that almost cancelled out in my mind the call centre horrors of the past weekend.

Allow me to explain: I have, for about two months now, been on the case of a certain, well-known, British mother and baby store. Their name would suggest they care about mothers. Their demeanour says otherwise.

For Christmas, we bought Lucy a little car that she sits in and either pushes herself, or gets pushed along in. It cost £50 and had a horn in it that Lucy loved to press. After about a fortnight, the horn ceased to work. We changed the batteries in it. Nowt. It was broken after two weeks, and hadn't been used excessively. Clearly, a faulty product.

The shop that "cares about mothers" has spent the last two months sending us here and there, promising to call us back, and then not (surely the international call centre motto - "we'll call you back. Honest"), and generally messing us around. Eventually, yesterday, I got them to agree to send a whole new vehicle for my daughter's enjoyment (after they offered to send me some vouchers that wouldn't have been enough to pay for the car park). Thank you to them for that, but it doesn't quite cancel out the last couple of months in my head.

Meanwhile, my wife has been on to a famous catalogue store (they like chaps that don't cost anything. That one's a bit cryptic, I'm afraid) who, also for several months, have singularly failed to pick up a large, chipped-upon-delivery, flat-pack toybox, whilst simultaneouly invoicing us for it. She's called them six times over the last few weeks, and they keep insisting they're coming. But they haven't. If they don't soon, I'm going to have a bonfire in the garden.

So, my rant was well-formed in my head, until a chap from a call-centre cold-called me. Normally, that's a recipe for a tirade of abuse on my part for wasting my time, but this lovely man offered me a free-upgrade on my mobile phone. Bearing in mind my mobile looks like it's been in a bonfire with a chipped flat-pack toybox, and then stamped on, I was very pleased to make arrangements for a new phone to arrive in my workplace tomorrow morning.

So, Boo for call centres. And Hurrah for call centres.

Or something.

The Verdict's In!

I'm hoping to be able to draw a line under the whole series of Reggae Reggae Sauce episodes today, by announcing that last night, I did indeed try the mighty condiment.

I'm very pleased to announce that it proved to be an extremely favourable accompaniment to my chips - the tang of brown sauce, with the excitement of barbeque sauce and the versatility of ketchup. Lovely.

I am now faced with another problem. I've got a great big bottle of it to get through before Wednesday ("once opened, refrigerate and use within five days"), so I'd better have a Reggae Reggae Weekend. Over to the Reggae Reggae blog for me, then

So, there you are. That closes the blogging chapter on condiments. Perhaps next week something equally fascinating will find it's way onto these pages. Toilet roll, perhaps, or ice cube trays.

Good weekend, one and all.

Hey - You ARE There...

An email warmed the very cockles of my heart this morning. (An odd phrase that. Does my heart have cockles? I do hope not.)

After my, well - not to put to fine a point on it, rant on the subjects of swedish furniture shopping and an complete lack of information in the area of recipes for my new bottle of Reggae Reggae sauce, I received a comment on this very blog directing me here - a veritable marketplace of Reggae Reggae Recipes. Thank you muchly, Mr. (or, indeed Ms) Anonymous. Nice name, by the way.

I might try one or two at some point.

Or I might just use it instead of ketchup. Because I'm lazy.

What A Load of Meatballs!

Have you ever been told that something was about to happen to you that has lead to you dreading the event in question for sometime?

That event for me happened yesterday. Furniture shopping.

I normally don't really mind furniture shopping, but yesterday we went to the worst furniture shop the world has to offer. I won't tell you which one it is, but I will tell you that it's Swedish and rhymes with pikea. Cryptic, I know.

Now, I do like the products. Solid. Dependable. Relatively easy to put up, even. But the experience of shopping there is one designed to make you want to take your own life in the car park. Mind you, it's so busy, even if you did, people would probably just think you were reserving a space.

I was pleased to see that the recent refurbishment in said store now means that you can actually take your trolley to your car, instead of having to leave the trolley (yes, leave it!) at the shop, go and get the car, and drive to the loading bay, realise you've left the receipt with the trolley which grants you access to the loading bay, go and repark the car somewhere near the Shetland Islands, go back to the store, collect the receipt and start again. So thank goodness that doesn't happen anymore. And they are good at catering for the kids. Lucy, my one year old, made some little friends over lunch.

My real problem with the place is that, you wander round the showroom, noting the furniture you want, then to get to the warehouse bit where you collect the goods, you have to go through the "marketplace" full of stuff that you don't need but almost always buy. I got a cheese grater. I don't need a cheese grater - I've already got one. And the one I've already got IS FROM THE SAME SHOP!!!

Then you get to the warehouse and realise that the item of furniture you wanted is out of stock. As happened to us yesterday. So you then hike the seven miles back to your car. With a cheese grater.

Mind you, the meatballs are nice.

Speaking of food, after making an apology last week on this very blog regarding this, I was wondering around the supermarket yesterday (before all the furniture shennanagins) and saw some Reggae Reggae Sauce on the shelf. Before I knew it, it was in my trolley. I suddenly had an overwhelming compulsion to have some in my house.

Now I've got it, I must confess to not being at all sure what to do with it. Perhaps an accompanying recipe book is in order. Reggae Reggae Recipes, anyone?

I wonder what it would be like with meatballs.

Let's Get Digital! Digital!

Followers of my life and work (yes, both of you) will be aware that you will find me on Premier Christian Radio.

Well, I have some news!

From Easter, you will be able to get Premier in lovely digital sound, via DAB, in London.

I have a DAB radio, and am exceeding pleased with it. So if you're in London, and haven't got one, then get one. Now. Go on.

Though I should point out that some areas may have trouble receiving because that's DAB for you. We'll have a postcode checker on the website in the next few weeks.

Lovely.

Have a good weekend.

A Confession

Alright, I admit it. I was wrong.

A while ago, I mentioned on this fine blog, my love for top television show, Dragon's Den. I happened to say that, while I found it to be an extremely entertaining piece of TV, I was unconvinced of it's credentials in the area of launching new products into the market.

Well, how wrong I was.

Forwarded onto me just moments ago was this link referring to the excellent Levi Roots (who, in one of the funniest events in the show's history, we discovered was really called Keith). It appears his product is taking to the shelves. I may just buy some.

So there we go. A confession. Although, I still maintain that one product on the shelves in the whole history of the programme is a pretty poor show. I'm still waiting for an umbrella vending machine at my local tube station.

Perks Of The Job

One of the things you find when you work in radio is that you get sent free stuff. I used to work in places where the free stuff was incredibly exciting and desirable. That's not really so much the case anymore. But now and then, something interesting and useful lands on my desk that I didn't part with any cash to receive.

Most of the time, though, the freebies are utterly and totally pointless. Just the other day, I noticed a little grey package in my pigeon hole. After checking it wasn't ticking, smelling of ladies perfume, or leaking a fine white powder, I proceeded to open it.

Inside was something that momentarily made me slightly excited. It looked like a little, grey radio. It was a package sent to me by a radio organisation that we do business with and we're about to use a new download of theirs, and this little grey radio with their logo on was sent to me to promote this new product.

Now, I own radios. I own several. Some of them (alright, one of them) are digital. But there's still something passably diverting about receiving a little one, for free.

So, imagine my consternation and disappointment when, upon ripping open the plastic wrapping that surrounded it, I discovered that it was, in fact, fake.

A fake radio. Made of sponge.

I imagine that it's meant to be some sort of stress relieving thing to squeeze, but is fundamentally pointless. In retrospect, it was always going to be so, as a seconds thought on my part would have concluded that it would be ridiculously expensive for this company to send out real radios to all their clients. But still, it was disappointing.

Ironically, I had to defuse my slight anger, by squeezing the radio in response to it only being a squeezable radio.

Ho-hum.

Return of the Astra

Yes, it's back. And my wallet is approximately six hundred pounds lighter. Well, my wife's is. She paid for it.

The car is back from it's two day excursion, and I'm sure that so much of it is new, it's practically a different car. I could have got one for the amount that we paid.

I mean, who really needs brakes anyway? Can't I just chuck an anchor out of the window when I want to stop?

I should stop moaning really. At least I have a car and it's working.

And that's it for a year! Hurrah!

Can You Lend Me A Tenner?

At the risk of depressing everyone, today is worse than yesterday.

Turns out it's gonna cost me more than I thought, for reasons I neither know nor understand.

That's it today.

Donations welcome.

Can You Lend Me A Fiver?

Today is a bad day.

Don't get me wrong. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with today. Perhaps I should say, it's a bad day for me.

It's that moment in the year that we all dread. At least, if we're motorists.

Yes. Today the car is having it's MOT done.

Even though I pleaded with my Vauxhall Astra as I left for work this morning, that it should revise carefully and pass it's test, this morning I received a call from the "garage man". It went something like this...

Garage Man: "There's just a few things we're gonna need to do"

Me: "Erm, OK"

"Well, your wiper blades are split"

"Oh, well that's not too..."

"Your handbrake needs tightening"

"Erm, right, well..."

"Both your front tyres are worn"

"Ah, erm..."

"And your brake pads are 80% worn"

"(noise indistinguishable from beneath the whimpering)".

So, it looks like being a pricey day. All donations are welcome, although I entirely understand if you feel there are more worthy causes in the world to contribute towards, instead of keeping Dave's car on the road.

Still, it could be worse. The exhaust could be rusting.

Oh, yeah. He rang back later. The exhaust's also rusting.

But all this MOT business has achieved one thing that I never thought possible.

It's made the congestion charge look cheap.

A Lovely Day...

This is likely to be my last post for a few days. Well, until at least Tuesday.

The excus...sorry, reason - is that I've got quite a busy few days ahead. Tomorrow in particular.

My lovely daughter Lucy will be one whole year old tomorrow, and we're having a little (alright, big) family gathering to celebrate.

That's all I have to say today, really.

Have a lovely weekend.

The Colonel's Calling...

Those of you who know me well will be aware that, during my student days, I did something terrible. Awful. Something I find it very difficult to come to terms with even now, nearly ten years on.

I worked in fast food.

I know, I know. If you are just a happy browser coming across this, I wouldn't blame you if you never pointed your mouse in direction again, but it's true. For nearly three years, I worked for a popular high street fried chicken outlet. Originating in Kentucky.

It's not that I have any problem whatsoever with people who work in fast food. Please don't be offended if that is your current situation. But no-one can say they enjoy it, can they?

This long meandering post is merely build up for hoping that you'll point the little white arrow here to see exactly what the aforementioned poultry purveyors are up to these days.

By taking such an extreme course of action, they're demonstrating that they must really be desperate.

I mean, fish for goodness sake...

Can't Live With 'Em...

Computers.

I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with them, really. A lot of my work is heavily connected with them. I use them for the vast majority of my working day. When all is going well, they are incredibly useful tools that enable us to do many things we might not otherwise be able to do. When they go wrong, they make you want to set fire to your desk, and everything on it.

The problem is that we're so entirely reliant on them these days. A few weeks ago, for a long, boring fuse-related reason, I had no power to my desk and so my computer couldn't be switched on. I couldn't do anything (let me repeat that - anything) until the power had been restored. There was no aspect of my job that I could occupy myself with in the meantime. I was utterly helpless. I may as well have lost the use of my arms.

Over the last few days, I've been wrangling with a problem involving our radio playout system. It's my current (slightly cursed) responsibility to maintain it, and I've been having problems getting it to do one particular thing it needs to do. I shan't mention the name of the company we use, but they are a large one. They have, as all such companies do, a "help"line that hapless people like myself should call when one comes across a problem.

I rang first thing this morning. It's now late afternoon. They haven't called me back. What a great "help".

I daresay it will all sort itself out in the end, and without the computer, what I need to do would take a lot longer. But that doesn't stop me wanting to throw it out of the window.

But I can't even do that because the windows don't open. Why? Air conditioning. Controlled by a computer.

Is it me, or is it hot in here?

Toss It!

Ah, pancakes.

A simple concoction of flour, milk and eggs, whisked together and fried. Who's have guessed that the tradition pre-lent snack would cause so much excitement in our nation. We must get out more.

I like pancakes. I really do. I'm a traditionalist at heart, so it's the simple lemon and sugar for me. My wife likes golden syrup. Different strokes, I suppose. We had some in the office today, but because we haven't got anywhere to fry them, we had the microwave ones. They weren't the same, of course, but they weren't bad. And the lemon and sugar was in abundance, so all was well.

And when I go home tonight, we shall have a minimal dinner to leave maximum room for more fried batter covered in calories. I shall probably have the annual attempt to toss said pancake in my frying pan, but will end up scraping it off the floor, before my very-nearly-one-year-old-daughter crawls over and attempts to play with it.

So, if you're enjoying pancakes today, revel in the joy that they are about the most simple thing to make, but bring the most joy. Probably because most of us only really have them once a year.

But the most amazing thing about pancakes? Put the batter in a hot dish in the oven, and it'll turn into a yorkshire pudding!

Wonders will never cease.

Why The Tube Sucks

The Tube Sucks.

It's as simple as that. The London Underground is a nightmare.

Twice this week it has taken me an extremely long time to get home. Both times because a train was taken out of service. And what do I pay for this service? Six pounds a day. To go about ten miles. Rubbish.

I know that it was starved of investment for decades. That they're trying to catch up. That it will get better. That's all fine. But here's the problem. Next week they're extending the congestion charging zone in London, so more people will be forced onto the tube system to avoid paying the ludicrous eight pounds per day.

Why not get the public transport system up to scratch, and then charge people for driving.

Idiots.

Happy Friday

The Tipping Point

You may have noticed, eager reader, than on yesterday's entry I alluded to my valentine gift from my wife - a book I've wanted for ages. I thought that, perhaps, I might be overwhelmed with comments and enquiries as to what that book is. I haven't been. So, erm...thanks.

But I'm going to tell you anyway. It's The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell. I read his more recent book Blink a few months ago, and liked it enormously. It's really a book about how your instincts react in certain situations. It's full of fascinating examples and stories. I really enjoyed it.

I was, therefore, keen to investigate his previous book, The Tipping Point, in the hope that it would light my fire in the same way. It's a book about social epidemics - about how and why certain things that one minute no-one has ever heard of, all of a sudden are absolutely everywhere. How small changes can make a difference. I'm also enjoying this one, but am not far enough through it to offer a comprehensive review yet. But I'm sure I will. I know you can't wait.

The main reason I wanted to mention this today was an incredible, yet I'm sure quite true, fact that Gladwell uses to illustrate how small things make a big difference. Imagine you had a large piece of paper that you folded in half. Then folded in half again. And again. And you keep going until you have folded it in on itself fifty times. How high do you think the "stack" would end up being.

A few centimetres? A metre? Longer?

In actual fact, it would stretch from here to the sun. And if you folded it once more, it would reach from here to the sun, and back again.

Amazing, eh? You'd never think it would you? It's because the thickness of the paper rises exponentially. Isn't it interesting how our minds trick us?

So, I thought you'd find that interesting. By the way, don't actually try and fold a piece of paper that many times. You won't be able to. No matter how big the piece of paper is, you'll find it's impossible. The question here is entirely hypothetical.

I bet you'll try though.

Happy Valentines Day

I do hope that the postman was struggling to get to your door this morning, under the weight of all the post coming your way. As is traditional with married couples, I gave and received one card and present. The fair Gillian received a card from me, with an "I heart U" cuddly toy, and I received a card from her and a book I've wanted for ages. Allow me a few days to read it, and I shall, no doubt, pass on my thoughts.

I always find it difficult to come up with new ideas for Valentines Day. Romatic offerings do not really come very easily to me. Interestingly, the highlight of my day today has been nothing to do with my own valentines gifts, and everything to do with someone elses.

A colleague at my work (who shall remain nameless. You will see why.) was informing us this afternoon about the romantic (and frankly, incredibly creative) present that he joyously passed onto his lovely wife this morning. He made it himself, he said.

Wow, we thought. What magical, romantic gift has he spent many months crafting in his shed to pass on to the love of his life? What material offering could possibly communicate the love he holds for his dearest.

Answer? A pen holder.

Yep. A pen holder. A desk tidy, if you will. Made of toilet rolls.

He even informed us, as we rolled around on the floor in tears of hysteria, that "it looks rustic". In other words, he didn't even bother to paint it.

I should point out, for the sake of fairness, that his wife is doing a copy-editing course, so stationary is obviously something that is very important to her at this time in her life.

So there we are. Romance isn't dead. But it is tidy.

By The Power of Grayskull...

I have, this morning, been directed to one of the funniest things I have ever seen.

The internet brings us a myriad of useful information, entertainment, and a fair amount of nonsense too. This fair site fitting into the last category, I should think. One of the most popular web phenomenons is, of course, myspace - where all corners of the world come together via their computer.

A friend and a colleague today directed me here. Apparently, myspace is also available in Eternia.

All chaps of my age will recall the 80s hit of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. The evil nemesis in said cartoon series (which was, by the way, only produced to market the merchandise. I had it all) was Skeletor. It seems he's fallen on hard times and contributes his weekly, hilarious, musings to the online community.

The first video blog is, in my opinion, not the best. But they get better, and funnier, very quickly.

I'm aware that some browsers of my ramblings may be sensitive to some, erm, adult language, in which case give it a wide berth. But if you're willing to put up with such things, and particularly if you were a fan of the aforementioned cartoon, you must go here immediately.

When I was little, I really wanted a Snake Mountain. This was where Skeletor lived, and the toy of it had a voice changer in it, which excited me perhaps a little more than was healthy. Anyway, I never got one.

If only I had, the extra revenue may have just prevented an arch-villain's life becoming a little sad...

Slaying the Dragons

This week saw the return of one of my favourite shows in the history of television. Sadly, it may not have done so well ratings-wise, because it was on at the same time as England v Spain. Actually, come to think of it, it may have done rather well after all.

I refer, of course, to Dragon's Den. Sixty minutes of genius. It sounds simple enough; a panel of entrepreneurs is faced with a series of inventors, small businesses, idiots, and so on, hoping that they will invest in their venture in exchange for a stake in the business. Mostly, of course, they are laughed at and sent packing like the witless fools they are. Occasionally, they decide to have a punt. When you describe all this, it sounds more boring even than Des Lynam on Countdown, but trust me - it's deeply compelling.

The show's been running for a few years now, and most weeks the panel will decide to invest in one or two people. And we're talking a lot of money here - normally hundreds of thousands of pounds.

So, here's the thing. I have never (repeat never) seen any of the businesses supported by these businessmen in the real world. You'd think with the support of such successful people, the products would be in the shops, if not every home, or at least be available online. I do a lot of online shopping. Never seen any of them. Ever.

The one that sticks in my mind the most from a couple of years ago, was the highly acclaimed venture of putting umbrella vending machines in train stations. Imagine! The advantages are obvious. A wonderful idea, cried the panel, before throwing money and advice at the chap. Have I seen any in the stations I frequent? Nope. Would I like to? Well, certainly if it's raining.

So, anyway - good TV, but I suspect that's about it. And if you've seen an umbrella vending machine, let me know where. Maybe I can change my route.

Snow Breaks Everything!

You will not have failed to notice, if you are resident in the UK, that today it has snowed. A lot.

Opinions vary enormously as to whether or not this is a good thing. There are some people I could name who are loving the snow. These people are, of course, largely made up of children whose school has been closed. There are many people who detest the fact that the white stuff has descended. These are largely the parents of the aforementioned children.

It also causes chaos if you have to travel any distance. My wife didn't get into work today, but I must congratulate London Underground (yes, you read that correctly) for getting me into work in a time not too far removed from what it would normally take.

I was sitting at my desk, revelling in the fact that I'd made it in so easily, when a colleague of mine (who shall remain nameless) walked in. Actually, he more like stomped in, mumbling grumpily under his breath about the snow.

He hadn't been so fortunate in being unaffected by the weather. His train was delayed, but it wasn't the delays that bothered him - that was relatively understandable. What really riled him was the fact that the station indicator board (which was entirely undercover) had entirely died leaving him completely devoid of information. How on earth did the snow do that? I also believe that the BBC weather website went down for short period today due, I'm sure, to millions of people wanting to know if it was worth stepping outside their front door.

Another colleague had no buses on the way in, a power failure at the station when he eventually arrived. All after having had root canal treatment yesterday.

And so the snow has broken, at the very least, many train lines, indicator board, and the BBC. Although it is perhaps unfair to blame it for the root canal treatment.

I stubbed my toe this morning. I bet that was the snow as well.

A Surreal Morning

We were just on the news.

Well, I say we. I was nowhere near it. A couple of colleagues were just shown on BBC News 24 standing on the street, outside our building. Why? There was a suspect package at the building next door to work. What with three letterbombs going off in three days, it was minutes before our neighbours were evacuated, police vans were everywhere and TV crews were camped on the street outside. The cafe over the road did a roaring trade.

Anyway, it turned out to be nothing, and everyone left as quickly as they arrived.

The bombs so far this week have included the people who do the congestion charging, a company that deal with parking fines, and, this morning, the DVLA in Swansea. Someone's got it in for everyone and everything connected with cars.

So the business next door, is what? What high-profile company feared they might be next? CIMA. The Chartered Institute of Management Accountants.

I don't know what the package in question turned out to be. Perhaps a badly wrapped stapler.

Is It Only Me?

At the risk of turning this into a blog largely about supermarket shopping, I can no longer keep quiet about one of the most stressful experiences of my week. I have already mentioned how I normally do the shopping each week (normally on a Monday - my day off), so yesterday I found myself cruising the aisles as usual. This bit of the supermarket shopping is fine. Quite enjoyable, even, My quibble is not with filling the shopping trolley. It's at the till.

Now, I'm quite organised and efficient at this, I like to think. When loaded the conveyor belt, I put all the frozen things together, all the cold things together, all the dry things together. This, in my head, means that at the other end, I will be able to embark on a packing system that means that all the similar things are in the same bags. This, in turn, means that at home, unpacking it all will be a lot easier.

I do this every week. I think this every week. It goes hideously wrong every week.

Here's what actually happens when I get to the other end.

"Would you like any help packing?" says the kindly person on the till. Yes, of course I would. I'd love you to pack it all. Wouldn't anyone? Only people who enjoy packing bags would sanely answer in the negative to this kind offer. So what do I say?

"No, I'll be fine". Every week. Why? I think because to accept help would be to suggest that I'm a useless, helpless male who can't even pack bags in a supermarket. As one of the few men around the supermarket enviroment, I do often feel like I'm flying the flag.

So, she starts to scan the items through, and all begins well enough. I start to pack the bags pretty well. It'll be OK this week, I think to myself. Perhaps I've broken the curse. No. I never have.

What inevitably happens is that after a minute or two, it becomes abundantly clear that she is scanning the items quicker than I can pack them. A pile of increasing size is appearing just past the till. She's struggling to find enough space to put the newly scanned items. I start to panic. I'm losing control. I need to pack quicker. If I don't, she'll be waiting for me to finish packing and give her my card for forty-five minutes. A large queue will develop. People will hate me. They'll throw tomatoes at me. I'll be banned from the shop. I'll have to go twenty miles to do my shopping. By the time I get home, all the frozen stuff will have defrosted. I'll poison my family with it. I'll go to prison for manslaughter. Aarrggghhhhh!

I end up just chucking anything into a bag with anything, just to speed the process up. My carefully planned conveyor belt organisation goes out of the window. Bananas are thrown in with nappies. Chicken breasts with toilet rolls. It's a complete nightmare.

Of course, what happens in the end is that the cashier helps me when she's finished scanning. I pay and leave, and when I get home, it takes me about three minutes longer to unpack than it would should my system have worked.

Is it just me? Is it a man thing? Am I actually incapable of shopping. No-one else on the other tills seems to have this problem.

Shopping. It's bad for your health.

Taking It For Granted

Sleep. A simple thing, isn't it. Not complicated. At night, when tired, you sleep. You wake up, do the day, and go to sleep again at night. Fine.

At least, that's how it used to be. Last night, sleep was but a fleeting wish to me. And, indeed my wife.

I love my daughter. She's fabulous. Her giggle, her smile, her big sloppy kisses. When she waves, when she claps. Even when she's screaming, I love her to bits and pieces.

But last night she didn't get to sleep until about 2. And I got up shortly afterwards to host a radio breakfast show. Bizarrely, it went quite well. Perhaps I should sleep less often. Actually forget that. Don't tell my daughter I said it.

So my message to you, if you are young and without children is simple. You are probably up all hours, going to pubs and clubs and having a great time with friends. I used to stay up late a lot too.

But you've got it wrong. Sleep. Sleep while you still can...

A Difference of Opinion

Those of you who are married (or in any sort of involved relationship with anyone at all) will be well aware that, every so often, within that relationship, disputes occur. You will probably also know that these disagreements are normally about ridiculous things that make very little difference. Toothpaste tubes, toilet seats - you know the drill. I should say that those things rarely cause havoc in my house. Mind you, our toilet seat isn't actually attached to our toilet. Don't ask.

I am fortunate enough to be married to someone who is fairly willing to put up with my, occasionally, bizarre ways. She rarely moans at me. She is, indeed, lovely and patient. But there is one thing I like to do (nightly, if possible) that drives her completely up the wall in a way that is almost impossible to convey in print. It occurs weeknight at 8.30pm. On More4. I am referring to The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

Aired nightly on the Comedy Central network in the States, it is one of the funniest, most intelligent pieces of satire around. We get it here in the UK a day later.

I love it. Gillian hates it. "He shouts" apparently.

Well, yes, he does - I can't deny it. But it's what he shouts that is so genius.

If you're keen to see what I'm talking about, click here. Unless you're my wife. Or a fan of the American government.

Discover...

One of the things I hope you will note from my excessive, and often entirely pointless ramblings, is that I'm a bit of a music fan. I pride myself on being able to name pretty much any song from the late 80s/early 90s just from hearing the first 3 seconds of it.

Don't try it at home. I've been carefully trained.

My tube journeys to work are not complete without my trusty iPod (Nano, White, 4GB should you care). I almost always have it on shuffle. I like surprises.

One of the more recent additions to my in-transit entertainment has been the James Morrison album, Undiscovered. The man is a genius of music and lyric. Simple, intelligent songs, great melodies, fabulous voice. Go and buy it now. Go on, now. I'll wait for you.

Thanks. Enjoy.

Moon Biscuits

Being a dad brings with it an amazing range of tasks, from the mundane (nappy changing, lullaby singing, being sick on) to the strange...

Mondays are my day off, and as if to celebrate, I often go and do the weekly shopping. I'm referring, of course, to the more boring supermarket shopping rather than shopping for "leisure". Not that that's much fun either.

Two days ago was no different, and for reasons far too dull to inflict upon you here, I had a shopping list full of slightly obscure items that, for all I know, are unavailable pretty much everywhere except strange places down dark alleys. So, I was looking forward to spending several hours combing the aisles of Sainsburys (other supermarkets are available) looking for some of the most bizarre products you can buy without venturing into disreputable areas.

Before I left I was putting together a list of the things I needed, when Gillian (my lovely and long suffering wife) said the following. I kid you not.

"Oh, don't forget to pick up moon biscuits if you can".

I'm sorry? Did she say moon biscuits?

"Pick up some what?"

"Moon Biscuits"

Certainly, I thought. Shall I get some star digestives, or some solar bourbons while I'm there? Have you been swigging from the sterilising bottle?

Anyway, turns out such things do exist. They are naturally sweetened biscuits for babies and toddlers. Witness right.

You'll be pleased to know that I found them quite easily in the end. Which was slightly disappointing, as I was hoping to enjoy confounding an orange-fleeced Sainsburys official, who would inevitably resort to calling their manager to enquire after the lunar-based baby snacks.

Oh well. Never mind.

Welcome One and All!

Hello.

This is my new blog. Nice, isn't it?

I should really start with a bit of a confession. Although I have called this The Daily Dave, it's fairly safe to say that I won't be posting every single day. There are several reasons for this.

1) I have a baby daughter, Lucy, who is nearly one year old. Clearly, she takes up most of my time that isn't spent at work. But she's lovely, so that's OK.

2) I am a busy radio producer and presenter who lives a full and active life.

and the one that's, perhaps, the most important...

3) I'm only on ultra-slow, dial-up internet at home, and so need to do this during lunch at work and don't always have the time. At least not without being told off.

But, somehow, The Daily Dave rolls off the tongue a bit better. So there it is. Not quite accurate, but never mind.

So, who am I? Well, if you don't know me, I'm a 27-year old radio presenter and producer, living just outside London, and working for Premier Radio (link to the left). I have a wife, a baby (both of whom I love very much), and a mortgage (which I love considerably less). And that's sort of it, really.

My aim here to provide you with a regular insight into my day to day life. It's not very interesting, really, so wouldn't blame you if you never came back. But I hope to offer some wry observations of life, and generally hope to be passably diverting.

If you're very lucky, later in the week I'll tell you about a bizarre shopping trip I had this week looking for Moon Biscuits.

Seriously. They exist.

Come back soon, you lucky people.