Hmmm . . . . I watching the Take That Star Stories thing, which isn't as funny as the adverts (the adverts for the Tom Cruise edition are best). This is the opposite to Fonejacker, which is a lot funnier than the adverts suggest (but which the critics hate) . . .

Anyway, I've had a week's "holiday" in Brighton/London (many thanks to Ed and Linda for putting me up for most of the time). I say "holiday", because in these modern times it seems like it's only a real holiday if you leave the country. But then, holidays themselves are often much more stressful than normal life, in my experience, which leads me to think that the notion of holidaying can only be applied to lazy beach-style holidays . . . the kind of holiday that would drive me insane with boredom.

I got mildly addicted to playing Animal Crossing, which is pretty pathetic. We also went to the arcade on the pier and spent lots of 2p and 10p pieces in those ridiculous games (what are they called?), and I got tendonitis from playing some mad pig-race game crossed with air hockey. Some of the most fun we had, however, was throwing pebbles at a can on the beach. That sea air does funny things to you. I also learned a new card trick with which I have since impressed at least 4 people.

Good holiday. Pictures to follow.

Ian bought me this dag-tastic book on learning to drum. It's so eighties it's untrue. But hey, if you need to know how to do a pressed drumroll as opposed to your everyday common or garden drum roll, this is the book you need. I'll have to scan some bits of it in so everyone can appreciate the cheesiness.

There was something else, but I can't remember what it was.

The limits of science

It's sometimes worrying how little scientists know about specifics. At present I'm in quite a lot of pain because (I assume) of ovulation. Apparently one in five women experience this, but for me it's not a regular thing: sometimes it's painful, other times there's nothing, and the pain varies from a mild sensation to full-on curled-up-on-a-sofa agony (actually, it feels a little like trapped wind). Anyway, there's a few theories, but doctors genuinely don't know what specifically causes the discomfort. I find this to be incredibly annoying!

Twas the Heartyeah (www.myspace.com/heartyeah) album launch gig last night at the Grapes. The guys are right: when they play the Grapes they have no technical problems at all, and sound really great. Anywhere else, however, and their set is riddled with electronic difficulties.

They were excellent last night, and so were Calf by Calf, who I'd neither heard of or seen before. The other band were complete pants, to use old skool terminology. I feel a sort of pity for bands who are investing time in playing music which had its day in grotty 16+ clubs seveal years ago. They had a crap name to boot.

Anyway, there was supposed to be an aftershow party at the Runaway Girl, but for some reason the guy playing music there (singing guitar, harmonica, loops) stayed on stage for absolutely ages. He was fairly atrocious by that stage and had started doing lame covers, which his friends found hilarious. The reason I mention this place is not because of aftershow plans going awry (we went home after one drink there), but because being in that place was like stepping into a David Lynch film. I particularly had this sensation when I came out of the ladies' toilet into a sort of antechamber with busy red wallpaper and about 5 doors. I was stood there for a few seconds before I worked out which door led back downstairs, and then when I went back into the bar I realised the whole place was quite surreal: velvet curtains, red and blue lighting, low ceiling, strange convex mirrors on the back wall. Freaky.

No backwards speaking dwarves though.*


*Which is what Ian instantly asked when I told him of the Lynchian bar.

Does anyone else find Roger Federer ineffably boring? He's so strictly business it's untrue, both off and on court. As soon as the Wimbledon final began I immediately lost interest, because there's no trace of humanity (or humour) in either Federer or Nadal. I was rooting for Djokovic, who has a strictly business haircut, but who actually has a personality. I look forward to him beating Federer in the future. It seems to me that a lot of top sportspeople have no personality to speak of, particularly in more dangerous pursuits. Look at Formula 1 or Moto GP. The only remarkable thing about them is just how tedious they actually are. Perhaps, it occurred to me, they need to be like that in order to do what they do. In the same way, many sports competitors must be erring on the weirder side of OCD (we're all obsessive compulsive about some things), because discipline and control are fundamental to what they do. So it's not that surprising that Nadal lines up his drinks bottles with the labels facing the same way and spends moments adjusting his socks, or that Djokovic bounces the ball at least 15 times before he actually serves the damned thing.

At least bizarre obsessions are remotely interesting however. I'd rather that than the dullness of RF . . . and the loquaciousness with which he is greeted by pundits only serves to make him appear more boring.

Give me Venus any day. Some time ago there was a massive Williams sister backlash, which I'm pleased has subsded. I felt that the undercurrent to that was sheer snobbery, and perhaps even a edge of institutional (latent) racism. Venus has always proved herself to be an amazing athlete with true mental grit as far as I'm concerned.

Maybe I've turned anti-mainland Europe?

I suppose I can take my 'Free Alan Johnston' banner off my page now. It's stupid to say I felt so relieved when Ian shouted up this morning that he'd been freed, but bizarrely I really did get a nice feeling in my belly. I'm glad I had that reaction, because once I heard him talking about the whole ordeal I couldn't believe what a humble, intelligent and uncynical person he was - and how phenomenally articulate and grounded he appeared after such an experience. When he was doing the international press conference from Jerusalem, I looked up at the clock and thought, "Shit, he's been talking for 40 minutes!" But I suppose when you've had nothing to do but go over and over the few things that have happened to you, then maybe you would be prepared to talk about it all so eloquently, and be glad of the opportunity to engage in a dialogue at all.

It's a trite thing to say, but I was really impressed with him.

In a completed unrelated matter, I went to see Pirates of the Caribbean 3 tonight, and it was completely ludicrous and had the most convoluted plot since Mission:Impossible, but it was still enjoyable. Possibly I scoffed and guffawed more than I genuinely chuckled or laugher, but hey. You have to take it for what it is . . . which judging by the ending is a filthy, commercial endeavour to extort money from audiences further by extending the franchise to a FOURTH movie. For godsake . . . .

sucked dry

What is it about Sundays? I think it's because I have to go to my new school tomorrow to sort out various things (my timetable, for one), and in the lead up to visiting I've been having uncomfortable teaching dreams. I might start taking bets on how long I'll stick it out.

Skoda update

I was wrong. It was inedible because it had been under studio lights for several days. Apparently it was composted and used on allotments. Cake compost? Weird.

The tasty waste . . .

I'm talking about the over-long Skoda advert in which team of bakers create a huge car cake. The first time I saw it, I wondered what would happen to it, and Ian suggested that the shareholders probably had a party and ate it all.

No. Apparently not. The cake car was actually held together in places by glue, not icing, and as such was inedible. Ridiculous.