Slow and Painful

My grandad is in the JR hospital. He's been in there for 9 days now. He went in due to being sick -- with blood in his vomit. He hasn't eaten for 9 days. It took the hospital 7 days to discover that he has a hernia that is blocking his bowel. He needs an immediate operation to clear the problem, otherwise -- as the surgeon put it -- he will die a slow and painful death.

Unfortunately -- due to the lack of food, as well as his low blood pressure -- he is too weak for the operation.

He has been given just "a few days or few weeks". They will do everything they can to make him comfortable.

Joy to the world.

Board to Death

My dad went up into the attic yesterday to store the empty boxes of his new widescreen TV, DVD and video bundle.

He managed to lose his footing and put his slippered size nine straight through the ceiling.

Thankfully he managed to grab onto the rafters -- so it was only a star-shaped section of plasterboard that crashed to earth -- as he was directly over the main stairwell...

A classic sitcom moment that could have resulted in a two storey fall.

He's getting a man in today to patch the ceiling and board the attic.

Unbelievably, despite buying a brand new digital camera last week, my mum failed to react quick enough and take a photo of dad's leg dangling through the ceiling. It did his hernia a world of good.

Air Today

The pushchair's rear onside wheel had a puncture yesterday. I fixed it last night and was surprised to discover that it was the first tyre puncture I've ever repaired. First one in 32 years.

I was left thinking what else I haven't done in the last 32 years:

Skiing
Rock-climbing
Pot-holing
Many other manly pursuits

On the flipside, I have dressed up in drag many times.

However, I can now add puncture repairing to my list of new skills. Plastering, plumbing and electricial engineering are scheduled to be added soon -- I want a complete career change.

The tyre was still inflated this morning, so unlike yesterday, India and Vic shouldn't be house-bound today.

Photo Negative

I've been set a dilemma here at work:

I have the twenty week scan photo of India on my desk. Vic framed it up for me in an attractive silver photo frame as a present. It's been sat on my desk for 30 weeks now. I love it.

On the day India was born -- the 13th of September -- my colleague Lisa had a miscarriage. It was the day of her 13th week scan. She never made the appointment.

Lisa sits six feet away from me.

She has had "issues" at work ever since -- clearly she is upset by baby talk, etc. I'm very careful to be sensitive to the situation.

Last week my boss queitly suggested that I might like to change my photo of India, or consider removing it from my desk. Apparently the scan photo brings it all back to Lisa.

I can appreciate this.

If she asked me directly, I would probably remove the photo instantly, but as the request is via my manager -- and I have quite a history of receiving downright rudeness from her over the last 2 and a half years (I don't like her) -- I am reluctant to remove the scan image.

I love the photo. It's been there 30 weeks.

So the dilemma is:

a) Remove the photo.

or:

b) Don't remove the photo and look like a complete c*nt.

A win-win situation.

I'm Wearing an Orange Wig

Tomorrow is "Wear a hat to work" day for Age Concern. Pay a quid to charity, wear a hat at your desk.

I look a fool in a hat, but will contribute by wearing my chef's hat. I may stuff it with paper to make it stand proud.

Today I'm wearing a "casual" shirt, rather than my normal "formal" shirts. I've decided to start expressing my individuality at work at bit more.

When I informed Vic of this change in work-wear policy, she suggested that if I want to express my personality at work, I should dress up in a clown suit.

[Honk! Honk!]

A Bad Week

I've had the flu for the last week. A voice like Barry White (I know he's dead -- that's what I mean), asthma to die for, and a five day course of steriods to make me look like the Hulk. In my hand I have a piece of paper from Mr. Doctor that is a prescription for a course of antibiotics. Thankfully the phelm has cleared enough -- due to the steriods giving me enough lung capacity to shift it -- that the prescription isn't necessary. Still coughing up strings and blobs of grey, green and yellow spittle, but hey, I'm alive... and back to work.

The astma is a real worry though -- a subject to deal with at another time.

Of course, the flu didn't exactly help my exam preparation -- it kicked in two nights before the big day. Neither did the International football either -- poor old Wales missing out again. I'm sure my hacking and spluttering cheered up all my fellow exam-sitting students no end. There's nothing worse than taking an exam next to a sniffler is there...

And I had a filling last Tuesday too.

And I had to hold India at the Doctors on Thursday while she had her first set of jabs. She screamed like a banshee. The needle was at least 3 inches long and stuck twice deep into her leg muscles. A real cocktail of nasties were injected and she's not really been herself since.


...But not that bad.

The exam went OK.

England are World Rugby Champions.

I won a four pack of beers off my Aussie mate Keir (well done Jonny W). "The Empire Strikes Back!"

India's been developing at a rapid pace -- she's a smasher!

Mark (from Chicago) visited for one night only -- we hadn't seen him for 15 months, so it was ace to catch up. He also fixed the PC.

Oxford United are top of the league!

Ghostly Mountain Retreat

We're up in Carlisle at the Inlaws. I'm revising for my retake exam next week at the usual mountain retreat. Keeping the dog away from India has been distracting: he's bemused and bewildered by the baby. He doesn't know whether to protect her or eat her...

India's been "talking" over the last couple of weeks. She'll mimic your grunts and goo-goos. Then do some of her own. It's very cool.

Weirdly though, when left on her own for a few minutes in the Inlaws old house, she suddenly bursts into mucho excited talking.

To thin air.

Like there's a ghost.

Then when you reappear, she quietens down.

Even the suggestion that India might be seeing dead people -- and many so-called experts reckon children and animals can sense ghosts and spirits -- freaks Vic out.

Its behind you.

Happy Nappy Hands

We have replenished our home hand cream stocks and Lisa at work has donated me a tube of concentrated Neutrogena hand cream -- the Norwegian fisherman's choice apparently*. As a result my hands are slowly getting back to normal. No more eczema or knuckles that look like elephant knees.

* Which would account for the slight fishy smell.


The Quiet Month of October

I've noticed that the majority of Blogs that I read have been very quiet over the last few weeks. It would appear as if October is a quiet month for Bloggers -- like the housing market is quiet in January and February. I've tried to spot a trend, but can only come up with everyone seems miserable and can't be bothered to write about it.

Fair dinkum.

My excuse -- apart from the 9 lb 4 oz bundle of joy / poo-machine -- is my Blog time has been diverted to setting up a blogsite for the Oxford magic community. As I haven't been playing much recently, I've had to satisfy my magic hunger in other ways...

Look No Hands

My hands are wrecked. Having babies does that to you apparently. There's so much washing of hands after nappy changes, bottle sterilising, dummy-picking up, etc. that your hands are left in tatters. Oh how sweet and soothing hand cream is.

Happy Birthday Steph

Our best friend Steph is 30 years old today.
Happy Birthday girlfriend! [as Mark would say]

Hard to believe really, as I still regard Steph as being a teenager -- just like Vic.

It was at Steph's 18th birthday party that I first set eyes on Vic and thought "Phwoar, she's the one for me!".

It's therefore extremely satisfying that 12 years on, I still think the same -- "Phwoar, she's the one for me!" -- about my Yummy Mummy wife.

We're taking Steph out for lunch to celebrate.

Two Weddings, One Option

We were invited to two weddings that took place last weekend:

Larry's in Scotland and Vics brother's in Kent.

Darren and Christine's was on Friday, Larry and Carole's was on Sunday, and the logistics -- and 500 mile trip -- conspired against us attending both.

Family comes first (at least in the world of Eastenders), so unfortunately we missed Lazza and Cazza's. [Grimace]

Darren and Christine's do was smashing though: Lympne Castle was a majestic venue and they were blessed with warm sunshine, good food and our company.

Not only did they copy our castle location wedding idea, but Darren ripped half of his speech directly from mine. It was if he'd sat down and transcribed our wedding video, changing the names to protect the innocent. Of course, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Christine looked magnificent, as did I. Nobody could believe that Vic was so slim -- she has already lost her pregnancy tummy. India was incredibly well behaved -- both during the wedding and over the two nights in the hotel -- and everyone (and I mean everyone) pointed at her hair and exclaimed "oooohhh... look at how much hair she's got!" as their first impression of her.

My baby's going to get a complex.

Darren and Christine are now either in Vancouver or Hawaii. A hockey and hula hula honeymoon. Lucky devils.

First Prawns, Now Nappies

Vic has a habit of smelling prawns. Whenever she buys a prawn mayonnaise sandwich from Marks & Spencers, I have to watch her pick out every prawn -- one by one -- and sniff them to see if they are "off" or not. It's obsessive.

She has now taken to doing to same thing with India's nappy.

"Does she need a change?"

"Let me have a good sniff... No!"

I know it's one of those Things Parents Do, but I didn't expect Vic to be in the habit in just four weeks.


Feeding Time At The Zoo

The other night, when India's internal alarm clock went off at 1:27 am to let us all know she needed feeding, I admit to feeling a little bit

"Fragga ragga, look at the time, I'm knackered and not enjoying this."

But by 2:27 am, after I'd fed and winded her, and we were both tucked-up back in our respective beds, I felt a warm glowing sense of contentment.

"Ace, I've just fed my daughter and she's happy."

A wonderful feeling, and one that I'd managed to forget by 3:30 am last night ;)


Let's Watch The Football Daddy

Our first match watched together will be the big game tomorrow -- if it goes ahead. I expect a nail-biting nil-nil draw -- as without Owen, England are unlikely to score -- and a full understanding of the off-side rule from India.

Paternity Leave Over

I'm back at work -- something I dreaded-- as my paternity leave is over.
The last three weeks have been the quickest of my life. It feels more like four or five days.
The days have flown by. A repetitive cycle of feeding, winding, changing, cuddling, playing, comforting and sleeping. It's exhausting and eats up the time in a blur.
I don't think we realised how much hard work is was going to be.

India has been great. We've been very lucky.

Unlike some of the other babies from our ante-natal group, India has been feeding and sleeping brilliantly. Although we've had a few moments of griping and crying, she's settled into life outside of the womb well.

To give you some idea of what's been happening here's a quick round-up:

~ Our PC went down just before she was born, so no downloading of photos off the digital camera and no blog updates at a most interesting time.
~ We have already changed 130 nappies.
~ Vic's boobs have grown two or three cup sizes.
~ But I can't go near them.
~ India likes watching the snooker on the TV until 1:00 am.
~ She is now wide-eyed and alert.
~ She passed her hearing test and reacts nicely to sounds around her.
~ She is already smiling.
~ Even when she hasn't got wind.
~ She's now on one formula bottle each day -- the last one at night so that Vic can go to bed at 9:15 pm and sleep for a while in peace.
~ Her poo looks like French mustard and smells wheaty [I know you wanted this info!].
~ Changing your own baby is a very natural and pain free process. Natural programming kicks in and you just get on with it.
~ It's not just boys that can aim their wee: India is very talented at arcing a fountain over the cot and onto my pyjamas and feet.
~ She's changing every day and it's magic.

Anyway, PC's back online, so updates will be back online too.

The Eagle Has Landed

She's here.

India Autumn Yates was born at 10:50 GMT, Saturday the 13th of September, 2003. Weighing in at 6 lbs 8 oz, with a shock of black hair, she is, as the midwife put it, perfect.

We've been walking on cloud nine ever since.

I am so happy.

Things started for Vic at 23:00 on Friday night, straight after we got home from a pizza out with Emma and Scott. I think it was the chilli peppers on my American Hot that put things in motion.

Vic coped with the contractions with four baths and a shower throughout the night, whilst I managed an hour of sleep on the (brand new) bathroom carpet.

We called the midwife for advice at 03:30, but didn't call her out until 7:15. Vic was 6 to 7 cm dilated by then. She was brilliant.

The midwife Norma broke Vic's waters (watch out brand new bathroom carpet!) and we endured a slow 30 minute car ride to Wallingford. The guy in front stuck to the speed limit all the way >:(

Once at the hospital, she was fully dilated, so Vic jumped in the birthing pool -- absolute heaven -- and two hours of pushing later, out India glided.

Vic held her for a few minutes and then I had her -- skin-to-skin - for 30 minutes whilst Vic was checked over and cleaned up.

Complete magic.

Both mum and mini-poppet are home now and it's going really well.

Thank you to everyone for the cards, flowers and messages of congratulations.

I'm so proud of my girls.

365 Days Later

Tomorrow this blog is one year old. Happy birthday Blog.

However, as it's September 11th tomorrow, I won't be celebrating the fact this on-line diary has out-lived my previous pen and paper diaries by at least 49 weeks. No, tomorrow -- as long as I'm not in the middle of labour -- will be a quiet day of reflection. I shall close my eyes and remember the images of two years ago. And although I don't believe in God, I shall say a little prayer for those who perished.


Jump London

Channel 4's Jump London -- a documentary about the French pioneers of Free Running -- was shown last night and it was spellbinding. The master gymnasts / acrobats / stuntmen / fitness freaks free-ran 14 of London's most famous buildings and landmarks in a single day. And in some style, using precision jumps, leaps of faith, wall-crawling and cat leaping to turn the city into a playground. Their philosophy is a progressive mix of Bruce Lee's martial arts and Star Wars Jedi.

Unfortunately the program's use of drum and bass, cut-aways, and stupid camera angles / close-ups meant the viewer missed much of the classy action. But as a showcase for this new urban sport -- basically a pure form of extreme sports (e.g. skateboarding without the board) -- it was an impressive and unparalleled success.

It made me wish I was 16, fit, flexible and ten stones again. Pass me my running shoes.

Here's the best UK Free Running site I could find. Check out some of the (large) black and white jpegs for a taste of what it's all about.


Baby Update

I assembled the cot last night. It's a honey coloured cage. With a cute Humphrey Elephant Musical Mobile that Vic's workmates bought us. We're all set.

Practise What You Preach

I'm (still) studying for my CIMA exams. Many of the course modules deal with communication, systems and process management, e-commerce and the importance of looking after your customers.

Ruffles used to work at CIMA, and has many stories regarding the organisations lack of organisation. Most revolve around being unable to meet the expectations and requirements of their customers. Or to smoothly perform those fundamental tasks that are CIMA's bread and butter. For example, at exam entry time CIMA would be so overwhelmed by the weight of entries that the exam entry department would recruit everyone from all the other departments to process the things. John Smith, chef from the CIMA staff canteen, was likely to make errors when processing exam forms -- errors that could have costly implications and inconvenience for CIMA students.

In an attempt to improve the exam entry process -- and cut costs -- CIMA has now gone to a process of on-line exam entry. Great if you have access to a PC, not so great if you don't. To facilitate the process they sent out a log in Contact ID to all students through the post, and a secret password via email, to all students.

Except they didn't.

I got my password, but not my Contact ID. Lynn here at work got neither. And we weren't the only ones.

So when I try to log in on the site, it throws me off -- my Contact ID (I guess that is must be my Student Number) is invalid.

So I click the "mail to" link -- for help with on-line exam entry -- and send them an email requesting my ID.

I don't get an immediate "thank you for your query... it will be dealt with asap" automated response. Three days later I do get a "the postmaster says this email account is a dud" one.

So Lynn phones them up using the dedicated on-line exam entry help line. She is on hold for 15 minutes, then transfers the call to me. I am on hold for a further 15 minutes before CIMA hang up on us.

So I track down the correct email address and send them a new email.

No response.

Eventually we get through on the phone and get our IDs and passwords.

I log on to discover the site is complete shite. It should be a simple case of click on the exam hall you want to sit at, click on the exam papers you want to sit, close shopping basket, click on the payment method, complete transaction, bingo.

Except the pages kept failing to load properly, the user-friendliness was very poor, options to undo any errors were non-existent and updating your personal details and payment methods took forever. A complete mess.

But we managed to fight through the systems and book our exam papers. I even printed out the receipt showing my hall, papers and payment.

Yesterday Lynn and I both received requests for payment for our exams through the post, with the threat that unless we pay up by the 30th of September, we'll be dumped by CIMA and charge £50 in administration fees.

But I've already paid you stupid time-wasting idiots!

Not only that but my (increased) fees have gone to pay for all these extra bills, postal charges, customer helpline man-hours, website development and computer server capacity.

A piece of advice: Read your own course notes and stop wasting my time and money, because at the moment you'd make a great case study of now not to conduct e-commerce or customer-facing business.

The whole thing completely undermines the faith CIMA students have in their qualification's award body. No doubt we'll get an apology [cough].

Baby Boom, Shake the Room

Nothing happening as yet. She's still in there, snug as a bug.

Even a full four hours of high volume tunes on Saturday night failed to coax her out. Although I'd secretly hoped that Vic's waters might burst all over the dance floor, nothing happened. The most exciting thing -- apart from Dexy's Midnight Runners, seeing Scott dance, and getting a flash of Sarah the Bride's stockings and suspenders* -- was sharing some excellent chips, and a battered sausage, with Simon. Scott even managed to duck out of our Grand Rap Battle Showdown Challenge.

I claim moral victory!

"Scott, you a yellow belly,
you lost much respect,
like Des Lynham,
da fool on the telly."

[Clenched fist punching the air like Rocky / Gladiator]


* Phwoar!

Butchered

The house to the west of ours is rented. There is an apple tree in the garden. I don't think it has been pruned in its lifetime -- the leader branches reach for the sky and the main body of the tree is growing into itself. Last year the fruit crop was very poor, the tree was diseased, and the leaves dropped weeks before they should have done. This year's crop has recovered somewhat, but the leaders have grown longer, overhanging our garden, blocking out the light and dumping sacks of rotten fruit onto our pathways and borders.

The tree desperately needed the attentions of a qualified tree surgeon, so I contacted the landlord's management agency directly and asked them to send someone round to cut it back. With a little tenderness, love and care, the tree had the potential to be a beautiful and healthy specimen.

I got home on Tuesday to discover that the apple tree had been butchered.

Instead of pruning the tree, cutting out the dead wood, chopping back the unsightly leaders and giving the tree a proper MOT, the dim-witted gardeners had just hacked off every single limb that cleared the boundary wall between our two properties.

The tree is now completely misshapen and is so lopsided it risks toppling over in a storm.

A total mess, and I'm quite upset about it. I don't think the tree will now survive the winter.

Idiots.

Ikea Snake Update

Just as I'm in a position to justify a purchase of the legendary green soft toy, Ikea change the design from evil lime green to a hideous multicoloured puke. My precious Ikea Snakes no longer resemble the Serpent who reminded Adam and Eve of the need for five portions of fresh fruit and vegetables each day. No -- they now look like draught excluders.

Those Swedish fools...


Congratulations

Sally and David's wedding was great. Heythropp Park was a beautiful venue and Sally matched it -- she looked sensational.

Both of them were bags of nerves though.

In the ceremony, David managed to grunt "Hmmm-hmmm!" instead of saying "Yes, I do!" -- incurring the wrath of the registrar -- and Sally managed to burst out laughing at the mention of her name.

In the line-up, when I shook Sally's hand, gave her a kiss and told her "Congratulations!"... all she managed to say was "Congratulations!" straight back at me.

[Wedding auto-pilot is on]


Colleague Update

I haven't commented on my colleagues recently, and as this blog got its first stranger links on the back of colleague-related back-biting, it's time we had an update.

Tina

She went on holiday to Greece with her sixteen year old daughter Catherine. Whilst Tina drank a cocktail by the pool side, Catherine took a refreshing swim. A middle-aged man approached Tina, sat down on the sun lounger beside her, and without taking his eyes off Catherine opened the conversation with:

"A sixteen year old girl and a suitcase of viagra, in my hotel room for a week, is what I call a good holiday..."

On their way home, they smuggled an extra litre of vodka past customs by tipping it into an empty Evian water bottle. Upon arrival back home, Tina noticed that many of her house plants were desperate for a drink.

So she used the bottle of "Evian"...

Mandy

Last week Mandy received 12 text messages from a random stranger, who apparently had been given a wrong number by a fleeting acquaintance. They were all along the lines of "I can't wait to have your wet **** on my face, so I can lick you out." quickly followed up with "I love you".

She tried to phone him back, but he unfortunately refused to pick up.

Julian

Since December Julian hasn't said a word. That's eight months of silence. He didn't even say anything when:

1) He collapsed in the office.
2) I sent him a £100 Congestion Charge bill (mock-up) from London Mayor Ken Livingston as an April Fool.
3) We decorated his desk for his 30th birthday.
4) I was the only guy out of 200 to wear my shorts to the company BBQ. ["The legs, the legs!"]
5) Terrorists, dressed in gorilla suits, took his framed studio-posed photo of himself and Eileen hostage.

Mandy tried to track down his Friends Reunited entry. There isn't one, but there is this snippet of mystery from an old school friend/bully.

Off The Booze

With less than three and a half weeks to go to D Day I'm off the booze. This is in case I get the emergency "Go Go Go!" call from Vic and have to put my foot down to the hospital. Needs must. I'm going to drive to Sally and David's wedding this Sunday to ensure I'm not tempted to have more than two glasses of champagne.

Expected Benefits: Some weight loss

Catch Me If You Can

Last Wednesday Larry popped in after his touch rugby session at Chinnor had finished. I was dealing with a call from Barclays Bank Fraud Protection – who were telling me that Vic’s debit card had been cloned and £300 of damage put on it – at the time, so was a bit air-headed.

I forgot to tell Vic (or Keir) that Larry was over again this week and that we’d arranged to meet up at the rugby club for a post-match BBQ. Larry’s better half, Carole, was coming over too.

So Vic was surprised when Larry phoned last night and asked her if “we’re still on for tonight?”. I got the usual Zero Notice is a Bad Thing grilling.

We managed to get up to the rugby club in time to see Larry refereeing the Grand Men’s Final. Very authoritative he was too, with a proper black & white ref’s jersey and a whistle. Carole was nowhere to be seen: she was asleep in the car. It took a few minutes to work out the rules – is it 5 or 6 touches before the ball is turned over to the opposition? – but I soon got the hang of what was going on. I’ve got to say that touch rugby looks a lot of fun. I may well give it a go myself next year, as long as I’m fitter than I am now. In my current state I’d be throwing up after two minutes of intensive running and twisting.

The post BBQ highlights included:

Larry revealing that he doesn’t like films (exceptions to the rule are Dirty Dancing and Wizard of Oz).
Larry spilling a whole pint of bitter when I started to sing Queen’s “Who wants to live forever” to him (Carole is Scottish and likes Highlander).


Who’s In Da House?!

I’ve always been a fan of hip hop. Bringing the noise to my boys since 1987!

My mate Tim Westwood tells me that being called Big Dog is a great honour in the black urban ghettos of Brixton and Thame. Well homies, my Baby Girl Vicster has been calling me Big Dog for years now, unaware that she was setting a new trend for my brothers and sisters on the street. Knowing that I'm the cream of the hip hop crop has me all fired up for my big rap battle showdown with Justin Ruffles next month at Sarah and Gareth’s wedding.

“I’m like a bug. I’m gonna bite.
There’s only one winner of this fight.
Ruffles can scratch, but my rhymes still itch.
Leave the stage, you’re my mother friggin’ b*tch!”

It’s going to be massive. I’m a bomb.


Practise Makes Perfect

When Gaby got made redundant she left behind a little friend for me. Chookie is a 19 inch black cock. He is a soft toy Cheeky Chums rooster, with beady eyes and an aura of general evilness. I love him and he’s one of the few genuine friends I have at work.

His current role is to act as a substitute baby. I’m using him to practise holding a baby and doing things – such as typing on a keyboard. Secretly I think he quite enjoys it.

I am resisting the urge to take him home and dress him up in some of our new baby clothes.

One Down, Lots More To Come

James phoned us at 10:30 pm last night. He is a proud new father. Little Amy arrived safe and sound at 2:40 pm yesterday afternoon. Rachel managed to avoid the nastiness of being induced by letting her waters break a mere three hours before the inducement deadline. She negotiated the ten hour labour with just gas and air, and both baby and mum are fine.

James was celebrating on his own with a can of Fosters. He was on cloud nine. "I'm a dad!" was his opening line.

After I'd got off the phone with him I was buzzing. I can't wait for our D Day!


Lady of Leisure

Vicster finished work on Friday. She is now on maternity leave and is officially a Lady of Leisure. Yesterday was shopping and tidying up. Today is going to the cinema with Emma and Ruffles. I'm not sure I'm going to like this once the novelty has worn off.

Ante-Natal Group

The dinner with James and Rachel went really well. So much so, we invited them over to ours last Wednesday. We traded their spaghetti [correctly predicted as the dish of the day beforehand] for our BBQ. James and Rachel are now on tender hooks (not because I may have undercooked the chicken) as they are due to deliver tomorrow, with an inducement deadline of Monday the 18th.

We’re still meeting up with the other Fat Ladies each Thursday at the pub to share experiences and anxieties. The numbers are dwindling each week as girths increase and higher levels of discomfort kick in. The number of partners drinking alcohol is also dropping off as more and more approach the “drop everything and drive me to the hospital” four weeks to go stage.

The record heat and humidity levels have been causing Vic some aggravation, but we managed to escape for a few days with a weekend up in Carlisle at my in-laws. The North West was a good 10 degrees cooler and lacked the steam room air quality. We managed two nights of quality sleep. Sweet. And the dog was fine.

Took the tour at Wallingford’s community hospital. It was so much better than the JR: Natural light, friendly midwife, fresh and soothing paint, intimate and informal. The venue has been selected.

Our baby wardrobe is busting out. We’ve received so many great gifts from people that our new arrival will be able to wear three or four different outfits every day of her first three months. Bring on the sick! She’s going to look a million dollars when she accompanies me to all those Magic tournaments.

Five weeks and counting.



The Football Season Starts

The new football season seems to start earlier and earlier each year. It shouldn’t start in the middle of a high summer heat wave, or the summer cricket Test Series, but it has. If you put a quid on Oxford United winning each of their matches 1-0, you’d probably end up quids in by the end of the season. Promotion? Probably a better chance than last year, but not as strong as the bookies seem to think.

Hospital Cell Block JR

"And this is one of our delivery dungeons..." said the midwife, opening the door to a dimly lit box-room, with no natural light and a low ceiling. "We have a drawer full of implements over here, next to the prison-bed. Gas and air is continously pumped into the room to alleviate some of your pain." The lone spotlight caught a thin smile on her face. The giant clock -- much too big for the size of the room, and positioned so the mother-to-be can see how many hours she has been in agony -- ticked ominously on, counting down to Delivery Day.

"Here we have the birthing pool, for those ladies who are crazy enough to want to give birth in water. To make it look slightly less like a 1960's James Bond villian's lair, we have painted sea creatures -- including a giant man-eating octopus -- on the walls in soothing bright orange."

"After the birth you shall be housed on these wards. Curfew is between the hours of 12 noon and 3 p.m.: the lights will be switched off and there well be no talking or visitors."

We were less than impressed with the JR facilities last night. It was like being back at school: the place looked tired and stank of nasty dinners. Vic's been asking friends who have delivered at the JR what it's really like and I've tried to remind her we are not going into hospital to enjoy the decor, but going for the medical skills.


Dinner With New Friends

We're off to dinner at James and Rachel's tonight. They are our "new friends" from ante-natal classes, and seem to be really cool people. Being a complete food snob, I'm praying their tastes are similar to ours. I'm also hoping we don't have too many uncomfortable silences.


911 Disturbance

Another fight from our next door neighbours kicked off at 10 last night, spilling out into the street, with at least one solid punch thrown. They sounded as if they were coming through the walls, with internal doors banged repeatedly and the sounds of screaming, shouting and breakages resonating. When the thug boyfriend shut his 6 year old daughter outside -- so she wouldn't have to see her father abusing her new "mum" -- and she was left crying "please don't fight... Daddy, please open the door!", I was ready to phone the police. Then he left. We feared for her safety.

For her sake, I hope he doesn't return. If she lets him back into her life, she's a fool. That was the fourth or fifth time they've had a fight in as many months. Why put yourself through that?

This morning we found a note pushed through the letterbox from her saying "I want to apologise for the disturbance tonight."

Her handwriting was completely stressed.

Project Completed

Feeling more positive today about the exam flunk. We had a busy and productive weekend, which has raised my spirits and allowed me to forget my studying short-comings.

We grouted the kitchen floor tiles, touched up the paintwork and attached the skirting boards. Apart from some new covers for the lights, the Kitchen Project is completed.

[I can see Scott trembling]

We also stained the bathroom cupboard, re-attached the doors, and finished the tiling. Apart from a little grouting -- to be done this evening -- and a carpet, the Bathroom Project is completed (20 months later).

[I can see Scott's head spinning round on his shoulders]

Tonight we have our tour of the JR hospital baby facilities.

Exam Results

Bad news. The Grey Squirrel Gods have frowned on me.

Four exams.
One pass, one near-miss, two clear fails.
One out of four is the result. I'm still not a fully qualified accountant, I still have a future of taking the damn exams (retakes ahoy), and I'm gutted.
I feel hollow and flat.

Four passes would have been a passport out of my sh*t job, but with so little return for 3 months hard work, I just don't know what I'm going to do.
Vicster -- with her emotional state working its magic -- was tearful when I opened the envelope*, and I feel terrible for letting us, as a family unit, down.

With three retakes in November an unlikely proposition considering the September arrival of our new-born, the earliest I'm going to complete this final stage of exams is next May, with results in June 2004.

So on top of all the work I'm going to have to redo -- when I would rather be enjoying the company of my new baby and lifestyle -- my career and earnings are effectively put back 12 months.

I am so looking forward to taking all those calls from family and friends later today and this evening. They'll be phoning in the expectation of hearing some good news, and I'm going to have to gloomily repeat the above thoughts to them over and over again.

"Bad luck" and "Don't worry, atleast you got one of them" don't cut the mustard in making me feel any better.

F*ck I feel low.



* I knew it was bad news ahead of opening the results: If you've passed them all the envelope you receive is a big fat one, packed with additional information about what to do next. If you've failed one or more, you just get the single-sheet results in a thin, standard-letter envelope. And that's what the postman pushed through our letter-box...

Lean Mean Igniting Machine

We saw Larry at the weekend. He's half the man he used to be: Carole has put him on a diet and he's lost two stone since we saw him last. Beefy and buff, the diet has made him look years younger.

Larry's weight-loss should act as an inspiration for me. I've been on a casual diet now for about 6 weeks, and so far have lost a grand total of 3 pounds. The second phase has begun: I've done a few sit ups and Vic has decided to suppress my sugar cravings with a supply of dried fruits.

I'm really not used to prunes.


They are especially unkind when you're "looking forward" to your life-changing exam results...
15 hours to go.

Road Kill Tally

+1 Hedgehog
+1 Grey Squirrel

Frankly every extra grey squirrel run over is a bonus for me.

[Random Blog Reader]: "WTF?! You're an evil person Nobby if you're happy to see one of my cute furry little friends squashed flat on the tarmac, with their innards gushing out like candy floss. You're animal-hating scum!"

Woah there! Let me explain!
Grey squirrels are vermin. They're tree rats. Their introduction to these shores has decimated Britain's native Red Squirrel population. If it was a rat squashed on the road you'd not get upset at it, and neither would I.

Dead hedgehogs on the other hand are a far more prickly subject.



Punch the Fist

James Gibson won our first men's swimming gold medal at the World Championships for 28 years. Quite an achievement. I listened to it live on the radio and punched the fist when he touched home in the lead. I've got no interest in swimming, but always at emotional when one of Great Britain's atheletes performs to their peak and brings home the bacon. I always think of the years of training and emotional investment they make in their chosen sport and being able to say "I'm the best in the World" is fab.

The 50m sprint race sounded great on the radio. Unlike track and field sprints -- like the 100m -- where the race is over before the commentator has chance to even say all of the competitors names, the 50m swim sprint was just long enough for the guy to convey the speed, drama and excitement of the whole thing. He had a nice steady tempo curve building up to the climax of the last few meters. I the listener was able to visualize James Gibson's slow start, steady claw back, and dramatic finger-tip win. Great radio.

Well done the commentator and well done James!

Road Kill Rewards

On the way into work this morning I had the pleasure of seeing three baby ferretts cross the road in front of me. They glided their way across like a silk ribbon, snaking in formation, red fur glimmering in the sun.

They were lucky I didn't run them over.

The road from Thame to Postcombe is currently a prime road kill hot spot. A Death Valley for critters. Today's tally was:

1 Badger
1 Fox
3 Rabbits
1 Hedgehog

When I see a large animal -- such as the badger or fox -- dead at the roadside, I always feel ashamed that it was one of Man's machines that caused it.

The only winners of the carnage are the Red Kites that flock down to Death Valley to pick up the carrion. These magnificent giant birds have been accused of decimating the local wildlife populations, but in fact just eat carrion, rather than hunt and kill fresh meat.

I suppose that in the end we're swapping the beauty of the fox for the beauty of the red kites.

I must get some black rabbit-silhouette kill transfers for my car.


Big Brother

I've got £2 on Cameron at 6-1. Sweet, considering he's now odds-on favourite to win it. At the time I put my prudent little bet on, Lynn at work followed my lead putting on a massive £10, despite the fact she "never gambles".

Yesterday she revealed it wasn't £10 she'd staked, but actually a whopping £50! So if Cameron wins, that's a rather nice return of £350, or a profit of £300.

That's six pairs of shoes ladies.

It's Been A Bad Fortnight

My grandad is currently in the local cottage hospital, having come through his prostate operation poorly, not eating for 5 days and falling over 4 times in 24 hours. I was extremely concerned about him last week, but things have improved over the weekend: he his eating small meals and is less confused and tired. He needs another week or two in hospital and the quality care the nurses there can give him.

I got my pay review at work. It was exactly half of the minimum I'd set for them to meet. 50 percent short of the line in the sand. I was angry enough to tell my boss that it basically forces me to look for another job. I get my exams results this Friday and they will determine what I look for...

Unless my boss comes up with some new goods, I'm outta here: I can't work for a sh*t company, with sh*t people, for sh*t money, any more.

Ear We Go, Ear We Go, Ear We Go!

No scalpel and no Van Gogh profile. The strains of Little Green Bag are not playing. It's something to do with the cartilage, rather than a cyst, or cancer, or cauliflower ears. The Doc said to leave it -- the growth will either disappear or grow to the size of a pea. If it gets pea-sized, they'll whip it off, anything smaller isn't worth the mess and risk of infection.

I look like a freak.



The School Play Review

I didn't get round to blogging up my review of the WWII epic put on by Emma's school. I was truly amazed by their talents. We had laughed beforehand about what I would have written for them to act -- a full blown reconstruction of the whole war -- but I've got to say that they could have coped with anything.

As it was, the play was the usual "what was it like for the children of London during the Blitz?!" affair. We got excited at the scene listing in the programme -- "The D-Day Landings" & "Pearl Harbour" -- which seemed to promise papermache arms and legs being blown-off Saving Private Ryan style, but unfortunately Emma's glue budget must have dried up so the Special FX were restricted to radio announcements and sounds of The Mysterons / Cybermen attacking.

Best line (apart from the one below) was:

"Frank, meet Hank... Hank, meet Frank..."

Here's the PC email I sent to Emma the next day (for reading out to the kids). Typically she has failed to respond.

"Hello Emma / Miss C

Just a quick note to tell you how much I enjoyed last night's school play.

I thought the acting, dancing and singing was of an excellent standard. So too, the costumes and set design.

The rousing finale was particularly passionate and moving. Gareth and I sang along with the chorus of "There will always be an England". Cracking, patriotic, stuff.

My favourite line of the play was:

"Let's 'ava cuppa tea!" -- it summed up all that is great about Britain and captured the spirit of the East End of London during the Blitz. People supporting each other in the country's darkest hour.

The hall looked great too: I loved the painted aeroplanes -- they gave the hall the right atmosphere.

Two slight disappointments for me:
1) The homemade lemonade ran out before I got a glass.
2) You didn't sing the "Spam, spam, spam, spam!" song.

Never mind...

I'm really looking forward to the next play. Well done everyone!

All the best

Nobby

(Not Scott)"

Ear Today, Gone Tomorrow

On Friday I noticed that I've got a growth on the top of my ear. It looks like a blister but is hard and making the rest of the ear red. It's probably just a cyst, but it's freaking me out -- I'm obviously thinking the worse. I've booked an appointment at the doctors for an hour's time. Hopefully they will take a scalpel and whip it off.

The cyst, not the ear.

I'm hoping the disfigurement will not be as great as Evander Holyfield's.

Who Do You Think You Are Kidding?

You may remember that I was up for writing and directing Emma's (primary) school play about WWII.

She dropped me, in favour of some random teacher, without even a word in explanation*.

Oh the fickle world of the theatre.

Tonight is opening night and Emma has invited us along. Although I had considered boycotting the red carpet, I'm not bitter, so we will be attending.

I'm taking along a notepad and camera to record the show, and aid my full and frank review of it tomorrow. If it's not up to scratch, she'll get both barrels, Winner's Dinners style.

I'm just worried that the parents might think I'm a pervert, photographing and making notes on their children...


* She probably feared that I would have the kids dressed up in replica SS uniforms.

Baby Blog Boom

You want to know how the pregnancy is going. Am I right?!

Then you need to keep tabs on Vicster's new blog. She's finally succumbed to the lure of the Blog. And its pretty darn good too. Fat Ladies Club online. BTW, the pink colours are not a clue to the sex of our baby. No siree.

Action Cow

A cow that attempts to wipe out your car and pregnant wife by lurking in its field, until the very last moment, and then leaping up over a stone wall inches from your front hood. Native to single track roads in Cornwall. Highly dangerous. Once their attack is foiled by ABS and a screaming wife, they look at you blankly -- whilst you reprimand them for a couple of minutes -- trying to act as innocently as possible.

I love cows, but these blighters make even me swing towards dairy intolerence.

Heave Tally Ho

JT is a fox, so he must be happy at the news that the House of Commons has at last voted to ban fox hunting in England. I know I am. Unnecessary, barbaric and cruel, it serves no purpose other than to provide toffs with a leisure pursuit.

I've heard arguments such as "We need to hunt foxes to protect our lambs and chickens.... if you've ever seen what a fox does to a coop of chickens, you'll know what we mean!".

My retort: "Instead of spending all that money on purchasing and maintaining a horse, its gear and your fancy riding boots and red hunting jackets, why don't you protect your chickens by investing in a new fox-proof fence."

"But's its traditional!"

"And so was bear-baiting, denying women the vote, stoning people to death, and persecuting Jews."

"But hunting supports the whole economy of rural life!"

The pro-hunt protesters and Chessex Girls lobbying outside Parliament undermined themselves on TV by flashing their Harvey Nichs bags. They were clearly all from Chelsea and Knightsbridge, and the only time they'd ever been near a chicken was at The Ivy or Harrods foodhall.

Congratulations to our MPs: Welcome to the 21st Century.

New Blogger, Old Dog

I'm still getting used to this New Blogger set-up.
None of last weeks stuff was published.
I'm now in mega catch-up mode.

Starlines has dropped me too :(

"Update or Stagnate" - Me

jt

OK I admit it. I think Justin Timberlake is a fox. Forget Jackson or Prince ever existed. Justin is the new King of Pop.


Holiday Report

We were away on holiday in Cornwall last week. I didn't tell you before we left, as I have a fear that burglers scan blogs, spot where people live from clues -- intentional or otherwise -- written in those blogs, and then raid the empty homes whilst the bloggers are away.

A little paranoid perhaps, but I have images of Ruffles dressed in blue stripey shirt and black eye mask, holding a swag bag, circling our house like a vulture. The vision is completed with Simon -- in a Motty sheepskin coat -- lurking in the shadows ready to fence the goods.

In actuality the house was untouched.

Here's the holiday summary. Apologies if it's a bit "postcardy" or sounds like Kirk's Log:

Friday 13th

We travelled down to Bath in the afternoon. Glorious sunshine greets us -- we are clearly blessed by Minera, the Roman sun goddess. Bath is a beautiful city, the Regency stonework reflecting the light and providing a dignified and graceful atmosphere. We took a cheesy open-top bus tour of the city, seeing all the tourist sites: The Royal Cresent, the Abbey, Jane Austen's house, Charles Dickens' house, and the rows and rows of classic Georgian properties -- currently being filmed for the Hollywood version of Vanity Fair. I didn't spy that hot blonde american chick Alicia Sliverstone though.

We toured the ancient Roman baths and spa by foot. Rich in history and well worth a visit. The warm waters still bubble up from the sacred spring, and although you can partake of a cup for 50p, we were advised by our tour bus guide not to taste it: It's like rusty bath water.

Our hotel was average.

We were treated to a performance by the worlds worst street "entertainer": after irritating a whole square full of people for an hour, not one single person threw a penny in his hat. He was reduced to begging people to give him some money. That always works: irritated people for an hour with shit music and humourless "comedy" and then -- once they are ready to kill you -- ask them for money.


Saturday a.m.

Sunshine. A trip to Cheddar Gorge and its caves. I wouldn't bother again: it's full of gift shops selling tat. The smaller of the cave networks was apparently Tolkein's inspiration for Helms Deep. In their wisdom, the local people have therefore turned this cave into a REALLY BAD Lord of the Rings-esque walk-through for kids, complete with red-eyed goblins, wraiths and demon lord. Incredibly naff and -- this is the best bit -- frightening for their target market. The little boys who were in front of us were TERRIFIED by it and wanted to leave.


Saturday p.m.

Up to Bristol, we stayed overnight at the contemporary Hotel du Vin. Very swish and comfortable apart from the lack of air-con: it was one of the hottest evenings of the year and it felt like it in our room. We had to make do with an open window, a fan, and sweaty pants.

Wandered around the redeveloped dock area of the city and had a pint by the river. Lots of trendy young people.


Sunday

Travelled down to Cornwall in sunshine. As far as Lands End. [For my american readers, grab a map of the UK -- its the far SW tip of the country. Hence Lands End]. We were accommodated in Sally's cottage near St Just. The cottage was damp, due to its location next to its own stream, but ideally located for exploring from, and only a short walk from the coast. Most importantly, it was quiet and out of the way, exactly what we wanted for our week of "getting away from things".


Monday

We were woken up at 5.30 a.m. by someone knocking at the front door. Twice. By the time I'd got downstairs they'd disappeared. Freaky. We reckoned it was either an early bird from the Youth Hostel up the road messing about or a ghost.

With hindsight I think it might have been an Action Cow.

Another day of sunshine and a visit to St Michael's Mount at Penzance. When the tide is out you can walk across the sands to the Mount and its harbour, when the tide is high, it is surrounded by the sea. We walked across and took a boat ride around the island later. A steep climb to the fortifications and house at the top rewarded us with a magnificent 360 view of the area and a glimpse of the Giant's Heart.

Legend has it that a giant built the Mount and protected it from harm. But he got a bit too big for his already sizeable boots, so the locals sent a clever kid to kill him. The boy dug a pit, then teased the giant, who lumbered into it and was killed. The giant's heart dried as hard as stone in the sun, and was incorporated into the stone pathway that leads to the top of the Mount.

I don't know what happened to the kid.


Part 2 tomorrow, including an explanation of what an Action Cow is.
[Moooo!]

Party Poopers

Went to Sara & Stasher's party at the weekend. A disappointing turn-out of E List celebrity media people were in attendance. Nina was there, but Lucy Alexander wasn't. Greg was back from his 5 weeks of embedded reporting in the Gulf. Thankfully his only war wound was a touch of sunburn. I cooked my usual raspberry and almond torte. Giant garden Jenga and pick-up sticks were played. Sara drank enough to be sick the next day. We were going to stay over, but as a result of pregnancy and hay fever, Vic and I were both knackered, so we drove back from Blackheath to Thame at 1 a.m.

Pleased we did too, as the party ended at 4 a.m. -- far too late for me these days.


Pass Me The Hole. The Big One.

Went down the pub with some of Vic's work mates on Friday evening, to the Goose in Gloucester Green, Oxford. The pub used to be called the Brewhouse, and I remember it as being fitted out with its original features, tiny tucked-away old rooms, and saturated with atmosphere.

The company who now own the place, have ripped all that out and replaced it with tasteless identi-kit new pub decor. Another part of Oxford's pub hertitage has been consigned to the dustbin and replaced with soulless tat.

So we're sat outside in the pub garden, enjoying the evening sunshine. I'm talking to Catherine. She keeps asking me to repeat myself. Vic always says that I mumble and don't speak loud enough, so I think it's me. Eventually I get frustrated at having to repeat myself and -- rather aggressively -- ask Catherine "are you deaf or something?!".

And as the last word exited from my lips, I remembered that the last time we met, Catherine explained that she was deaf in one ear.

Pass me the hole so I can hide in it.

It was on par with Emma [Vic's bridesmaid] -- rather aggressively -- telling Tam [my sister-in-law] "it's not as if your parents have died in a car crash or something!"

Ummm... yes they did Emma...


Amsterdamned

Keir and Adam were in 'Dam over the weekend. I'll give you the stories tomorrow.

Blooming Outrage

We bought a flower cone from Habitat a few weeks ago. It's a hanging basket, but shaped liked a big metal ice cream cone. We planted some pansies in it and positioned the cone outside our front door. Remember, our house is a Victorian terrace, so it's right on the street. To deter the casual thief, we screwed the cone onto the wall. The pansies really brightened the street up.

Of course it was only a matter of time.

And last Friday, in the wee small hours, our cone was ripped from the wall by a couple of drunken fools and carried off into the night.

We were dismayed to discover the theft on Saturday morning. We'd half expected it to get pinched since putting it up, but the act of mindless vandalism still managed to upset. I had a wander up the road, away from the town centre -- thinking the drunks were walking home from the pub --in the vain hope of finding and reclaiming the cone.

Despite peering into every garden and over every fence, I could not locate it. I even put myself in their shoes, thinking if I'd had nicked it, what would I have done with it. Launching it from the old railway bridge was a strong contender, but only a pair of broken stolen bicycles lay in the nettlebeds below.

We resigned ourselves to having lost our little piece of street improvement and cursed those responsible all weekend.

On Sunday evening we had a walk into town. And what did we discover discarded against a fence? The cone, minus flowers, bent and buckled out of shape. It's a shame, but it won't be going up again outside the front door. Retirement in the back garden beckons for it.

The drunks must of been coming home from the rugby club...

Summer's Here At Last

March was a false weather dawn. It was a beautiful month weather-wise, with sunshine and temperatures well above the norm.

April and May were wash-outs.

However, Monday saw a turnabout in the UK's weather fortunes, and summer has arrived at last. I've got the David Beckham-esque sandals and linen trousers on. I didn't have time to gloss my toenails though. I'm looking forward to a weekend of BBQs and cool beers. The heady heights of 26 degrees in the sun.

We were out in the garden last night, grilling some sausages and sweetcorn, listening to a summer Ibiza CD, and just enjoying being outside after the days work.

BTW, Vicster gives the thumbs up to alcohol-free Becks. Unlike most other alcohol-free beers, it actually tastes like beer. No nasty aftertaste either.


Digital Cameras = Fun

I'm getting into our digital camera now. They are so much fun. I feel that I can afford to take frivolous shots of random things now, as if they don't work, I can just delete them. I'm not wasting film on duff photos and my shots are getting increasingly adventurous. A couple of the photos from our Brighton trip have really worked: Some ugly old fishing boats and tackle, and a stack of pebbles on the beach.

Having read an article about an artist who creates and photographs natural objects that he has manipulated in their natural environment, I thought I'd try the same. We were sat on Brighton Beach, next to the pier, so I stacked up half a dozen pebbles into a tower and photographed them at close range (with the pier in the background).

I'm naming it "Brighton Rocks".

Vicster reckons its good enough to print out, frame and display for sale in her mum and dad's gallery. It isn't that good, but I'm game for a laugh, and it might sell for 20 quid. That would be a towering achievement.

I'm tempted to upgrade to Blogger Pro so I can start posting some images up.

Welcome Back

It's been a while.

Exams and the revision they required, plus a Financial Year-end at work, have meant that blogging has been cast aside.But with the exams out of the way, the rickety Blog Bandwagon can restart its one manpower engine and chug gently into the summer.


What Exams?

My final stage CIMA exams. Business strategy papers. Masters-level. Four exams, each of three hours, over the course of two days. 100+ A4 pages of hand-writing. Highly stressful and a real test of time management. Of the four exams, I'm hopeful of passing two of them, but have little confidence in the others. With baby due in September, and retakes scheduled for November, I really need to have passed at least half of them, as revising with a newborn in the house will not be easy.

Results come out at the end of July. Keep your fingers and toes crossed.


Baby

We had the 20 week scan. Everything checked out normal. All the boxes were ticked. We came away with a freaky scan photo, a copy of which is sat on my desk at work. You can see the lenses in baby's eye sockets.

Vic is showing quite nicely now. She's suffering a little discomfort -- from the stretching -- and complaining of a lack of fitting trousers.


Dates

I turned 32. Vic turned 29. We had our 2nd wedding anniversary.


Jacob

Had his eyes tested. He was worried beforehand as he thought the doctors were going to take his eyes out in order to test them.
After the doctors explained that they wre only going to ask him to look at things to make sure he could see OK, Jacob said:

"It's OK... Mummy cut my hair last week and I can see fine now!"


Events

We went to Oxford's hot air "Balloon Festival". It was too windy. As a result, no balloons. Scott rechristened it the great Balloon Fiasco. We saw the world-famous Oxford Inbred Terrier Racing Display Team instead. Seeing those little pups jump through rings of fire made up for the zero balloons. I kept expecting to see a black van pull up... with armed RSPCA SWAT team guys leaping out.

We went to Brighton for Emma's 30th birthday. A cracking weekend. Brighton is great. Unlike most English seaside towns, it's a nice place to visit. I'd expected a nasty cross between Blackpool and Margate, but discovered a clean, trendy and beautiful seaside town, with super shops and a cafe culture. Remove the traffic and it's a place I'd like to live.

"Oh we do like to be beside the seaside..."


Greyhounds

My work sports and social club are off the the greyhounds tonight. Using this as an excuse, I've put trap numbers -- in authentic greyhound colours -- on each of the cubicle doors in the gents toilet.

They look great and offer a saucy gambling opportunity: I just need to install a web cam in there and I could make $millions from gambling internet punters.

"Who will finish first?! Bet now!"

Beth Orton Gig Review

We went to see the glorious Beth Orton at the Royal Albert Hall the week before last: As Beth may well end up reading this, I must let her know that she was excellent.

For someone with so much talent, it amazes me how nervous she is on stage. We saw her a few years back at Shepherds Bush Empire, and between the magnificent music, she appeared to find it difficult to engage with her audience -- she was timid and like a little lost lamb in the lions den.

She was still nervous at the RBH for the first couple of tracks, but soon got into it, putting on a great show and managing to generate an intimate atmosphere (no mean feat considering the vastness of the hall's globe).

We were treated to the usual 9:00pm to 10:30pm main show, with Beth missing out a few crowd favourites so that she could come on for the standard first encore and play them.

Some foolish people left just before the end of this first encore, so missed the best section of the night: the second encore.

Whether it was because it was the last night of the Daydreamer tour, or because it was the Royal Albert Hall, Beth came on for a second, acoustic encore, which thrilled the audience and was worth the admission price on its own. Beautifully sung.

Add in our free parking, easy drive in and out of the city, and smashing dinner at Wagamama's in Kensington, and we had a great night out.

Nobby's recommendation: If you don't own a Beth Orton CD, you can get hold of both of her first albums for less than a crisp five pound note. You have no excuse not to treat yourself to some sublime tunes from the best female singer-songwriter in the UK.


Norwich

Beth is from Norwich. Sara used to live there during her Anglia TV days.

Dean and Nigel live there too. They were in the Times magazine last Saturday. Their brand of comedy consists of dressing up in props and impersonating ordinary people in the street. They call it "blending".

I love that sort of thing. Check out their website. The later galleries are the best -- the early ones are a bit crap.

Apparently Norwich offers them a wealth of blending opportunities, as the town (according to Dean and Nigel) is full of people with no dress sense.

That would account for Sara's new poncho then...

A Little Flutter 1

My horse came second in our work Grand National sweepstake. The £14 winnings offset the loses from my proper bets on the race: those nags finished 5th and fell five fences from home.

I do like the Grand National. As a pure horse race it's not very good -- it's more like a cavalry charge than a race -- but it has enough grandeur and English eccentricity to make it a marvellous spectacle. With over 500 million people watching it live worldwide, it ranks as one of the world's great annual sporting occasions.

Aintree ignored this fact for many years, but I've noticed over the last couple of outings that the race course organisers have been making more of an effort to promote the race and make it feel more "British" for the 400m Chinese madly gambling on it: They have employed some awful opera singers to sing God Save the Queen and a miltary brass band -- full monty red uniforms with white feathers in their caps -- to trumpet the start of the race.

There's also the glamour factor: this year the Celebrity Tent included the cast of Hollyoaks and John Parrot.



A Little Flutter 2

Far more exciting was what happened last night.

Let's try an experiment:

Put your right hand flat -- and palm face-down -- onto the table.
Place your left hand over the right, so that the middle joint of your right index finger sits beneath the centre of your left hand palm.
Now try to flex your right index finger.
The slight pressure and movement is remarkably similar to what I experienced last night when Louis squirmed and wriggled about in Vics tummy.

It was the first time (externally) that we could feel him moving around.

Very cool and very exciting!

Freedom Fries

Lynn's just got back from her Florida and the Bahamas wedding & honeymoon. She reported that the Americans are so disappointed with the stance of the French on their Iraq campaign, that they are not only boycotting French products, but have also renamed "French Fries"...

..."Freedom Fries".

Good for the Yanks, that what I say. It's about time the pesky French had a taste of their own medicine, having illegally boycotted perfectly good (and safe) British beef for years.

Perhaps the good old Yanks would like some of our prime BSE-free beef-burgers to go with their Freedom Fries?

Shrink-wrapped Choppers

Replacement Black Hawk helicopters were shipped into Umm Qasr yesterday. They were shrink-wrapped in transit to protect them from the elements.

It's a good thing they weren't bubble-wrapped as the air crew engineers would have take ages to get them assembled...


Ikea Snake Update

It clicked for the first time last night that with Louis on his way in September, I have a valid excuse to finally purchase an Ikea Snake.


Pregnancy Diary

Vicster has been worried that her bump isn't as big as it should be at this stage (16 weeks) of the pregnancy. She's been getting freaked out by the number of people telling her she's "not putting much weight on", etc.

She got it into her head that something might be wrong with Louis.

I've been very cool about it: no worries as everyone develops and shows at a different pace.

Thankfully a quick chat to my brother and his wife -- who have been through the whole thing twice now -- managed to allay Vic's fears.

It's all perfectly normal.

Blue-On-Blue

The general public here in the UK seem to have no idea about what war is really like. Listeners to BBC Radio 5 Live keep phoning / texting in to voice their dismay over the "friendly fire" incidents that seen to strike British troops every day in Iraq.

Blue-on-blue fire is not a new phenomenon. Desert Storm, The Falklands, Korea and Vietnam, WWII... every modern conflict has had its share of accidents.

If you go back further -- to the Napoleanonic Wars or American Civil War -- there are records of whole infantry units being cut down by their own artillery or fellow infantry. The literal fog of war in these conflicts contributed to the tragedies.

When the men who pull the trigger are in combat, they are pumped on adrenaline, full of fear and excitement, scared of death and acting on instinct and programmed responses from repetitive training. When the thunder and confusion of battle arrives and they are forced to make split-second decisions on matters of life and death -- to ensure their own, and their comrades, survival -- mistakes in target indentification are impossible to prevent.

Modern warfare has its own fog of war. In Iraq our troops do not distinguish themselves from the enemy by wearing redcoats -- friend and foe look alike. The blood and thunder of artillery and gunfire is still present. The dust, smoke and black of night, concealing the people in the field, are still there. Adrenaline and fear still pump through the veins.

The people who have contacted Radio 5 Live, insinuating that the MoD and the US military are gung-ho, negligent idiots, who should be brought to account for the disgraceful "avoidable" blue-on-blue casualities, need to get themselves a reality check.


I recommend a few games of paintball, where you will soon discover that you are just as likely to be tagged by your own side as by the enemy.

It is a testament to the training, bravery, responsibility and restraint of both UK and US forces, that more "friendly-fire" incidents haven't happened.

Going Loco In Blackheath

We had a great weekend. On the Friday I caught up with my old workmates in Marvellous Maidenhead. On Saturday we travelled into London... and then straight out again -- with Sara and Stasher -- down to the beautiful Bodiam Castle.

Draw a picture of a medieval castle with a moat. That's what Bodiam looks like.

On Saturday night we headed out to "BBC TV Celebrity Chef" Tony Allan's new restaurant in Blackheath called Loco. Amateur review time:

Food: Italian. Good value (£4 starter, £10 main course). I had goats cheese encrusted in walnut, pan-fried and served on a bed of baby spinach, followed by a pumpkin, leek and fontina cheese risotto. The goats cheese was excellent, the risotta a little cold.

Service: Poor. Our waitress forgot to give us any cutlery for the main course and over-charged us for two beers. The service staff were clearly getting used to the whole set-up. Early days and all that. Worse though was the fact that they had managed to "lose" our table booking and the place was packed. Some discreet prodding from Stasher ensured we got seated after a half hour wait. Not impressed by it though.

Atmosphere: Intimate decor, lounge bar, rich colours and dark wood. Busy, noisy and smoky. Open kitchen area and moody lighting. Pretty good on the whole.

Quick Round Up

Vic and I are both Pro-War. As this is a quick round up, I'll keep it at that for now: go read the 100,000 new "The Madness of [King] George" blogs that will have undoubtably appeared over the last two weeks if you want war coverage.

We've bought a digital camera so (a) Vic can use it in her web design projects and (b) I can take some "flick-book" style photos of her growing bump. A visual diary of our pregnancy.

Vic wants to take up knitting.

We've ripped the kitchen out. Back to the brickwork. I managed to saw through a pipe whilst the mains water was still on. It was pressurised and a HOT water pipe. You don't know how much fun it is sticking your hand over the end of a hot pipe, feeling the water get hotter and hotter and watching the bucket below filling rapidly. I confess that I did indeed shout at Vic to go and turn the stop-cock off...

The plasterers have made good. I need to damp-proof the floor, level it with compound and fit some sort of flooring -- either quarry tiles or lino -- before the fitters arrive in two weeks time. That's two weeks of salads, one-pot meals and take-aways.

In the meantime we're off to Sara and Stashers for the weekend: to catch up, give them their Christmas present (!) and escape the dust.

Prang Goes The Membership

The dent in the Rover's boot was entirely my fault. It was caused by a scaffold pole sticking out the back of a van. The rear window of the car doesn't have a wiper. It was wet and the sun was shining on it, meaning I couldn't see a thing out the back of the car. I used the wing mirror to reverse out of my parking space at the garage and saw the van but not the pole.

Result: A good sized dent in the boot and my membership of the Rover Club revoked. The Club's Grand Master has written to me in disgust.

"You have been found guilty of willfully neglecting your beautiful luxury motor. By the power invested in me by The Walnut Trim, I hereby black-ball you from our secret society."

And I don't wear a tie to work either.


Nostrildamus

I still have sinusitis. The antibiotics I had a few weeks back were weak and only cleared the problem up for a few days. Last week I was worse than ever. A return trip to the doctors has provided me with a second course of antibiotics, this time much stronger. I am also inhaling Olbas oil through a £50 note.

The medicine seems to be working though. After three days of treatment, my nostrils are finally seeing some movement. Rather disturbingly I found what looked like a black watermelon pip in the usual yellow mucus after this mornings "first blow". A bead of ancient blood, from the depths of my infected sinuses. Sweet.


Red Nose Day

What with the sinusitis its been red nose day for me for the last 12 weeks, but tomorrow is the big comedy charity day. As a taste of what might happen here at work, three of the ladies from Customer Service today dressed up as:

A cow - with rubber udder
A pumpkin - with scary Halloween face
A tomato

For this they expected some sponsorship. It took me a little while to get the joke.

Meat and two veg.

We're Having A Baby

Vic's 13 weeks pregnant. How cool is that... I'm going to be a daddy!
She saw the midwife last week and everything seems OK - Vic heard the baby's heartbeat.
We get our scan in 7 weeks time: I can't wait.
Vic's been feeling very tired and a little queasy, but hasn't been chucking up the morning sickness.
Current names are Louis (but not in recognition of Jefferson Louis) and India.

Possible middle names include Ryan, David, Paul, Sebastian, Nicky, Michael, Gary, Phil, Wes, Roy, Rio, Ruud and Fabian.

The reason for my silence over the last few weeks should now be apparent: This has been the only thing on my mind. I didn't have anything else to think or write about. Its all consuming in an exciting way. There was no way I was going to announce it on this blog before the danger 12 week period was up, so my silence has literally been golden.

The clues have been there of course: the new big car (already dented btw) for example.

Join us in a celebratory toast.

Not So Disenfranchised After All

Watched the Brits - a tepid and manufactured affair. Thank goodness I'm not a teenager anymore: I'd have to pretend to like Bovril Lasagne and her fake rock chick performances. However, I'm not as disenfranchised as I thought: of the ten CDs we took up to Carlisle with us for the weekend, seven were nominated awards.

Still don't get the Urban category though, nor the reason why it had double the nominees of any other award...


Postmans Graveyard

Nelson The Dog loves his animal bones. They tend to end up sucked dried of all edible matter in Mop & Bob's front garden. He also loves visitors: he'll chase his tail, retrieve a cushion, jump up, salivate and bash his tail against you.

Ann was telling us the story of a recent visitor (we'll pretend he was a postman) coming to the door. Ann asked him to hold on a minute so she could put the dog away in the kitchen - so Nelson wouldn't go for the postman (i.e. lick him to death). When she opened the door to the postman, he motioned to the piles of bones in the garden and said:

"Are these the remains of people who you didn't put the dog away for?!"


Colditz

Started reading the definitive history of Colditz, 14 months after Daz & Tine bought me it: At last I'm starting to catch up with some outstanding reading. The book's a blast and really captures the spirit of the "game of escape". It reads like a work of fiction and it is therefore easy to forget that the death-defying feats and escape attempts of the prisoners really did happen.

The first Brit to escape was smuggled out in a straw mattress. He dressed up as a Hitler Youth, and via the train and a 50 km lift from two Gestapo officers, he managed, over the course of 23 days, to get to the American Consulate in Vienna. With no money, food, clothes or papers he asked the Americans not for a safe-haven or safe-passage back to England, but for a 20 mark note.

The generous Americans gave him nothing and turfed him out into the cold. He was picked up a few hours later by the Germans and returned to Colditz for a 28 day stay in solitary.


Footballing Lessons

It's not often that an Italian club is given a lesson in football, but Juve were on the end of one last night. Lippi described Man Utd as "world class". He wasn't wrong. Although Utd rode their luck in the first half, they were so impressive and in control, that the result didn't flatter them one bit. Veron and Butt gave Davids a masterclass in controlling the midfield. A 3-nil loss at home is about the biggest beating an Italian side has ever suffered in Europe. Roll on the quarterfinals.

The Dirge Awards

The Brits used to be an important date in the music calendar for me, but not anymore: I no longer work in the industry, am old and disenfranchised with pop music, and listen to Radios 2 and 5.

There was a great article in the Sunday Times at the weekend (copying one in the Observer from the week before) about the death of the British music industry. Our new "big UK acts" are actually small-fry and increasingly localised in popularity within the UK, let alone with any international appeal. Ms Dynamite, for example, has sold virtually all her records in the SE & London. She has zero appeal in Scotland, Wales and parts of the north of England.

Imagine the members of The Who - inflated to a giant size by a mad scientist's experiment - stood over the British music industry and wielding electric guitars like axes.

"Napster and free pirated MP3 downloads!" CHOP! - a giant Pete Townsend smashes his guitar onto the heads of the EMI, BMG and Sony CEOs...
"CD-Burners on home PCs!" CHOP!
"Illegal blackmarket, made in China, CD copies flooding the international markets!" CHOP!
"Supermarkets discounting CDs to £9.99 reducing record company margins, devaluing the product, killing independent retailers and ultimately limiting consumer choice" CHOP!

This year's Brits is alcohol-free: they can't afford the champagne and have nothing to celebrate anyhow...


Badly Drawn Darren [Kerr] will be there though.

Emma's Lovely Big Chest

Scott and Em have new bedroom furniture: a hulking great standalone wardrobe which takes over their bedroom in a "man-eating plant in a dentists surgery" kind of way (I assume - I haven't seen it yet). As we need the storage space, we have gratefully accepted secondhand ownership of their old fixtures and fittings: one large chest of drawers. Scott dropped them off before footie.

At last I can get my mucky hands on Emma's chest without fear of reprisals from Gareth!


Badly Drawn Darren

If you know Darren and have a copy of Badly Drawn Boy's new "Have you fed the fish?" CD, take a look at the bloke in the nun outfit on the front cover and tell me it isn't him.

If you don't know Darren, at least you now know what he looks like...


Going Loco

Vicster went a little crazy last night: She totally freaked out at 16 year old boy next door playing his records past 9 pm. She was seriously threatening to kill him by ten. At bedtime she had us transferred downstairs to bedroom 2, and then an hour later at 11:45 back upstairs to bedroom 1. This was just after Hell froze over. Her complaints might seem slightly irrational to outsiders, but are completely understandable to me after our "adventures" with the noisy ****s upstairs at our old flat.

Normally I would be going out to Weds Night Magic tonight, but I have decided to cancel: I'm worried that I'll get home to find Vic on the doorstep wearing a hockey mask and holding a butchers knife and severed teenagers head.

Hopefully she managed to get hold of some ear plugs at lunch time.

And The Ripper Was...

It took me a few more days to finish the book than originally expected.

Of the 140 suspects listed by Mr. Eddleston, he narrows the candidates -- who he believes have a "strong possibility" of being Jack the Ripper -- down to just two:

An unknown individual - i.e. the killer has yet to be identified by a writer.

George Hutchinson - a man who fits the numerous physical descriptions of Jack, who lived at the epicentre of the murder locations, who was spotted loitering outside the property where Mary Jane Kelly was butchered, came forward as a witness to this murder only after reading that he had been spotted by the other witness, whose witness statement was ludicrously detailed, and who disappeared from London at the time the murders stopped.

With the detail, John Eddleston puts forward a well-researched, convincing and non-sensationalist case for George Hutchinson. No crazy Masonic Conspiracy, no tenuous royal connections, no occult rituals, just one plain and simple serial killer. Well done Mr. Eddleston!


College Starts Again

They seem to start earlier and earlier each time: my final set of CIMA courses began last Thursday. It was Business Strategy. Surprisingly it wasn't half as tough as I'd expected it to be. The step up from stage 2 to stage 3 was pretty steep, and I was expecting the same from stage 3 to 4, but it was linear. The material itself was all stuff we had seen before. From what I could tell, it is only our application of that material -- in a far more strategic manner than before -- that has changed. I have nothing to fear.


Bumperty Bump Bump Bump

Went over to Windsor on Sunday. The idea was to have a pleasant stroll around town and scoot down to the river for a walk. It was bloody freezing, so we managed all of half an hour. The sun was out making Windsor Castle look fantastic, but it was just too frosty to enjoy it. Best time of the year to visit the town though: no hordes of tourists to get under your feet.

Everytime a jumbo jet flew overhead I found myself fighting an urge to hoist a pretend S2A missile launcher onto my shoulder. Bizarrre and disturbing, but true.

On the way back home we stopped in at the Sainsburys in Taplow. It's about 1/2 from Larry's house and I had the sneaking suspicion that we might bump into the Big Fella in the supermarket.

When we turned into the soap powder aisle I spied Larry's better-half, Carole, selecting her bleach (the toilet cleaning variety as opposed to hair / collar and cuffs), and got rather excited that Larry himself was hiding round the corner. Poor Carole - who was confused by my new glasses disguise and a weird answer to a straight-forward question - explained that Lazza was at home with his feet up: He had bullied Carole into doing the shopping whilst he watched the rugby on the telly and listening to a looped repeat of some Radio 4 comedy show...

Disgusted at Larry's behaviour, we decided not to pop round for a nice cuppa tea after the shopping.


Nobby Cheese

I forgot to mention that someone found this blog through a google search of "nobby cheese". It had to happen at some point I suppose [sigh].


Rip-Off Britain

I'm also shocked to discover a rip-off writer who has not only stolen my name but also ripped my blog title. Tosser.
Of course it could be an infinite monkey coincidence, but nobody would call themselves "Knobby" AND title their page "Wonderful..." would they?!

I Know Who Didn't Do It

You may remember me getting in a grump over Vic walking the Jack the Ripper tour with Sara and Stasher, whilst I had to stay at home revising.

In order to answer some of the questions posed by the tour, I bought her John J. Eddleston's Jack the Ripper An Encyclopaedia for Christmas.

True Crime is not a genre I'm really interested in, and thought this Ripper book would be -- like most media on the subject -- rather sensationalist and tabloid.

I was wrong. I've been reading the book for the last couple of weeks (it's the sort of book you can pick up and put down, rather than having to blitz read it in one session), and have been really impressed by it. The author has gone back to the original source material -- much of which is reproduced in the book -- and structured the analysis as a critical case review of the kind that is now used to scrutinise unsolved crimes. His aim is to clear up a century of misinformation and myth surrounding the subject, and he's very successful, pouring scorn on the majority of the half-baked theories out there.

From a "historian" point-of-view, I acknowledge that the author has summarised the facts, conjectures and eyewitness reports -- subjective intrepretation on his part - but as he keeps his own views on whodunnit to a minimum, he comes over as a credible writer.

A favourite passage from the book (with my scene setting):

Elizabeth Stride was murdered on Sunday the 30th of September 1888 at around 12.58 a.m. Her throat was cut, but Jack was disturbed before he could mutilate the body. Elizabeth was discovered at 1.00 am, but in that time had bled to death. An Inspector Edmund Reid arrives on the scene much later at 1.45 a.m.

At 4.30 a.m. Elizabeth's body was moved to the mortuary in Cable Street, and Reid followed it there to take down a description. According to his notes, the dead woman was about 42 years old, 5 feet 2 inches tall with curly dark-brown hair. Her complexion was pale.

She had bled to death Inspector - of course she looked pale!

Tomorrow I shall reveal who Mr. Eddleston believes was Jack the Ripper (I'm just getting to his conclusion).

And don't ever bother watching the Jonny Depp Ripper movie From Hell on DVD: The plot is complete fantasy and the Hollywood depiction of Victorian London is woeful. As is Depp's english accent.

Another Clue For Simon

The second-hand car market is quiet at the moment. I guess it's like the housing market: nobody is interested in buying a car in January and February because there are Christmas credit card bills to pay, and life in general troughs at this time of the year.

Two weeks ago I put my Clio -- a "nice little runner" [said in my best Mockney accent] -- in the local paper at a very reasonable price. I got the grand total of three phone calls from prospective punters who all asked me for more information and then, when I asked them if they would like to view the vehicle, hung up after saying that they would get back to me. Predictably, none of them did get back to me, and my Clio sat unsold outside my house.

You could see in her headlamps that she felt unloved and unwanted.

Determined to sell the pretty motor, I placed a new advert in the Thames Valley Autotrader magazine -- a 200 page booklet of classifieds for serious used car hunters -- and renewed the ad in the Thame Gazette, this time dropping the price by a hundred quid.

Thankfully I got a fish biting on the bait immediately, and seeing what a class motor my Clio was, she paid in cash for a price satisfactory to us both. I got my money, she got a nice little runner at a bargain price.

As I waved Clio off, I hoped she would forgive me for selling her. I loved that car, but a good home and a fresh new start await her.

Today I invest the cash from the Clio deal in my new car: a Rover 620 Sli Auto bought from work. It's an ex-company car. It's a "luxury" motor. It's twice the size of the Clio and will drink twice the petrol, but the comfort factor -- and the difference it will make driving up the M6 to Carlisle -- make up for that.

In an effort to undermine the Rover's image of an old man car, I will be donning my driving gloves, flat cap and walnut pipe at lunch time.

It p*sses on Simon's Lotus.

My MJ Story 2

I used to enjoy working at Sony Music. Apart from the VP of Finance, Martin Blaksted (a buffoon who managed to wring the life blood out of the department and destroy a few peoples lives in the process), it was a nice place to work.

I was therefore upset to be made redundant.

It wasn't just the act itself, it was the manner of how I was told that bit deep.

Michael Jackson was on the UK leg of his History tour. It was the one where he left the stage at the end of the gig in a rocket-powered jumpsuit. Everyone at Sony Music had been told that they were getting a pair of free tickets to the Wembley performance. It was to be a company day out.

A month before the gig the envelopes containing the tickets were deposited on employees desks. I came back from lunch to discover that I didn't have an envelope. Aggitated, I went to see my boss, to query the ticket oversight.

His had been caught out: he hadn't expected the tickets to be delivered so early. There an envelope of tickets for me. There was an envelope with my P45 in it instead.

"I'm sorry, the industry recession has meant we are closing the video production facility with the loss of 60 jobs. Some support staff are being made redundant too... You're one of them."

Blaksted - the c*nt - was behind my selection. I saw him two years ago in Maidenhead town centre looking lost. He didn't see me and I had the opportunity to kick him from behind. I should have given him a good slap, but resisted the urge. After all, I'm not bitter. Much.

Anyway, through my tears, I managed to throw away my last ounce of honour and pride by asking my boss...

"Will I still get the Michael Jackson tickets?"

And the b*stard said "Yes"... but never sent them.

[Sometimes I dream that at the end of the gig, the rocket-powered jumpsuit develops a sudden fault and the Michael Jackson double -- it wasn't really MJ (imagine the insurance!) -- goes spiralling out of control, crashing into the evil Sony Music Finance Dept Bosses. I then step into the management breach, and like a modern-day Sir Francis Drake, steer the good record company ship through the seas of cut-throat pirates. "Haha! Hoist the Jolly Napster!"]

My Michael Jackson Stories

As the fallout from the Living with MJ documentary continues to rain down, I thought I'd share my two MJ stories with you.

Wacko Story 1

I used to work at Sony Music, MJ's record company. In our UK finance office we had a life-sized poster of MJ, on which our Financial Controller had scrawled a fake Michael Jackson signature in permanent black marker pen. He included a little smiley face as the dot of the i of Michael -- a clever artistic touch that gave the work an aura of authenticity. It may or may not have resembled MJ's true signature, but as we never managed to get hold of a copy of his Recording Contract (to check it against), we will never know.

What was cool was how when anyone new came into the office, they would spy the framed MJ poster and remark "Wow! Was Michael here?! Did he sign that for you?". We'd always respond with a smile and a knowing wink and nod. Of course, with the host of Wombles gold disks and signed Bros photographs also adorning the walls, visitors would have had no reason not to believe it wasn't genuine.

George Bush probably has a framed Map of the World on his White House office wall, with "X marks the spot" crosses and comments like "I must have this oil" and "evil commies" written on it in black marker pen. No doubt fools -- such as visiting German and French foreign ministers -- think its the genuine article too.

Colin Powell's UN presentation was a Wombles gold disc.

Freak Like Me

Last night's documentary on Michael Jackson was a paradox. Nothing that we saw was a shock. Comedy and tragedy.I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. A broken man and lost soul. Is he harmless and child-like, or dangerous and deluded? Naive and seemingly ignorant of the real world, Michael is cocooned not just by his Neverland, but also by the minders and assistants around him. Clearly traumatised by abuse suffered at the hands of his father in childhood and adolescence, he now seems to believe his own concocted stories that his face has been disfigured not through plastic surgery, but through disease, and that it is perfectly natural for a 44 year old man to share his bedroom with 12 year old boys.

You have to fear for his children -- who he insists go out in public wearing masks -- as they are dragged through the media rugby scrums, dangled over balconies, and prevented from seeing their natural mother.

It was a freak show that will be turned into a media circus.

He needs help.