How's it going?

So mate, how art? How's the new flat and the new job and, most important of all…does Stella taste better in Belgium? Or do they have 'Stella reserve'? You have dropped of the radar and I trust this is because you have yet to set up your internet connection, or was it something I said? Hope to hear from you soon.

The Age of Steam (2005, apparently!)

Sat outside Victoria this morning and looked out window to see an honest-to-God steam train reversing into the station. It looked fabulous, conjuring up images of romance, bodies and Jenny Agautha waving her draws. None of my fellow passengers looked up, engrossed in The Sun (spotty bloke in crap suit reading about television) and their mobile phone call (woman in what can charitably be described as an anorak). A shame, it looked like the world's biggest Hornby loco was hoing right past the window.

The experience was enhanced when the air-con unit on my train sucked in the steam, soot, cinders and so on and gave the carriage a not unpleasant nostalgic smell. If one could bottle it, you could sell it to enthusiasts and make a fortune, along, of course, with eau-de-swafega and essence of engine oil.

Apple and Mac

For some strange reason, the Mac Help function on my powerbook has gone a bit funny. This may have something to do with some of the games I had on the Mac, or possibly a gremlin picked up over the internet, most likely when I was examining some knuckle-bitingly hard-core porn). Whatever, it was beyond my ken to fix it (reboot?) and so it meant a trip to the 'genius bar' at Apple's shop on Regent's Street.

Fearing that travel by tube would mean that my powerbook might be damaged when some Mohammedan detonated a suitcase full of fertilizer next to me, I walked from Victoria. This assured that I arrived both sweaty and crumpled, but in one piece.

The Apple Shop was described once in an article in the Telegraph (not my copy, I, er…picked it up somewhere) as a temple, and the writer was right. The place is white and cavernous and attended by acolytes robed in black.

I'd booked my slot and waited to be called. No tea or coffee in the waiting area, I don't think liquids and laptops mix. Looking around, it was very much an apple crowd. No shaved heads, no football shirts and a lot of crumpled linen. The place seemed to be doing a roaring trade in iPods and so on. All the blokes had designer glasses on (too much porn?) and all the women were thin and denim clad (picking up the iSights to set up their porn-cam and so pay off all those student tuition loans?).

'Kiki' poked at my laptop for about an hour, but was unable to solve the problem (in the end we created another profile - for Lou - and the help function worked in that, so okay. Now every time I want advice, I have to consult Lou…just like real life.)

So the problem was solved, sort of and I have to say that the experience was, overall, satisfactory. The idea of a 'genius' bar is very Apple…I can't see them having one in every Dixon's shop for example - 'twat bar' would be a better bet there. The attention of my genius, Kiki, was occasionally distracted by a young lady with an iPod problem. It took the team quite a while to work out why her iPod would not load music…she had neglected to buy a computer to load it from.

Come to think of it, there's nothing in the ads that specify you need a computer is there? Nevertheless, one of the staff identified her as what I can only assume is a specific customer type - a 'milkshake', that is: sweet, but thick.

Managed to get out of the shop without buying a new photo iPod, although wanted one very much. Have also now decided that Powerbook will not be for games, even though 'Call of Duty' truly rocked! Did buy a new mouse. My pebble mouse that came with my iMac has finally given up the ghost, after only five years! Tut! It wasn't until Lou said 'oh well, it lasted really well, and the children have only really been playing with it for the last year or so' that I decided to beat the little mouse-abusing sods the next time I see them.

Was very tempted to get an wireless mouse, but decided to put the money towards beer instead.

The Apple Store breaks down as follows: ground floor - full of people that have wandered in to play with the shiny stuff. There appear to be a lot of tourists here and I assume many of them are wondering if they can e mail home for free using any of the display stuff. I usually try to avoid the ground floor, not only is it always crowded but I am worried I might go mad and buy that huge display I'm lusting after (which will, of course, make me truly happy, as only things can).

Upper floor - theatre. This is where they have the tutorials and where you see apple owning types lounging back, recharging their powerbooks and dozing as they pretend to be interested in how to get fugle-horns on 'garage band'.

Genius Bar - populated by those that have glitches and also by an alarmingly large number of what appear to be stupid people.

iPod area - closely scrutinised by security guards guarding against shoplifters but confused that everyone, and I mean everyone, in the shop is already wearing an iPod.

Multimedia bit - appears to be populated by women with arses designed to look good on stools…or in the lap of somebody who can give them a job in media.

Underground sprint challenge!

Obviously, I shall have to start getting up earlier in the mornings. My usual regime is to keep battering the sleep function on the alarm clock, then hurriedly shower and rush out the door, stagger up the hill, into the village, see the train coming over the bridge and run like a cross between a wading bird and a big girl for the remaining 70 yards to catch the train.

Once on the train, I sit there and try to breath normally while willing myself to stop sweating. This normally happens by the time the train pulls into Clapham Junction.

Which makes me think - if I'm doing this every morning, shouldn't I be able to do it without sweating by now? I mean, isn't it exercise?

Anyhoo, this sort of thing most stop, because as we now know, running towards a train can be deadly. The recent shooting of some Brazilian type was an odd thing. I can't help wondering why he ran. I mean, apparently this guy vaulted a barrier and ran like hell away from people shouting that they were armed police and he should stop. Did he just panic? I guess we'll never know but given the situation in London over the last few weeks, it's cheering to see that the Met are taking no chances. Makes me feel safer anyway.

Of course, the last thing the Met need right now is pressure for the team that took down this guy to be hauled over the carpet. The city is on terror alert, there are bombers at large and every officer is needed. So if the armed police aren't going to be allowed to do their job without fear of being punished for it and as a result some hand in their guns…what would happen?

I'll tell you what - the Commissioner would start deputising a few fellers, that's what! Never mind training for months and being a responsible firearms officer, I think he should hand out the six-shooters and put together a posse! Of course, there's bound to be some protest but hey - that's what anti-terror laws are for!

I mean, if he wandered into the Claret & Grouse at lunchtime, spat on the carpet and asked for a few good men, he'd have a riot on his hands, especially if the first ten to sign up got automatic weapons. And a horse!

Of course, you'd have to weed out the nutters. Years of travelling by public transport have made me, for instance, almost psychotically intolerant of the following groups: people with leaky walkmen; people on mobile phones; people who let their mobile ring but don't answer it; people who snore; people who smell; beggers; people with huge arses; people with 'pushy elbows'; backpackers; droolers; beggers with dogs; farters; old people; children; anyone in my seat; anyone who looks like they might want my seat and, of course, the all time number one - people who put their feet on the seat!

I man, given a gun I'd be tempted to hand out instant 'justice' to any or all in the above group, which is why I, and travellers like me, probably can't be trusted with firearms on public transport. I mean, can you imagine the fuss that would be made if you plugged a commuter! There's a right bruhahah about this Brazilian bloke being killed - and he's foreign!

So overall, it's best to leave these things to the professionals. And from what I've seen and read the only comment that should be passed about the copper's shooting is 'hey - nice grouping!'.

Lyrical about lycra

With office drones wandering around in shorts and the appearance of knackered trainers and kit bags about the place, it can only mean one thing - Sports Day.

Hoards of Civil Servants made their way to Chiswick, anxious to get knocked out of their events early so that they could start drinking in earnest rather than pacing themselves or, in the case of those engaged in serious competition, knocking back shandies. The exceptions to the 'no beer till glorious defeat or victory' rule is observed in the darts tent and at the boules tournament.

As always, I was softballing this year. Having shot my athletic bolt sprinting from the train station to the sports ground in order to arrive in time for the first match, it was no surprise when our team crashed out in the first round. This we put down to the other team having practiced and, more important still, being quite good.

Our keen-as-mustard captain found her team drinking away their sorrows in the bar and announced that she had entered us for the tug-of-war. We did quite well against one team, lost narrowly against another but - when faced with the team that eventually won, the tug-of-war became a rout. I think the team we were pulling against must have come from one of the regions where there is nothing to do all day but weight lift and grow thighs the size of tree-trunks. And that was just the 'girls'. We managed to avoid total humiliation by staying on our feet, but only because we had a collective image in our heads that, once on the ground, the other team would pull us along like a cowboy hero being pulled through town on the end of a lasso.

Injured pride aside, there were other diversions. Such as the 'joust', where one stands on a padded stool, much like those ones you sit on in 'photo-me' booths and with a padded stick, attempt to knock the other chap off of his stool. The problem is that one good hit sends you spinning like a dervish and, to be frank, I had plenty of opportunities to practice spectacular flying dismounts onto the inflated mat.

The other diversion was a mechanised surfboard. I did not cover myself in glory. Nor did I cover myself in sick, a major achievement as I was several pints to the god at this point.

There was plenty to amuse. The ladies football tournament was as popular as ever and I'm sure will remain so until it's superseded by actual organised lesbianism. The next best thing in terms of girl-on-girl action was available on the netball courts, where serious looking stocky women were handing out thrashings to willowy types from the office who no doubt thought that now they were grown ups, they would enjoy netball and it wouldn't be at all like it was at school, that is, horrible.

An excellent afternoon and this year I managed to avoid staying to the bitter end and showing myself up at the disco, deciding instead to go home and soak away those athletic injuries. The rope burns from the tug-of-war were the most spectacular and worrisome - the one place I can't afford any kind of injury is my palms - it's like a groin strain for a real athlete!

Silence and stillness

Silence at noon in London. Amazing, like being in a science fiction movie. All the cars stopped and there was no honking or bad temper, just the sound of engines being turned off, one after the other with cabbies standing by the sides of their cabs while the meter ticked away and their fare fumed.

Alcohol and abuse!

In an act of defiance to terrorists everywhere showing that they cannot disrupt our way of life, Mart and I decided to go out and get hammered in town last night.

It was very much two fingers to mad-arse Mohammedans as we met up in Bedford Street and decided that the best way to fight the threat was to have a few lagers.

London is blanketed by a heatwave at the moment and last night was humid to boot. Everyone seemed to want to come out to play, especially if they could do so in air-conditioned comfort near a bar.

A disturbing development was the large number of homosexualists around the place last night. I put it down to Mart's cologne. This was soon unsmellable as the latest trend among the pink and tickled of London is to smoke like a chimney. This, I suspect is because of a natural desire to have something in the mouth.

Moved on to a bar in Covent Garden that appears to be a Cornish themed pub! A pasty shop on the ground floor gives way to a bar on the first floor selling traditional Cornish Stella, or as it's known in Cornwall: 'pish'. The staff at least appeared to be Cornish, at least, I assume they have Oriental girls that serve in bars in Cornwall.

We ordered a couple of pints of St. Ella with a clotted cream floater and a jaunty slice of pasty adorning the glass and moved out onto the balcony. Or tried to, as it was fairly chocca. We were, however, able to see the busker in the square below. However, due to the current climate in town I had thought it best to leave the larger of my fowling pieces at home and he lived to mime another day.

On to the Porterhouse, and the first beer mistake of the evening. The sweet smelling strawberry ale interested us strangely and two pints were ordered. I should have known something was up when it cost eight quid for the round. What I had neglected to realise was that it was insanely strong and should only be drunk by the half pint.

Things then got a little strange.

Standing outside the pub, peering at some woman in a flat upstairs and idly wondering what she was preparing for dinner (pasta, I reckoned), I ended up in conversation with some young woman who, for no good reason, made some sort of comment about 'Ben Johnson's Volpone'.

There's something about the sort of person that drops a reference to an Elizabethan playwrite into a conversation that transforms me, like Jeckyl into Hyde, into a pretentious goit of the worst loathsome type. You will be cheered to know that I slurred 'Ah, the fox', at which point the young lady probably took one look at the state of my shoes and though 'shit…an English teacher' and resumed her conversation with he younger, better looking boyfriend.

I suppose it could have been worse, I could have replied 'as opposed to the Volpone by Michael Barrymore?'

How does one get oneself into these situations? A new rule, from now on, no discussion of anything, with anyone, when drinking. I intend to observe total silence when communing with the grape, grain or hop.

This, I think, will please others more than it pleases me.

Hangover: force 6, gusting to force 8 with occasional waves of nausea. Expect 2 para mid-morning and a medicate with a club sarnie from Pret at mid-day.

Two wheels good!

Glad to hear you have invested in a bicycle. I trust that you are as militant as can be, riding on pavements and thwacking the wing-mirrors of passing motorists with your pump as you weave in and out of traffic and pedestrians like a two wheeled terror. Of course, I imagine that cycling on the continent is rather different to cycling here. Over here the biggest problem when riding on the pavement (having been forced off the road by 4x4s) is chav mums with double buggies and of course dog s**t. Over on the Continent, I imagine that every pavement is chocca with Europeans sitting at tables, drinking very small coffees and milking EU subsidies for all they are worth before heading back to the office at four for a half-hour fiddling of expenses before going home.

I remember when I picked up my bike a couple of years ago. It wouldn't fit in the car so I had to ride it home. This would not, I thought, present a problem. At this time I was going to the gym three times a week and they had exercise bikes there.

One hundred yards later I made a note to resign my gym membership, as a gym bike is about as much like a real bike as a rowing machine is to the sort of boat Ellen MacArthur tools around the globe in.

Two hundred yards later and, very much like Ellen, I was in tears. Luckily, the amount of sweat pouring off me disguised this.

I got home and massaged horse liniment into my calves. Then calf liniment into my horses.

Since that early encounter I have learned to love my bicycle. This is because it is so much better than a car for certain jobs. You can ride it back from the pub, you can go on pavements, cut across parks and go up and down steps - all these things are frowned at if you have a car. What I really liked about my bike was that, although it was 'entry level '(i.e. cheap), by the time I had accessorised it with lights, lock and helmet, I had doubled my bill.

I think that I will have to accessorise further this year, as I fancy a water bottle. Obviously, it will have to be full of something ginandtonic (the civilised version of isotonic). I also rather fancy myself in a lycra outfit. The problem is that I strongly suspect that somebody like myself, slightly overweight yet lanky, will look like a condom full of custard when attired in lycra. Possibly the way to go is flat cap, tweeds and bicycle clips.

One reason, I suppose, that cyclists are more highly regarded on the continent than in the UK is the Tour de France. This is currently being televised and is worth watching for the sprint finish, normally only slightly marred by half of the pack falling over, probably because a cyclist has slipped on something Paula Radcliffe left there the day before.

Coolest continental cyclist: James Coburn in The Great Escape.

Finally, you'll be glad to know that two years of cycling have left me in the peak form of physical fitness. This fitness was tested to the limit this morning when I had to run for my train, setting a new personal best of making it to the station not from the newsagents but from the coffee-shop! By the time we got to Clapham Junction my ragged breathing was almost normal again. Sorry to report though, that I still run like a girl.

Beach Vollyball is er...coming home

In Trafalgar Square after the news of London winning the 2012 Olympic bid was announced. Scenes of jubilation as Londoners celebrated really sticking it to the French! Spice Girl Mel C pranced around on stage, looking for all the world more like somebody that would ask you 'do you have a loyalty card?' than a pop star, but otherwise excellent.

The builders working on the National Portrait Gallery downed tools to watch the festivities and, no doubt, draw up a bid for construction of an athletics stadium or two. Already the office is a-buzz with rumours that the beach volleyball will be held in Horseguards Parade, meaning that lunchtime letching might well have to be added to the list of Olympic sports.

Concerns too that some sports will have to be adapted to London life. For instance, if a modern pentathelete pulls out their rifle in St. James' Park, there's a good chance they'll be blown out of their trainers by a Met tactical firearms officer…who embarrassingly will go on to win gold. Mind you, the Met's mounted division will clean up at the equestrian events after baton-whipping all competitors!

Console Wars!

Mate,

Nephew's boithday on Sunday, and the lucky tyke got a steering-wheel and pedal control for his PS2, along with a rally game. Obviously, the hapless child was soon elbowed off the sofa for the adults to show off their driving prowess, or as I like to call it, ramming a Subaru into a brick wall at 90kph. Only had time to race a couple of legs, but was very impressed.

What I really wanted to do though was to drop into the 'preferences' menu and switch 'spectator agility' from 'grazelle-like' to 'tardy' and turn 'gore' to 'on'. This would mean that, when some idiot with a Nikon and a flash the brightness of a nova leaps out in front of you during one of the welsh stages, you can bonnet the f**ker.

Other things that might add to the excitement during Welsh mountain stages are 'werevolves' and 'Token Women Presenter In Leather'.

Obviously, my driving got more charismatic as more beer was consumed and I think that during a couple of moments there was a genuine danger that the steering column, which was, after all, designed for a kiddie, might issue a snapping noise and the car might grind to a halt, but overall the experience was so good that the PS2 is now leading the field of consoles that I am considering buying but probably won't.

Circus Minimus

Mate,

Great excitement in the village as the Circus arrives. Over on the green there's a huge circle of international scale caravans, like a pikey encampment on steroids, complete with a six foot satellite dish and a Big Top in the centre. I imagine the circus is doing excellent business, both in ticket sales and in distribution of videos of hard core porn beamed down via the dish.

It's one of these 'modern' circuses with acrobats and so on rather than wild animals. This is probably because it's easier and cheaper to drag a troupe of acrobats around Europe than it is to transport a tiger. However, it's far less exciting in the '…has escaped from the Circus' stakes. A loudspeaker car going round the neighbourhood and warning people to stay indoors because a clown, rather than a tiger, has escaped just does not have the same impact, even if it is backed up by the image of blokes from the circus chasing Uncle Whuppity down the street with butterfly nets while somebody with a tranq dart tries to shoot him in the arse.

So there has never been a better time to run away from home and, when one has to walk past the circus on the way to the train station and wage-slavery every morning, one does think for a second that perhaps life in the circus would not be so bad, sleeping late, sweeping up after the clowns and maybe bedding a contortionist!

Funeral Blues

Mate,

Paid last respects to a colleague on Friday. Howard used to be my boss back at the DfT before he grabbed the voluntary redundancy package with both hands and ran, laughing, to a job with a local authority. Unfortunately then diagnosed with colon cancer and that was it.

Gathered in pub before-hand with Fat Andy and Haircut Steve to discuss tactics. Principally, what religion was Howard? Some concern that, being Welsh, he might be some sort of fundamentalist Chapel type, further concern that the whole thing might degenerate into a muslim type affair with everyone hitting themselves on the head and the coffin draped in a Palastinian flag. There was then general agreement to stop being silly.

In the event, it was a humanist ceremony. This meant that the music at the start was 'Summertime…and the living is easy' and that there were poems and so on. Only at the end, with Howard's brother and a friend singing a hymn in Welsh, did the 'celebration of life' stage move on to 'we are quite sad'. Nobody, not even the Arabs, do grief like the Celts.

Back to pub and obvious post-match analysis along the lines of 'you won't get that many people at my funeral' and choice of songs for service, ranging from traditional ('Angels') to modern ('Angels - remixed by Fatboy Slim') to just silly 'sheep may safely graze'.

One less decent bloke around - sickening really.