Moreon podcasting

Have just upgraded to iTunes 5 and so am eagerly surfing world of podcasts. The problem is of course that podcasts are basically just blogs for people too lazy to write. The only decent use of a podcast is the archiving of decent radio broadcasts you might have missed in the week (light music, featuring the BBC swing orchestra and extreme right-wing thrash metal band 'Hitlereich') especially the shipping forecast - surely the most soporific of all broadcasts and, a a move that is nothing short of sadistic by the BBC, usually read by some breathy-voiced siren who manages to squeeze sexuality into 'Dogger, Humber, German Bite...good' the way McLeans squeeze toothpaste into a tube.

Rather like the idea of somebody going out and recording live performances by local bands though and putting out a weekly music programme of slightly-rough raw sounding music that has about as much chance of being signed by BMG as I have by Man U. The problem is that the BBC already broadcasts this for an hour a week, it's called Mike Harding's folk show.

The podcasts all seem to push a point of view, and are the 21C equivalent of the soap box upon which stands the screaming loon with flecks of spittle on his beard. Having said that, I reckon 'flecks of spittle' would be a great title for a podcast.

I am still, though, keen to do my ghost walks podcast. However, i am bereft of actual ideas. this would not be a problem in commercial radio or television, but is a hinderance for a half-hour of spoken word and eerie strings.

Obvious phantoms are haunted toilets - 'after dark, it's said that one can actually see the beige, shapeless shades making their way to and from the Gent's on City Walls Road and that, if you listen carefully, you can hear moans coming from trap three'. Haunted shops - 'like the Marie Celest, the 'customer enquiries' desk at M&S is, and remains, deserted'. Haunted burger bars (always chilling and the subject of the second podcast - haunted layby cafes!). A must for inclusion is the more than average apparitions of ghostly monks in the town, which would explain why of an evening one can see hooded figures wandering aimlessly about but which does not explain how midevel monks got hold of trakkie bottoms and reeboks.

Of course, any respectable ghostwalk podcast has to end with the narrator himself being a ghost, the usual devices for this are the clicking off of a tape machine and two police officers discussing how it was found in a locked room, operated by a dead mans hand, or a straightforward explanation from somebody who's voice implies a velvet smoking jacker, large desk and glass of port to hand (that's you mate!) or the straightforward ear-bleeding shriek. This is. of course, where the podcast has the advantage over the conventional ghost walk tour guide, as their attempt to, for instance, dematerialise into a wall usually results in embarrassment for the tour and a broken nose and bruising, followed by a brief spell in A&E and a longer spell in a secure ward, for the guide.

Dishpandemic

Sitting at home with what a 'doctor', or a woman, would probably call a head cold but which I would more accurately describe as an extremely concentrated flu pandemic. What flavour of flu I have yet to decide. It's unlikely to be asian bird flu, as I can't recall being crapped on by a migrating goose (at least not in the literal sense). It's not even my normal malady, beer flu, because the only symptom is a nose running like a chav who's just ram-raided a Burberry shop and slight congestion (think M25 at 3:00) rather than vomiting, blinding headache and modern jazz combo doing set between ears.

So am stuck at home and am terrified of wandering into front room and turning on freeview box. Feel thick headed enough at the moment without exposure to telly. the worst thing about freeview is that there is always an episode of Magnum, the Rockford Files or Quincy within easy reach. Great shows of course but the real pleasure of them was stumbling across them at 2:30 on ITV1 on a weekday! As an unexpected treat, they almost duplicated the high experienced as a youth when, in a frenzy of expectation partly driven by the chemicals in sherbet, one would sit up and watch the show one had been looking forward to all week.

In case you are wondering - Rockford Files still looks great. Magnum - once you get past the Ray Mears brand ('oops, popped out') shorts, still great. Quincy - of course he lives on a boat and pulls women forty years younger than he is, he's an M.E. for God's sake! What can be sexier to any woman than the faint whiff of embalming fluid.

Yet still they refuse to repeat Petrochelli! And I know why, because the dedicated fan could tell, by the stage of construction of that house he was building, if the shows were being repeated out of sequence. First sub-clause of law 15 of great detective shows (Thy protagonist shall live in a trailer) is: 'any permanent structure which hero is building shall never raise more than six (6) inches above the ground, allowing hero to stand with shirt off (vest optional) trowel in one hand, breeze-block in other and hold conversation with punk kid/sidekick/wise old detective rather than, as would be required in advanced stages of construction, starting the conversation with 'get a brew on' or 'will you grab the other end of that RSJ then?'

Right, time to e mail SmithKline Beechams with my new medication idea - 'Lemsip shots' - it's 'the 40%, lemon flavoured solution to colds, flu and sobriety'.

Wet wet wet

The pool is getting a little crowded first thing in the morning for my liking. Cunningly, the management of the gym have tried to limit the numbers by cutting back on heating the thing but, to be honest, if you're mad enough to be in a pool before sunrise, you're mad enough to not have a problem about breaking a thin skien of ice to actually have your dip. I'm waiting for somebody to take me aside and have a word about my five minutes ritual screaming on entry.

Not that it's crowded as, you know, a public pool with real working class people in it, but it's small and so more than a few people can cause problems…especially as the lot that paddle about in my pool have no idea of lane discipline. They are very much the school of 'I've always swum gently back and forth in this lane and I'm not getting out of your way'. So what you have is a sort of slow motion, very wet game of chicken (chicken soup?), with some matronly type in a fearsome swimming cap moving through the water like a liner, while I bear down on her, all splutterings, thrashings and goggles. Frankly, I have to swerve like an otter sometimes to avoid the sort of collision that would result in a harassment case or a relationship depending on the disposition of the target.

Having said that, the pool empties out after the first half hour rush and it's wonderfully quiet, the only sound being my strangulated, half drowned gasps of breath as I attempt the crawl.

Forty minutes of lengths, widths and zig-zagging and I'm out and heading towards the showers…although I have added a new twist to my regime - the Jacuzzi is on the way from the pool to the changing room and, at that time of the morning, is empty. Now that's what I call exercise. Indeed, I may reverse my regime, forty minutes in the Jacuzzi, five in the pool. I'd save on goggles at least.

Bookends

The sun is shining and London is unseasonably balmy at the moment - or at least appears so through the double bullet-proof sheath of glazing between me and the real world. View is on to road and pavement beyond and beyond that, a small wall and a narrow strip of bushes, stunted trees and pick-n-mix litter before the next Sim-City like development starts.

This summer, the wall has been home to a couple of marvellous drinkers. One spends the day leafing through his Metro and drinking Special Brew, the other sports a pair of nifty looking headphones as he sips his Spech. Of course, both are rumoured to be retired senior civil servants, or indeed serving civil servants on a very long lunch break.

Wonder where they will go in the winter? Even more worrying, the leaves on the bushed behind them are beginning to fall and the multitude of sins that they concealed are exposed! Worse still, I suspect that previously well-hidden stashes of mental-strength larger are soon to be exposed.

Of course, caring colleagues are quick to make observations about our two drinking bookends, humorously remarking 'that's you in ten years time mate' and so on. This is, of course, a nonsense, as everyone knows that I am a bitter man and so would not be seen with a can of Spech in my hand.

14% remedy

Fun though lemsip is, decided instead to take the homeopathic route and tip and entire bottle of red wine down throat. Worked a treat and ninja hand of death pneumonia virus that I had, no doubt cooked up in some lab on Portland Down, appears to have been thrashed into submission by Vin Rouge. You can stick your Yakult right up your arse.

One thing though, they should really put 'may cause drowsiness' on the bottle and one should not try to drive, operate heavy machinery, decide it would be a great time to call some people or get undressed in the dark while trying to remain upright after dosing oneself.

Monumental

Off monument spotting! Went to oggle the statue of Alison Lepper in Trafalgar Square. Very impressive and quite in keeping with the other statue in the Square that's missing body parts.

Then wandered down to the Battle of Britain memorial on the Embankment. Truly excellent and very exciting.

In wandering between the two walked through the gardens by Embankment. Once you start noticing memorials you see them everywhere. There's a fabulous one to the Imperial Camel Corps. http://www.bbc.co.uk/education/beyond/factsheets/
makhist/makhist9_prog12b.shtml

What a truly fantastic concept! What could be more terrifying than a camel coming towards you at full speed, teeth bared and amorously inclined? How about all that AND a bloke on top with a gun. Of course, if you were in a panzer then the situation is less dire, unless of course it's an armoured camel! The logical conclusion would of course be a dromedary, meaning that one bloke could hit it like hell between the ears with a stick and scream 'hut hut hut hut!' while the other chap mans the small camel mounted rear turret!

Wonder how many other monuments there are dotted about the place? King's Own Baboon Irregulars? Otter Light Foot n' Mouth? Sheep Squad?

You've got to have...medication

Oh my suffering Christ alive! My dose is running like Paula Radcliffe after a potty-break and I've developed a hacking cough that makes me sound very much like I imagine some plague-ridden peasant did in the middle ages, shortly before he was tossed onto a barrow full of pox-marked stiffs and wheeled off to what would today be known as a municipal subterranean composting and recycling centre but was, in the parlance of the times, known as a plague pit.

Yes, I have a cold. I caught it from my boss, who insisted in holding a meeting in an enclosed office and working her way through a pack of ultra balms. I myself have put a dent in the tissue population, my desk-side bin is nearly overflowing with damp tissues, all I need is a copy of 'Razzle' lying beside it and the recreation of my bedroom at Avenue Road can begin.

I myself have broken the cardinal rule - never come in the office when you're sick* today. However, my meeting this afternoon is with somebody who, frankly, could use a good dose of avian bird flu or whatever the hell it is.

I am, of course, medicated. Not for me toughing it out or any of this complimentary rot - I've been downing lemsip like a man possessed. God knows what's in it but my nose instantly dries up and my coughing subsides. It's probably fortified with nature's store of vitamins, minerals and isotopes.

Also, it's non-drowsy. This is excellent news, I've always wondered what it would be like to spend an afternoon awake at my desk. Now that I'm knocking back a beverage presumably loaded with amphetamine, I shall find out.

*Or hungover, or have something better to do, or just can't be arsed.

Fully focused

Focus group last night - what a hoot. Location was up a mews in Wimbledon and was basically a conference room with a couple of discreet video cameras and one wall lined with a two-way mirror, through which, we were told, Boden designers scrutinised us! Of course, on seeing the mirror I was tempted to walk to it, look hard at it and say something like '…so you can either charge me or let me go Kowalski, I'm through with you, I'm through with your apes and I'm through with this case!'.

Focus group was apparently picked at random (though with geographical bias so that we'd all be handy for Wimbledon). Ten blokes, all Boden customers, age range from late thirties (me) to early sixties. Looking at them, your average Boden customer is self-employed, portly and wealthy. I could tell they were wealthy because they conceded that the clothes were 'expensive' rather than how I class them, which is 'f**king outrageous'.

One of them made a point about the models in the catalogue, explaining that he never saw 'fat, middle aged men' in it. Too right, for two reasons - first of all, I imagine that they are not as much fun for the photographer to screw on the location shoot and secondly, I'm not a fat middle aged man and neither are my mates. But I bit my lip rather than saying 'sod off, see that photo there, good looking blokes in pub enjoying drink, that's my life!'

Exercise itself was just a lot of blah blah blah, everyone in turn going on about what they liked, what they didn't like and so on. It was interesting to see finally the sort of people who actually buy those ridiculous pull-ons, which I thought were only fit for having custard tipped down them in the centre ring, but bugger all else.

There was wine and sandwiches and, frankly, I've had worse times when I've been out socialising. Showing fabulous self control I managed to stop myself from speed-drinking the three cans of stella on the table in front of me, instead I waited until half an hour to the end and then tried to force as much wine down my neck as etiquette would allow. The fabulous thing is of course that after a glass of wine, ones sense of etiquette is distorted and after two glasses, it's so distorted you might as well be looking at it in the hall of mirrors.

I did manage to get in your comment about 'of course if Johnny Boden designed a shirt like that, he'd probably call it a 'toolcutters apron shirt''. Frankly mate, looking around the room, he'd be better off calling his new shirt the 'sex tourist' and running a bit of blurb along the lines of 'generously cut to stretch all the way over your middle aged spread'.

Suspicions about market research confirmed - everyone that works in market research has a posh voice. Actually, I need to qualify that, everyone who works INSIDE in market research has a posh voice, otherwise, how does one explain the accent of the people with clipboards that stop you in the street and probe your feelings about chutney?

Liquidised leper

There are certain signs that summer is ending and the season of mist and mellow fruitiness is upon us, the flight of the swallow for instance, or the square yardage of goose-pimpled flesh on those brave souls still sporting tropical uniform.

My own reaction to the nights drawing in is the acquiring of a taste for soup. This struck first at about three yesterday afternoon. Of course, there was no soup to be found at my desk, so I wandered down to the canteen where, nestling between the vending machine selling carbonated battery acid and the vending machine selling additive slathered deep fried joy was a vending machine selling hot drinks.

Hot drinks is just about as far as you can go with the legal definitions. God knows what goes on in the innards of the thing, but whatever it is it results in such delights as 'coffee flavoured drink' or 'chocolate style beverage'. Throwing caution to the wind, I plumped for 'vegetable soupish'.

Thirty seconds of girglings, whirrings and sputings later, I was rewarded with a plastic beaker of what looked like either the worst sperm sample ever or graphic evidence of what happens to lepers in a spin cycle.

Of course, I drank it. And I'm not sure the experience hasn't profoundly altered me in some way, probably as a result of whatever chemicals they use flooding my brain. I reckon the stuff is laced with some addictive enzyme, otherwise why would one not, after the first sip, hurl it across the room screaming 'I'm better than this' and make at once for the Regency Café and an all day breakfast?

As for today, I'm undecided - 'minestrone style broth' or the intriguing sounding 'raspberry flavoured water'?

Focus on this

Returned home to mysterious voice-mail. Apparently I've been selected to go on a Boden focus group! All I have to do is, I assume, sit around and talk bollocks about the catalogue and they'll credit my account with £100! Too good to be true? Possible, but I'm going along anyway. Don't know whether to cultivate a persona for myself or just be my usual, slight dull, self. Going more for the experience than the money (lie!) as I suspect the £100 may be linked to purchases of more than eight items of corduroy. Will try and work in comment about only drawback about catalogue is that it does not have a ladies scanties section. Still, I suppose this has been replaced by the 10 minute free view on TVX.

Slow Tribes

Up to Worcester this weekend to see Mum. Interesting trip up, with lightening storms over the 40, flashes illuminating clouds that looked mustard yellow or hazy orange. Real 'end of days' weather.

Also noticed on the way up a more than usual number of VW camper-vans, one with a 'custom' paint job. While the usual paint-job for the classic VW camper is orange and one wing primer, the owner of this one had been busy with spray can an airbrush. The result was his van covered with a 'Matrix' theme - Lawrence Fishburn glowering out of a side panel, the sort of thing I would have thought was beyond cool when I was a teenager…well, actually the sort of thing I would of still thought was cool into my early thirties.

The reason for all this VWness became apparent in Worcester. Vanfest was being held in Malvern and apparently there were 5,000 of these things parked up on the three counties showgrounds, although there were a hell of a lot of them driving along the highways and byways of Worcester too!

I love 'enthusiasts'. It is a particular feature of Englishness, a show of eccentricity and affection for a 'classic' (i.e. old) design. If something is rusting and leaking, it's not to be discarded, it's to be restored, hopefully with a lottery grant (well, otherwise it only goes to kosovans). There must be a gene dictating this sort of behaviour, it's like autism, but with a can of DW40 attached.

Still, I imagine it's tremendous fun, talking to your own people. Every garage had a couple of vans filling up and on Sunday night, heading home, whenever one saw a van pulled up on a hard shoulder (occasionally with smoke pouring from the engine, sometimes not) there would be a couple of other vans pulled up too. You don't get Vectra owners doing that, do you?

I wonder if the AA and RAC knew about the fest and had shedloads of VW gasket heads and so on laid on specially. Mind you, if your VW camper is going to break down, then Vanfest was the place for it to happen - turn your back for a minute and a group of enthusiasts have probably fixed your engine, re-sprayed your bodywork, refitted the interior and put in a jaccuzzi, a patio and a dance floor. Cool!

Funeral in Wales

That manages to get two of the saddest words in the English language into the same sentence. If you think that's bad…drove there in an MPV.

Sadly, Lou's grandmother passed on. Funeral was in Swansea and so I suggested we travel there with Lou's Mum and Dad. Thought of getting the four of us in the little Polo, then driving all that way, then having a funeral, then having sausage rolls, then driving all the way back, was a little daunting. Only variable in the equation was the car, so…decided to rent an MPV!

Brilliant idea! Rented a Citroen Picasso. Air con, little fold down trays in the back for passengers to eat off of ('thank you for flying Air Mac, we are ready for departure so please ensure your seat belts are fastened, your trays are in an upright position and that you've been to the loo'), plenty of leg room and so on. After driving it, I now realise why every MPV you see travels in the middle lane doing 75mph - they have no acceleration and are terrible to drive actively, however, once you get up to speed you can jut sit there and bicker about what CD to put on.

Worked a treat though. Got on the 25 by half six, then down the M4 and was in Swansea in plenty of time.

After service, saw that priest was having crafty fag. Odd to see a priest smoking, like seeing a policeman in uniform smoking - unexpected. Suppose though, that faith in afterlife means you can smoke all you want and not really give a toss about fatal consequences.

Back to the car…

Had cleverly loaded up cool bag with BLTs, crisps and snacks. So, just before Severn Bridge, was able to pull into service station and sit in car eating packed lunch. Transported back to many another service station sitting in car looking at grey weather and wondering if food in Little Chef would be better than packed lunch. Have since learned answer, hence packed lunch.

Now rather like the idea of a big car, and have always liked the idea of sat-nav (although had enjoyable squabble with father-in-law about where in Swansea to go). Cousin at funeral was tooling around in Landcruiser with sat-nav. Apparently you have to get CDs of the area you are travelling in - I assume the Amazon, Sahara and other wild areas come fitted as standard but you have to buy Surrey for extra. Typed in address of place were tea was being held after the service, some typical Welsh street name with far more 'L's in it than should be allowed. Of course, there were bloody thousands of them, but narrowed it down and got there in the end.

So am now big car convert and rather fancy the idea of a bloody huge 4x4. Having said that, the next time I got in the Polo, it felt like a sports car and moved like a rocket!

I drove all night

Travelled up to see Mother the other week. Left late, so that the Friday night carnage, mayhem and hissy-fits on the M25, not to mention the traffic, had had a chance to die down a bit.

While there were fewer cars than at, say, rush-hour, there were a number of caravanners making their slow way to their destination. This was especially true on the M42 and the M5. The M42 is, after all, the Midland's answer to the M25 and the M5 is the Brummies gateway getaway to the south coast. So it was that many a saloon car and 4x4 was pulling a Tupperware tub on wheels in expectation of two sun-filled, fun-filled weeks in a field with a stand-pump, some overflowing bins and a view of the local hospital waste land fill or, as describes in the brochure, a caravan park.

Other big cars were not towing caravans, but did seem to have the entire contents of the household loaded in the back as they made their way to their holiday destination. A lot of these, especially posh 4x4s, had a blue glow coming from the back seats. Rather than the passengers doing a spot of arc-welding, it was in fact the familiar light cast by the portable DVDs mounted in the headrests or slung as portable units over the back of the front seats. So the miles get eaten up as the kids watch Finding Nemo while, in the front, Dad is watching his sat-nav screen. What must that be like for a motorway? An endless line and occasional junctions? Surely it would be better to navigate in the traditional manner, with an out of date map atlas, or even better a Little Chef map of the UK?

Wonder if sat-nav gets the TVX ten minute free view?

So you have the cockpit up front with instruments and navigation while the passengers enjoy a movie. Is this driving, or air-travel? When I was a kid all you had to distract you was boiled sweets and the occasional bout of car-sickness, now the little sods sit there and no doubt get served in-car meals and little packets of peanuts.

Still, I suppose it keeps them quiet. Yeah, and so does half a valium in their Ribena.