nota benny

This much I know...

2008-05-20T00:12:00.006+01:00

It's traditional for the elderly to impart some of their experience, insight and wisdom. At the age of 36, this probably shows quite how far I have to go... :)

In the arts, it's much easier to be nasty than to be nice.

Just because I can write, it doesn't make me a writer.

There's usually time for another drink.

The only one of my top five movies I can name with unshakeable certainty is Mary Poppins. Does this mean it's my favourite film?

Exercise rarely feels as bad as you feared it would.

Maureen Lipman was wrong. Sometimes you should just shut up.

Pop is not just business, it's art.

It might have sounded profound, but you were probably just drunk at the time.

There's nothing quite like the stage.

Most people say they care about the environment far more than they're actually prepared to do enough about it. Me included.

Saying yes can be scary. I still haven't worked out how to get it right.

I far prefer female vocalists to male ones.

I'm a romantic at heart - which could be why I'm so reluctant to risk it.

It's difficult not to let people down. But try not to make a habit of it.

Smiles make you feel better, especially if they're your own.

You never truly know how loved you are. There's always that little bit more hiding down the back of the sofa.

Yellow cars are surprisingly few and far between. Appreciate them when you can. Sometimes they come with two legs rather than four wheels.

Stressful situations exist for sure, but how you react to them is up to you.

Life without the familiar can be more frightening than death.

What's the point of having money if you can't share it around? A lesson for individuals and governments alike.

If Jed Bartlett had really been President, we'd still be in this mess.

Fiction is more likely to make me cry than real life. Should this be cause for concern?

Politics is broken. But was it ever really working?

Whatever you think you know today, in five years you'll realise just how naive you were. This never changes.

I'm quite happy to be proved wrong.

Return of the Badger

2008-01-16T19:29:00.000Z

I made no secret of the fact that Sam Allardyce's appointment didn't have me turning cartwheels. The style of play he encouraged in Bolton and his fondness for thuggish, borderline sociopaths (Mr El-Hadji Diouf to name but one) was not something I wished to see reproduced at my beloved St James' Park.

That said, I was willing to see what he could do at a club with greater resources than Wanderers; give him time to work. Which is more than the new owner was prepared to do.

So once again the Magpies foolishly found themselves without a manager just a matter of months into the season.

Hopes for some big international name were bandied about, along with just about anyone who's ever coached in the Premiership, as well as some who haven't. The arguments against Shearer taking over are well-worn. Let's just say I worship the man as a centre-forward, but we both know he's not ready for the job.

For a while it looked like we 'ad 'Arry Redknapp - a man I regard as the Deep Blue Sea to Big Sam's Devil, perfectly good at what he does, no disrespect, but more attuned to a club the size of Portsmouth - but I was able to breathe a sigh of relief when that turned out to be another crock of Red Top.

Which was exactly what the rumours of a Kevin Keegan Komeback smelt of - until, at just before five this afternoon, the club announced that was exactly what was happening.

I've no idea whether or not bringing back the guy who made us exciting nearly-men is a good idea (although it does save us from the prospect of hiring Mark Hughes or Steve Bruce, at least for the time being) and goodness knows I'll find plenty to say about it in weeks to come, especially now I have reliable internet access at home for the first time in months.

But for now, I'm speechless.

Shades of grey

2007-11-19T16:50:00.000Z

It's a funny experience looking inside one's own head, especially knowing that not so long ago it looked considerably different. But there it was, on the registrar's computer screen, in all its greyscale glory.

He'd made a big show of asking me how I was doing, whether I was back at work, reviewing the notes, showing me the scans. So far, so predictable.

And then he dropped the bombshell.

"As you can see, it all looks really good," he said in his heavily Anglicised Arabic accent, beaming, and prodding at my brain. "So I think all I can say is get on with your life. I'll discharge you from the surgical clinic."

I hadn't really been expecting this today, so the news took a few moments to sink in.

"So I don't need to come back and see you at all?"

"No. No more appointments. Of course, you'll continue to see the neurologist, but apart from that..."

"No more scans?"

"Well, maybe one in a couple of years just to check, but we'll let Dr Farmer take care of that."

And that, rather anti-climactically, was that. Not even a chance to say goodbye to the woman who saved my life. While her number two, her Metatron, was delivering the good news, Joan was attending to people still in need. My gratitude would have to conveyed be in third person.

Of course it's not the absolute all clear, not as long as Queen Square has me on file, but when surgeons say there's nothing more they need to do, it's a pretty significant step in that direction.

Now for the hard part...

Look at what you could have won...

2007-08-03T10:39:00.000+01:00

The editorial staff here at nota benny would like to apologise for the prolonged period of silence. In the month since the last post the schedule's just been so hectic and full of exciting things to blog about that there hasn't been any time for the words to make the leap from brain to byte.

Consequently, dear reader, you've missed pregnant ruminations on such wide and varied topics as: the BBC's credibility problems (we're waiting for the other shoe to drop when people twig that star appeal and journalistic aptitude don't necessarily go hand in glove, that Brian Conley will never entertain you, not even in the middle of the afternoon, and that the Tardis isn't actually bigger on the inside than out. And that it smells of wee.); the theory that the UK's summer weather is just one big publicity stunt for the release of Evan Almighty; an appraisal of the tea and cake served at Buckingham Palace; and the delicate nature of complimenting a father on his teenage daughter without sounding like a potential sex offender.

Any or none of these subjects may crop up in the near future.

But coming soon, an investigation showing why if visiting the woods it's Swedes not bears of whom you need to be wary.

Free at last

2007-07-04T06:37:00.000+01:00

Oh happy day. After 114 days in captivity, Alan Johnston has been freed, safe and seemingly well.

What made Alan's time as a hostage so perverse and unjust was that he had spent three years in Gaza putting the case of the Palestinian people, as much as any objective journalist can, telling stories that may otherwise be untold to a Western audience.

Whatever the Army of Islam's motive for this deplorable act, it was only ever going to work against the Palestinian cause. Yet that should not prevent them from being congratulated for letting the episode reach its only desirable conclusion.

The bile and invective I instinctively prepared at the time of the bogus announcement of Alan's death can thankfully remain unpublished. I'm glad I held my tongue at that time, in spite of a great anger. Whatever one's view of the desperate situation in the Middle East, one can't deny that progress will not be made as long as so many bitter words are spoken.

Hopefully Alan will now get time to readjust to life outside his Gaza cell and to spend time with his family, who must have had the worst four months imaginable. The mood among colleagues also seems to have instantly lightened, people relieved to have truly good news to report for once.

And then when he finally gets back to work, hopefully in some nice, quiet posting - Baghdad, perhaps, or maybe Beirut? - mine will be one of many pockets only too happy to shed a few pounds to buy him a drink.

Mighty Mika

2007-07-01T11:39:00.000+01:00

Just when I thought there was no one left to champion the cause of real journalism over celebrity tittle-tattle, along comes MSNBC's Mika Brzezinski.

Objecting to Paris Hilton's first interview following her release from jail being the designated lead story in her bulletin, she stages a very entertaining on-air coup. As befits the daughter of a former US National Security Adviser, Ms Brzezinski wants to lead on Iraq - but there's editorial pressure from above. The adamant anchor ends up destroying the paper copy of the script in a very public display of defiance.

You'd never see George Alagiah or Sian Williams having such a public editorial hissy fit - would that they should.

What's a little unsettling is how Mika's male colleagues react to her stance. First they say she's not a journalist any more as if a "real" journalist, rather than a presenter, would see the value in the Hollywood-based Hilton story over some crumby foreign thing. Then later, one says she's "such a journalist" as if that's something to be avoided in modern TV news. Cronkite and Dimbleby must be rolling in their graves.

Has Mika Brzezinski committed the journalistic faux pas of becoming the story? Arguably, yes.

And there is something in the Hilton story - preferential treatment for stars, say, maybe the overcrowding in LA's penal system, or even just as a matter of interest at the end of the summary - but I suspect Mika's reaction would not have been quite so intense had the item not been placed so high by her producer.

However, Brzezinski has struck a blow for sensible, adult news, for those of us who think that just because what's important in the world and what the masses want to hear about aren't necessarily the same thing, that doesn't mean we should let populism run the news agenda.

Tube tales

2007-06-27T17:41:00.000+01:00

The Victoria line, midnight. A train pulls out of Oxford Circus, heading north.

Eye contact.

"Aaron?"

"Sean. Shane! I had a moment remembering your name..."

"Dave."

"Sorry, I had you confused with somebody else there. How are you?"

Identity established, conversation ensues.

A stranger smiles, happy with his new story.

Treaty sweeties..?

2007-06-23T14:48:00.000+01:00

One wants to be understanding but this picture (which led the BBC News website for most of Saturday) makes it look like there are closer ties between Spain and Germany than anyone thought.

In the words of the dear, departed Jeff Murdock, there is "Definite N.A.T." going on between the German chancellor and the European Commission president.

I don't wish to start any rumours, but is this a case of Señor Barroso and Frau Merkel taking the phrase "European Union" a little too literally?

Clearly mischief is alive and well in the BBC interactive newsroom.

Baby shower

2007-06-18T14:29:00.000+01:00

Welcome to the world Luca Sam Wilding, one week old today.

Dearest Luca,

I'd like to think that at some point in the distant future, should the technology still exist in this primitive form, you'll search for your name and find this message. If so, hello from 2007 and a few random thoughts brought about by your arrival in the world.

Firstly, know that your birth was one of the happiest days ever, not just for your mum and dad, but for all your uncles, aunties, grandparents, greats grandparents, great uncles, great aunties, and even some people you've probably never met.

You may have heard this previously, but while we were waiting for you there was some controversy about your name.

I realise you think of yourself as Luca, and indeed that's what your birth certificate says but as far as all your uncles are concerned, your true name is Thor. We almost had your daddy on board but, sensible man that he is, he gave into your mother.

Indomitable woman, that one. Little firecracker. Goes with the hair. Not fierce, as such, but definitely not one to be crossed. Remember that when you're weighing up just how much you can get away with.

In spite of the disagreement over your name, your folks are two of my favourite people in the world and you should listen to them because they are kind, clever, sensitive, wise and fun.

On your father's side, at least, you've become part of one of the most wonderful, loving, intelligent families in existence.

It was my honour and pleasure to grow up with Auntie Frances, Uncle Joseph and your father, and to have your grandmother as a second mummy, even though my own family was (and still is) perfectly wonderful and all I could hope for. You'll doubtless have heard stories by the time you read this - some of them, hopefully, about What the Dragon.

And your Uncle Hugh, well, he's a very dear friend, and I'm sure he'll teach you all the things your parents don't want you to know.

I'm afraid I don't know your mummy's family terribly well, but they helped make her who she is, and that should speak for itself.

I also think it's important for you to know just a few of the people with whom you share your birthday.

Ben Jonson
Julia Margaret Cameron
John Constable
Max Shreck
Jackie Stewart
Vince Lombardi
Jacques Cousteau
Hugh Laurie
and (my personal favourite) Gene Wilder

(Had you been born exactly one calendar month later, you would have shared your birthday with Suzanne Vega. If, by some small wonder, you've got any appreciation for the music of the 1980s, you may come to find this as funny and ironic as I - and presumably your parents - do).

Most of these names will probably mean nothing to you at first, but hopefully you'll want to find out. They're all important or significant in their own way. I could provide links to them all for you, but that would make it too easy. :)

Because if there's one thing I hope to teach you, it's this: keep asking questions, and only stop when you get an answer you understand and accept. Then find something else to ask about. It's the best way for you to learn and a good way of making other people respect you.

And before I sign off please join me in welcoming another little person to the world, a Swedish girl by the name of Astrid Barrett, born to some other friends of mine just a couple of weeks before you. Maybe the two of you will never meet, or maybe you'll fall in love. Please understand that I'm projecting a couple of decades into the future here, and her father won't appreciate me saying this, but I'm sure you could do much worse. :)

Finally, whatever life holds, Luca, please know that you are, always have been and always will be loved.

Forever,

Your Uncle Ben

Not everything in black and white makes sense

2007-06-15T19:05:00.000+01:00

It's all go at St James' Park at the moment. New manager, new owner, new players, and new controversy over old ones.

Taking these issues in no particular order:

Shady transfers
Although the club and its officials have been cleared of wrongdoing by Lord Stevens' inquiry into irregular transfers, almost a quarter of those 17 league-wide player transfers about which there's still some concern came into the club during the Souness era.

And knowing that, it really comes as no surprise that these include three of the worst footballers to have signed for Newcastle United in recent years, namely Jean Alain Boumsong, Amady Faye and Albert Luque. Whiter than white? I think not.

New manager
Also mentioned by the former chief of the Met was our new boss, "Big" Sam Allardyce. I wasn't a particularly big fan of his clod-hopping football at Bolton, unlike many I had no wish to see him take the England job last year (although now I'm wondering whether I'll wish he had) and didn't like his tendency to stick by one of the league's nastiest players, El-Hadji Diouf.

Speaking of which...

New arrival
After it having been threatened for six months, we've finally got Joey Barton. Oh happy day.

How do I love him? Let me count the ways.

* He ended last season out of favour at Manchester City after an alleged training ground assault on team-mate Ousmane Dabo.

* In 2004, Barton was fined a club record six weeks' wages after stubbing out a cigar in team-mate Jamie Tandy's eye during City's Christmas party.

* During City's pre-season tour of Thailand in 2005, Barton physically attacked a schoolboy Everton fan and had to be restrained.

* Not forgetting the fact that his brother's doing life for being a racist murderer.

It's just a shame that the similarly admirable Lee Bowyer left the club just 12 months ago.

Forgive me if these words disguise my true feelings about this fine, upstanding member of the community from good stock pulling on the shirt of the team that I love. Sarcasm is notoriously difficult to convey in text.

New owner
The only change I'm remotely happy about is Mike Ashley's arrival. Hopefully he'll finally oust Fat Freddy Shepherd and bring in a chairman who actually knows something about football and treating a club, its players and, most importantly, its fans with the respect they deserve.

I've said it every time we've had an alleged new dawn since Bobby was sacked, but it will take a lot to convince me that there are better times ahead.

Sam, Joey et al, it's time you proved me wrong.

Thought for the day

2007-06-11T19:40:00.000+01:00

How much faster would the flow of pedestrian traffic be along central London's thoroughfares if they were cleared of all the people handing out free crap like papers, flyers and phone cards? With all that free space, maybe people would be able to walk around all the slow tourists.

I'm just saying...

CDCWow!

2007-05-31T18:19:00.000+01:00

This week's story about the guy from the US carrying a particularly nasty strain of tuberculosis has reminded me of an old bugbear of mine.

There have been regular updates given by the US Centers for Disease Control. As long as I've been visiting Atlanta I've been wanting to visit CDC and take the tour. Maybe you can blame a morbid curiosity in the all-conquering nature of bacteria and viruses, or possibly just a rose-tinted glamour resulting from having seen Outbreak one too many times.

There would be guided tours of galleries overlooking labs; a "Know your virus" interactive exhibit; a "Beat the Pathogen" game (which I'd have to give a little more thought to but would definitely involve dressing up in a biohazard suit); and a gift shop selling all sorts of stuff from disease-themed movies (Outbreak, 28 Days Later) and music (Anthrax, anyone?) to t-shirts saying "I went on the CDC tour and all I got was this lousy rhinovirus", "Herpes is for life, not just for Christmas", "TB or not TB? That is the question" and other such vaguely witty slogans.

But Jen swore that they didn't have a visitor's centre. Why, she asked, would they want to open that kind of thing up to the public? And anyway, what kind of sicko would actually want to go?

So for the past few years I've been banging on occasionally at anyone who'll listen about how the CDC's missing a trick.

Except it turns out they're not.

I know it won't live up to my expectations, but I'm all the happier just to know it exists.

Panda pops

2007-05-29T04:09:00.000+01:00

It's just after four in the morning. Technical difficulties at work mean I'm flicking through the channels in search of something to watch.

Did I really just see a bearded man in spectacles giving manual relief to a talking giant panda? Apparently, yes.

It's not a real panda, of course, but a person in a suit playing one. But I'm not sure that that isn't even more disturbing.

Now I know what they mean when they say it's always darkest before the dawn.

Turning Japanese

2007-05-20T12:57:00.000+01:00

More on my swiftly developing career as the BBC News website's voice of east Asia. In much demand (or possibly just available) following the critically acclaimed performances of "Thai lorry driver" and the classic "Second Japanese panda fan", as well as a misguided turn as "Filipino karaoke enthusiast" I'm in danger of becoming typecast, having just completed the role of "Japanese paramedic". This is my second son of Nippon in a row. I suppose it's a problem all successful artistes face, yet there are so many more countries to which I have still to lend my voice.

This time the links should work.

Oh, and happy birthday Busta, Bronson and Cher...

Dysfunction keys

2007-05-17T17:45:00.000+01:00

So I'm in the elevator at work, wearing this t-shirt with an Escape key on the front. It's an item of clothing which, like many in my wardrobe, often raises a smile or some similarly friendly response.

The lift stops before my floor and a few other people get in, including one bloke I recognise as a techy type having seen him crawl around under various desks and shouting down phones over the course of several years. I don't think he recognises me. To say we know each other would be a lie.

But this doesn't stop him from bellowing, "Ah, does this one work?" and, quite uninvited, firmly plants his pudgy little finger on the button in the middle of my chest chest. "Oh no. We're still here. Just as useless as all the others," he grins.

No one's quite sure what to make of it. Embarrassed faces all round. Still, despite this unexpected incursion into my personal space, I attempt to make the best of an awkward situation.

But the witty comeback isn't there. In the short trip down another couple of floors I mutter something about buttons, hopelessness and escape. But the door opens at my floor, I walk out, turn round, flash a smile and say, "There's no escape."

And as the door slides closed, he looks at me like I'm the one who needs his head checked...

Happy Birthday Alan

2007-05-17T10:24:00.000+01:00

66 days and still missing. Ten years and three days my senior. What a way to spend any day, let alone your birthday.

Please sign the petition, get the blog button, tell your friends, keep him in your thoughts.

Am I a man or a mouse?

2007-05-15T11:47:00.000+01:00

Surely one of the most exciting, magical and dramatic online quizzes I've ever seen, tied into the forthcoming His Dark materials movies.

I'm happy with a mouse, but is it accurate? Take a visit please and help me find my true daemon.

Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out

2007-05-10T12:10:00.000+01:00

Ding, dong, the witch is, well, if not exactly dead, then certainly ordering four dozen baps for the mourners and making sure his affairs are in order.

What once felt so fresh, shiny and new, now just leaves a taste so bitter that it pervades every cell of one's body.

I won't deny that the Blair government did much for the country's benefit, and I'd hate to think what the UK would be like now had the Tories stayed in power.

Yet, without retreading too much of the same old ground, the contemptuous way in which Blair and his minions treated the public in the lead-up to the illegal invasion of Iraq and the horrific debacle that followed sent his healthy balance of good will well into the red. No one's pretending that Saddam was a saint, but surely there must have been another way.

On a more personal level resentment over the royal shafting the government gave the BBC over the Kelly affair (something for which Auntie seemingly continues to pay, given that the compromising licence fee settlement awarded earlier this year looks set to cause yet more years of job cuts) still burns deeply within the hearts of many inside the Corporation. The country should hope that the malice of Blair and Campbell has not tarnished a global jewel beyond repair.

And for the people of Iraq, there is no end in sight for the tragic results of Blair's collusion in the crimes perpetrated against them. Tomorrow will bring more bombs, more murders, more misery.

I'll likely come back to this once things have sunk in and played out. Because while I'm glad to see the back of him, Tony Blair deserves a proper goodbye.

While once upon a time I'd have welcomed Gordon Brown taking power I have a horrible, nagging doubt that this may be false hope. The sense of renewal that accompanied Blair's election is not apparent today. Yet while I have no desire to see the nation seduced by David Cameron, Gordo has much work to do to prove that he and Blair are not, as George Galloway puts it, "two cheeks of the same backside".

And I can't shake the image of the closing shot of Flash Gordon: tyrant Ming the Merciless has been killed, the ring that holds his power has slipped from his finger, and a happy ending seems in store for all the peoples of both Earth and Mongo. But as the ring lies in the rubble of Ming's palace a hand comes from out of shot to claim it, and the sound of maniacal laughter rings afresh in our ears...

Who's the daddy?

2007-05-05T15:55:00.000+01:00

Okay, so based on the evidence of these photographs alone I can just about figure how it found some similarity between me and Matt Perry and I take it as a compliment (although I forget - was this photo from his pre-narcotic dependency, self-satisfied, height of Friends' success phase, or his recovering addict, put on a bit of weight, pressure-of-being-in-world's-biggest-sitcom-all- gone later years?) and maybe Gandolfini (although Danny Fantastic's a better match for Big Tony).

But Ralph Lauren? Don Adams? Travolta? And Peter Sellers? Since when has wearing spectacles been a key indicator of a genetic match?

Either this face-recognition system still needs plenty of work or my mum's got some serious explaining to do.

Visions of loveliness, actions of cowardice

2007-04-27T11:44:00.000+01:00

Every once in a while one meets a woman whose very ordinariness demands that she be elevated to the status of Godhead. Using words such as ordinary and unremarkable do her a disservice for she is witty, intelligent, feeling, mature, articulate, attractive and definitely sexy. Yet no one attribute stands out. Ergo ordinary, normal, but in the very best way.

Sure, there are better-looking women, ones with more challenging minds, even some with whom one has a deeper natural connection.

But with these deified girls everything just comes together in the right proportions. Perfectly imperfect - or is that imperfectly perfect?

What's more, the goddess seems unaware of her divine glory and ability to knock your average Joe dead in the water.

It's perhaps this last attribute that puts her beyond the reach of mortals.

The end result is that to harbour serious romantic aspirations around these women is tantamount to blasphemy. They are to be cherished and (if this doesn't sound a little too much like a stalker with serious psychological problems) their purity is to be preserved at all times (regardless of boyfriends, who have obviously attained that position by proving their worth).

(These girls are, of course, completely different from those one meets who are so unattainably gorgeous as to not even be fanciable - any effort to do so would just result in infatuation and heartache. With these few, the psyche seems to save time and anguish by automatically opting out of the competition.)

So it is with J.

I first met her several years ago when working in Manchester. Among certain of my colleagues at the time, she was quite the subject of idolatry. J was a radio reporter, me - one of the few people working on this new-fangled interwebsite thingy. Consequently we didn't have much reason for our paths to cross. Nevertheless we managed to strike up an enjoyable, relaxed, if politely restrained, relationship.

On my last day before heading south, she gave me a signed photo of Mikey Graham, the pudgy one from Boyzone who never really got over the band's break-up and had to cancel his solo tour due to lack of interest. Despite my predilection for pop I don't like Boyzone, never have, yet I've had that photo pinned to my corkboard for the last six years, an icon to keep my faith strong.

Our paths crossed occasionally over the next few years and in between times I'd see or hear her on some channel or other.

I'd not seen J in more than a year. But knocking off shift late last night, walking through the corridors of Television Centre, I found myself following a woman. Somehow I knew it was her. These instincts are usually way off the mark, resulting in awkward moments with shocked strangers. Yet this time I was right.

She seemed genuinely pleased to see me, if a little surprised, and as I'd not seen her since BC, I had to drop the brain bomb on her.

But as soon as I'd mentioned this, without any time for explanation, my driver turned up saying, "Ben Fell? Ben Fell? Which is it, you or her?".

For just a moment I felt like grabbing him by his lapels, pinning him against the wall and, with our faces just microns apart, yelling at the top of my not inconsiderable voice, "Ben Fell? Does this vision of loveliness look like Ben Fell? You're not even worthy to hold eye contact with her, let alone know her real name. Prostate yourself before her and beg forgiveness."

It passed as quickly as it came (which is just as well as a) it would have been more than a little embarrassing and b) the man in question turned out to be a very nice chap) and we parted with a promise to get in touch soon.

I still don't fancy allow myself to fancy her. I'm still in awe.

I know it's absurd, that she's just a human being with the same doubts and insecurities as anyone worth their salt, and that this whole post probably says many bad things about my attitude to relationships. In affairs of the heart, I'm a coward.

Am I wrong? Is every woman a goddess in her own way? Probably so. And there are many out there, just waiting to be worshipped in a less mentally retarded way.

But putting J and her like on this pedestal makes life easier, a way to stay sane.

Can anyone honestly say they've never done the same?

The brain drain

2007-04-21T00:01:00.000+01:00

Today marks one year since they cracked my head open and sucked out a bit of brain. Most people know about it, some managed to live through it, but for Sherri and anyone else who wants to know the full story, here it is...

I'd had a spate of symptoms at points over the course of 18 months from autumn 2004 to this time last year. These included dizziness, headaches, numbness in my arms, failure in my legs. As each came and went I blamed it on diabetes, carbon monoxide poisoning or caffeine.

The worst point came when I had several near-blackouts and one actual instance of fainting in Summer ‘05, most dramatically marked when I collapsed at the feet of a colleague in the middle of the newsroom.

Feeling progressively more and more like a hypochondriac, I meandered through various clinics and A&Es as the NHS worked at its naturally relaxed pace for the outpatient diagnostic phase. At first, my heart was the principal suspect - never a good thought for someone in their early 30s who had spent the previous two years getting fit.

But following a clean bill of health from a cardiologist, doctors started to tell me they were pretty sure I suffered from vasovagal syncope - a posh way of saying you stand up too fast - and told me to eat more salt and drink more water.

Then a neurologist at St Mary's in Paddington sent me for an MRI in early April. Expecting nothing out of the ordinary, the family immersed itself in celebrations of Josh's 21st birthday. But eight days after the scan I got frantic phone calls telling me I had to go into hospital for brain surgery immediately. It wasn't cancer, the young Asian registrar told me, but it was necessary.

My first thought was that Mum and Dad were far too busy to bother them with the news. I'd tell them later, if it proved necessary.

To this day I have no earthly idea what I was thinking, but thankfully a colleague talked me out of that pretty quickly. (This was the same point at which I was also telling people that I'd probably be off work for a week or so, so you can see that I didn't quite grasp what lay ahead.)

Having got over the initial shock, and with Thomas and Mum almost instantly on hand to bolster me, there began a long wait 'til I actually got to the table.

The surgery was to take place at the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery in Queen Square, which is supposed to be the best place for brain surgery in Europe, some say the world.

Under the mistaken impression that I wasn't allowed to leave the ward, by day five (Easter Sunday) I was going a little stir crazy. Thankfully those in charge were willing to allow me a little leeway, happy to let me roam nearby streets of beautiful Bloomsbury, provided I was in the company of someone responsible.

It's just as well they let me out of the cage because altogether I had to wait nine long days before getting to the theatre, and almost a week before even getting to speak to my brain surgeons.

In charge was Ms Joan Grieve, a kindly but no nonsense woman with something of a mischievous streak, the sort of girl who would be odds on favourite to captain the hockey team at school. Her number two was Dr Oasi Jeelani, a supremely confident young Londoner who, when asked whether he liked his job, said he'd pay to do it.

Obviously one wants to go through life without having one's CPU exposed to the elements but if you absolutely have to have brain surgery, then it's people like these you want to have doing it. Both undoubtedly brilliant.

Having written that paean to the surgeons, it would be remiss of me to go any further without mentioning the neurologists. All the glory and glamour may go to the people who get their hands bloody, but it was Dr Simon Farmer and his team who actually found the damn thing. Their part in this process is so often underplayed but should not be underestimated.

And the nursing staff - not all necessarily the most genial of folk, but my, do they earn their money. One glance at the dedication, skill and patience their jobs require should be enough to silence the majority of malcontents in any other sector.

The problem, my surgeons explained, was a colloid cyst (a pea-sized sac of gluey stuff) which was washing about and regularly blocking the drain in one of the chambers in my brain. Much like having a teabag stuck in your kitchen sink, this was causing hydrocephalous (water on the brain) and a build-up of pressure which in turned caused all those side-effects.

Other symptoms in undiagnosed or untreated patients include a one in eight chance of sudden death. So the decision to have surgery was, if you will, a bit of a no-brainer.

Joan and Oasi would have to take a piece out of the front right of my skull and burrow down about 9 centimetres until they reached the offending article, pretty much right at the centre of my brain. Then they'd snip the cyst open, suck out the glue, and remove the rest of the cyst wall, before getting out and patching me up, complete with titanium brackets to hold the skull in place.

Dr Jeelani added that there were two surgeons because one had to hold the other's hands steady. Perhaps understandably, it took a couple of beats for the penny to drop and people to laugh.

They've no idea what causes these things, or indeed how long mine might have been there (possibly since birth). And despite the fact that the condition is pretty rare, the same team had actually successfully removed a colloid cyst the week before my op. Insert London bus joke here.

For most of the time I managed to stay strong - I knew I had to. It's a funny thing about adversity, but very often it seems easiest for the person at the centre to be the one helping to keep everyone else's spirits up, so that they would find it easier to do the same in return. At least that's the way it felt to me.

But other than a bit of a wobble after my first chat with the surgeons (when Sam provided the double whammy of a clear, incisive head for detail and much needed emotional support, as she did throughout the whole hospital experience), the only point at which I was really scared was the evening before the operation when, just for a few moments, I realised I might wake up from the procedure and all that I'd experienced, loved, cherished or hated would be gone, and I'd have to start again stripped of context. That I'd no longer be me.This, I learned post-op, was also the major fear for most of those to whom I'm close.

But I certainly don’t feel any different and everyone says I didn’t lose any of my Ben-ness. Read into that what you will.

I've never felt so loved as I did at that time, both before and after the op. Family, friends and colleagues rallied round, messages of goodwill came on an almost daily basis from all around the world, people I'd not seen in far too long suddenly re-emerged to become essential crutches. I felt a little guilty about the number of visitors and cards I received, which easily outweighed anyone else in the beds around me. The improbably high turnover of attractive young women in my presence certainly didn't go without mention by wardmates.

I even had the good grace to accept offers of prayer in the spirit in which they were intended (but it was not until later that I discovered that these stretched beyond people who knew me to a whole church prayer group in rural Georgia). I may not agree with beliefs about where the positivity of prayer ends up, but I can't deny it helps to have so many people wishing one well.

Fortunately it became clear very soon after I was brought round from the anaesthetic that there were no long term side effects (which, on top of the personality change, could have included short term memory loss, some loss of mobility in my left hand side, seizures, death – minor stuff like that). I even managed to insult my youngest brother through the oxygen mask.

It also quickly emerged that I don't get on with morphine. What goes down must come up, as they don't say. Clearly I'm not destined to join the ranks of the great Romantics.

I have many happy memories of this period immediately following surgery: the camaraderie on the recovery ward with guys like Ernest (a 40-something black guy who looked half his age but turned out to be a grandfather), Ollie (a sweet-natured Bengali lad from the East End, sadly no stranger to the National), and Patrick (an ageing Irishman who'd done everything in his life and had stories to tell that would be the envy of any blogger); a precious spring picnic in beautiful Queen Square; a chance meeting with a BBC staffer making a documentary about the hospital; talking movies and football with Sean; and learning from another hospital veteran that the easiest way to get a decent meal was by ordering Halal.

Twelve days after the surgery I was released from the National. After a few days at home in London to ensure proximity to the hospital in case of emergency, we all decamped to my parents' house in Wales where I was to spend much of the summer.

So began the second struggle, to get back to fitness. At first even the shortest of walks was exhausting - three weeks post-op and half a mile on flat ground would wear me out. Equally, computer work was out of the question - in the early months staring at a monitor for much more than 15 minutes would leave me with a headache for the rest of the day, as did much more than half an hour's reading - which meant that all the books I'd been given to help me through my long layoff had to be content to wait.

Funnily enough the same didn't count for television, a godsend as this period of convalescence coincided with the football World Cup. More than one person felt it their duty to remark upon the serendipity of this timing.

But eventually the strength returned to my legs, the head became reaccustomed to pixels and, with the help of a glorious summer and regular targets to hit (the first trip out, birthday celebrations, the first drink, family holiday in glorious northern Spain, Tory's wedding) things began to feel close to normal again.

The scans I'd had a few days after the op (and again a few months later) showed everything returning to normal, and I started a gentle reintroduction to work in August, three and a half months after my date with Joan and Oasi.

The return to the BBC after brain surgery taught me another important lesson I should have learned years ago: that we're all responsible for our own stress levels, or rather that we can control the way in which we react to high pressure situations. One can choose not to get stressed out. Disagree if you please, but the absence of weekend-long headaches since adopting that attitude suggest to me that there's at least a grain of truth to it.

The zest for self-expression took a little longer to return. I just didn't feel the need to write anything - hence the huge chasms of time between posts here. But eventually, a couple of months ago, the urge came back and I felt free - almost compelled - to get words down again.

Obviously Colloidgate (as it's never been called) was a wholly unexpected challenge, and each member of the family dealt with it in their own way (denial, anger, stoicism, running away), but I couldn’t have got through it without them and the love and support of friends and colleagues. Mum was just the best. Words fail me. Hopefully they're not necessary.

To the people at Queen Square and everyone who sent cards, gifts, texts and e-mails, dropped by just once or spent long hours at my bedside I can't begin to adequately express my thanks. Just know that I love you all and will never forget the role you played in my recuperation.

I’m now pretty much back up to speed. And reading some of the chatrooms on the internet it could have turned out a hell of a lot worse.

It does for many people, like the man I read about who'd undergone just the same procedure at a very similar age, but it had taken him several days just to learn how to talk again.

Or the brave souls with whom I shared a ward before my surgery: John, battling a debilitating neurological disorder and his lack of education in an effort to make sense of his situation; Simon, in for experimental treatment to manage the chronic headaches that had blighted his life for six years since his surgery; Eastender Terry, who'd had a tumour removed from the meningal sac that protects the brain for the third time in his life, and was taking his not inconsiderable anger out on the world, turning the air blue in the middle of the night, and going out on the piss from his hospital bed mere days after his op; another, much older John, puzzled and disoriented after a stroke, prone to absconding and talking nonsense, and butt of most of Terry's sadistic humour; and Tony, seriously brain damaged by radiation treatment as a child and reliant for the past 20 years or so on virtual 24-hour care by his two honest, hard-working, devoted parents.

Next to them, what did I really go through? Although it's not unknown for these cysts to grow back, it is incredibly rare so hopefully the worst is in the past. But both surgical and medical teams will keep an eye on me at regular intervals for some time to come. The National does so many amazing things for so many people, I want to give something back to them at some point.

I think life’s pretty much back to normal – or as near normal as it ever was – but the whole episode still looms pretty large, and I think we’re all still trying to make sense of it. I know I am.

And just the other week, Thomas broke down in tears on me in the middle of the night as he told me what a frightening time it had been. Admittedly he was tired and emotional in every sense of the phrase, but it was the first time he’d really opened up to me.

As for the scar (roughly crescent-shaped and a good few inches long), it's not currently on permanent display, but as time progresses and my hairline recedes it should offer plenty of opportunity to spin a tall tale or two for nieces and nephews.

I still get the occasional twinge, tire a little easier than before, but other than that the episode has pretty much passed into folklore, used as a joke or stock excuse and greeted with groans, rolling eyes and general derision by those all too familiar with the story.

Just occasionally, though, the enormity of what I went through - what we all went through - strikes me cold, and I think, "Fuck it, it is a big deal" then immediately feel guilty for caring about this thing that should be in the past.

But am I so wrong? After all, a couple of months ago I met a woman who had just held her 10 year survival party. And despite the fact that her op had left her with impaired mobility down her left side, she said my surgery had been much more serious and I shouldn't ignore that.

And as long as I have to keep going back for check-ups and scans, it will never disappear completely, so why pretend otherwise?

It's okay for it to be part of who I am, just so long as I don't let it become all that I am. Remember that, and hopefully I can get on with the future. At this point I'm just glad to be alive.

Hearing voices... or not

2007-04-17T14:52:00.000+01:00

I seem to be carving something of a niche in being the voice of Asian men.

In the past three months I have been Thai, Filipino (far from my best performance - I phoned it in and got the delivery all wrong, but did Olivier always hit the right mark?), and now Japanese.

Perhaps I should get myself an agent...

And that's how this post should have ended. Except the links don't work.

I did want you to be able to hear the clips. But the code that should work (and indeed does work for other examples) seems determined to foil my plans. So I'll get back to you.

Hold the NIBs column!

2007-04-15T20:24:00.000+01:00

The first in an occasional series in which an award-winning journalist scratches the cheap paint job off overpriced stories to bring you the headlines other members of the Fourth Estate really wanted to publish.

Hot girl back on market
* Huge blow to noble gene pool
* "Shit or get off the pot," heir told
* Everybody else is doing it, so why don't we
* Show me the money. SHOW ME THE MONEY!!!

And yes, the BBC also covered the story in great depth. (Obligatory gallery of Kate Middleton looking fantastic here.)

NB: NIB is industry speak for News In Brief
Disclaimer: Assumptions about nature of awards made at reader's own risk. Alternative headlines not sourced from publications to which they link. Hey, can't a bloke cover his arse once in a while?

Free Alan Johnston

2007-04-13T01:01:00.000+01:00

Not that many people will know him, but that bald guy to the right is a colleague of mine. Admittedly I've never worked with him, nor even met him, but by all accounts he's a good bloke, and his own record proclaims that he's a fine broadcaster.

But for those not in the know, for the past month Alan Johnston is thought to have been held captive in Gaza, from where he'd been reporting for the past three years, the only Western reporter to be permanently based in the area. He was widely believed to be a good friend of the people of this disenfranchised stretch of land, so why he should be a target is a mystery to us all.

No one has publicly claimed responsibility for Alan's disappearance, no mention has been made of any kind of ransom or political demand in return for his release. And for the past month, the pleas of the BBC, other international media, governments, diplomats, and most of all his family have all gone unanswered.

He was just a guy doing his job, and he was only three days from coming home to the UK.

I, for one, have a nagging feeling that something may have gone horribly wrong. Bitter experience tells us that when kidnappers have some reason to bargain, there's no shutting them up.

Yet we have to hope. Which is why that picture of Alan Johnston will stay where it is until his safe release.

Not that I expect it to make the difference, but if anyone wants to swipe it for their own site and join the call for his freedom, then I urge them to do so.

Please help us get Alan back.

Deja boo

2007-04-07T19:23:00.000+01:00

I'm relieved to find that when it comes to television I still have some standards.

Despite having a predilection for US drama, not every new show can guarantee to set my heart racing when it flutters its eyelashes. And it seems that (contrary to my own expectations) stocking a series with hot women and switchback storylines isn't a guarantee of keeping my attention.

So it is with Day Break, the story of a detective with the LAPD who wakes up each morning to find a nightmarish 24 hours repeating themselves.

Our hero's been framed for the murder of a top lawyer. He soon discovers that he has to solve the case, clear his name and make sure he, his loved ones and complete strangers escape the day alive. If he gets just one thing wrong, the clock's reset and he's forced to go through it all again.

Those paying even the slightest bit of attention will probably notice the central conceit has been lovingly ripped off from the Bill Murray classic Groundhog Day. And transposed to this murder mystery action thriller format it should make great telly.

Except it doesn't. Four hours in, I find myself not caring about any of the characters (even the cute ones), failing to be surprised by any of the so-called twists and, most criminally of all, overwhelmed by antipathy towards the protagonist.

Day Break has hackneyed scripts and themes, wooden acting, cut-out-and-keep caricatures, bland, homogenous sex kittens, machismo for machismo's sake and a surplus of unshocking shocks. None of it means anything.

Shows such as 24, Heroes, ER and Battlestar Galactica engage the viewer with tight, witty writing, complex, compelling plots, strong performances or sympathetic characters - and in the rare case of shows like The Wire, all of the above and more.

But with Day Break, much like our man Detective Brent Hopper I feel I've seen it all before. So it's out, off the watch list, Sky nonplussed.

It really shouldn't be that much of a surprise. After all, the show's a vehicle for Broadway refugee and televisual Angel of Death, Taye Diggs. Take a look at his record for appearing in the twilight years of established shows, and failing to make a success of his own - truly, is he not the African-American Ted McGinley? ABC certainly seem to think so - Day Break got canned after just 13 episodes, the last seven of which never even made it to TV screens.

Maybe if Mr Diggs had the opportunity for another crack at it he'd do things differently.

Unfortunately, Taye, in this reality when you wake up tomorrow it'll be just that.

But at least Day Break won't be on.

Seen and not heard

2007-04-04T12:11:00.000+01:00

There's a device in Sylvester Stallone's sci-fi kitsch classic Demolition Man which assists the authoritarian regime of a 21st century utopia by cracking down on anti-social behaviour, such as graffiti and swearing. It's called the Moral Statute Machine, and its typical shtick (voiced by Nigel Hawthorne) goes like this:

"You are fined one credit for a violation of the Verbal Morality Statute. "

Then there's 1984's telescreens, the ubiquitous two-way transmission devices which prove to be Winston Smith's undoing. We all know how well that turned out.

So you can imagine why the news that city centres across the country are to get closed circuit surveillance cameras which tell people off for being unsociable might send a shiver down the spine.

But don't mistake this for another ominous step towards a police state. No, it's a good, happy community thing, apparently.

"It's very public, it's interactive," says the home secretary. And, according to the BBC News website, competitions will be held at schools in many of the relevant areas for children to become the voice of the cameras.

Oh joy.

I've no idea whether these things are being used anywhere else in the world, but do they really think that lagered-up pillocks are going to take notice? That people who are so self-absorbed that they don't care about their surroundings are really going to be shamed by voices of officious seven-year-olds coming from tinny speakers?

Despite the government's insistence that these are not surveillance cameras, isn't it a fact that if the system is going to work, people will need to be actively watching what's going on, rather than using the CCTV as a tool for review in the event of a crime.

Who will decide what constitutes behaviour deserving of reprimand anyway? Will the people keeping a keen eye on our streets stick to specifications and scripts or will they begin to feel they are there as moral arbiters, ready to scorn those who offend their Middle England sensibilities?

And will these cameras ever be miked? Surely that's the next logical step. Could there not be an argument from those in charge that, despite the further infringement of civil liberties, pictures without sound lack context, and hearing as well as seeing events might prevent miscarriages of justice.

"We know it's an invasion of privacy, but how do you expect us to take care of you if we can't hear what's going on?"

All this, along with the fact that the UK already has a respect tsar and police issuing spot fines for anti-social behaviour, leaves me wondering how long it will be until the government finally joins the dots on these initiatives and does away with the established legal system altogether.

"You have contravened the Blair Sociability Act. Please report to the nearest police station for processing and sentence."

It's a shame Nigel Hawthorne's dead. Sir Humphrey would have been perfect for the job.

See Evil, Hear Evil

2007-04-02T11:59:00.000+01:00

Watching the "rap" by Bush's Brain (tumour), a friend commented that it was nice to see that Karl Rove did have a sense of humour after all.

"It's a nice thought," I replied, "but I suspect he probably just thought he was making fun of black people."

"Oh yeah," she said.

The sooner this man is stripped of power and influence, the better.

Boy meets world

2007-03-29T23:54:00.000+01:00

The more patient among you may remember that I've never been a fan of contemporary dance (previous opinions here and here).

But that was before I entered the world of Punchdrunk's Faust (based on Goethe's story), a cocktail of dance, drama, song, acrobatics, superstition and sheer balls-out eroticism.

The production puts the audience at the heart of events, offering the chance to follow any of the 20 or so characters throughout five labyrinthine storeys of a disused warehouse doubling as a small 1950s town in the southern United States. Occasionally, if lucky, individuals in the audience get drawn into the story, given the chance to interact with the cast, if only for a moment, as Faust wends his way inevitably towards Hell.

It's an incredible piece of theatre. Yet for one who delights in words, it's the relative lack of dialogue (at least in the way of English) that is one of the most captivating elements of the production.

Most of the communication between characters plays out in the form of body language and contemporary dance and, within this new context, I suddenly found myself appreciating the art form. I could see why people cared.

But that's not where it ends.

It's once having seen the show that its real magic begins - having been laid in the audience member's mind, Faust's offspring nests and grows, making it truly difficult to think of anything else for days afterwards. The sounds, the sights, the darkness, they're all fixtures in one's consciousness.

It isn't just theatre - it's total immersion in a world of debauchery and sorcery, and one that plays on the innate appetite for voyeurism. My words can't do it justice.

Once isn't enough, yet repeat trips just seem to increase the dependency. It's performance as narcotic. My second trip only served to make the desire stronger (little matter that I'd fallen deeply in lust with a cast member or two).

But on Saturday the show's six-month run (itself an extension of the original six weeks) comes to an end, just a couple of weeks after I'd been introduced to it.

So now I'm sad, because I'll never get to visit that world again. Not just because of the sense of mystery it brings, not even because it's the most sexually-charged environment I've been in for much longer than I care to admit.

It's mostly because it both sates and sparks a desire for real creativity in which I feel ordinary life is so lacking, and I don't know when I'll find that again.

Pedantry corner

2007-03-22T18:17:00.000Z

Few things annoy me more than seeing a good, engaging piece of writing betrayed by a sloppy mistake born of inadequate research or bad education.

And I really don't expect any quality drama the BBC has spent hundreds of thousands of pounds on to be getting the English language wrong.

But before us stands this line from the accused: Party Animals: Episode 6, BBC2, Wednesday 14 March

Danny (angrily addressing his colleague Kirsty): He pretty much inferred to me that you’d get the researcher’s job in exchange for fucking him.

Can you see the problem here? For those who can't, he used the wrong word. Danny meant implied. Which allows me to label someone a big, old fuckwit.

The Oxford Compact English Dictionary explains the difference like this:

The words imply and infer do not mean the same thing. Imply is used with a speaker as its subject, as in He implied that the General had been a traitor, and indicates that the speaker is suggesting something though not making an explicit statement. Infer is used in sentences such as We inferred from his words that the General had been a traitor, and indicates that something in the speaker’s words enabled the listeners to deduce that the man was a traitor.

In other words: You say something open to interpretation. What I infer may be different from what you have implied.

Too often now, the word infer is being used to mean imply. And it's just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Yet it crops up in drama, in news reports, in debates, all over the place.

And it all comes down to the same basic problem: people using words they don't understand just to make themselves sound clever.

We all do it, admittedly, and it's forgivable of some - but not of those who write for a living, those who pride themselves on their command of a language. If in doubt either check your word or find another. A large vocabulary is only worth something as long as one has the ability to use it correctly.

Assuming it was the writer who first used the word inferred in the script, how could this aberration have got past the rest of the cast or crew?

And using the argument that Danny was speaking the sentence in a heated moment doesn't wash: this is a Parliamentary researcher we're talking about, presumably well educated, and one with enough confidence in his facility with English to fancy himself as an MP's speech writer. There's no way he'd have said, "He inferred to me." Just wouldn't happen.

It pains me to dump on Party Animals because I have enjoyed it immensely, and I also find it very hard to find fault with anyone who would involve the always beguiling Raquel Cassidy. So I won't even mention the far worse sin of the erroneous apostrophe visiting the word "says" in a mocked-up newspaper headline.

By the way, for all those wishing to know the score on sleeping one's way to the top, the following episode revealed that Kirsty put out but failed to land the job. At least that's what I inferred.

Ad victorem spolias

2007-03-10T19:39:00.000Z

Whenever people who doubt my authenticity as a football fan ask why I (a man born in the south west of England) support Newcastle United (a team based about as far away from my own town without actually crossing a country's border), I've always been safe in the knowledge that I couldn't be accused of being a glory-hunter.

"They haven't won a single trophy in my life," I've proclaimed with a perverse kind of pride.

So does this pose me with a problem?

No. It might be the first new thing the St James' Park cleaner has had to polish in a generation, but I don't believe outlasting a bunch of European also-rans earns us the right to call ourselves victors.

The purpose of entering the Intertoto Cup is to get into the Uefa Cup, and we still have teams to beat in that particular competition. Saying we're better than Zurich Grasshoppers and Ethnikos Achna is worth nothing when the likes of Benfica, Rangers, Tottenham and a dozen other teams are all still gunning for the same prize as us.

So please, someone wake me up when we've won something real.

Ugly Benny

2007-02-26T23:44:00.000Z

So this is what it's come to?

From raging against the Academy to spending my days making barely comprehended yet sweeping observations about beautiful women in clothing worth more than I take home in a year? For shame...

That said, most of them do look fabulous. Although I feel I was a little harsh on old Meryl. But that "Devil wears Oxfam" quip really wasn't mine.

And okay, I know I said I was going to tell you a story about the hiatus herein, but I really haven't been in the tale-spinning frame of mind of late, such has the effort been in getting back into the old routine. But if just one person wants me to lay it all out for posterity's sake, I shall. Meantime, I feel I'm getting my blogging groove back. And this time I mean it.

Brain matters

2006-10-21T23:30:00.000+01:00

Okay, so I know it's been almost seven months since you last had something new to read but it's really not just lack of interest on my part. In the vain conceit that there's someone out there still interested who doesn't know why I've been quiet, today's exactly six months since I had to deal with this.

I'll share the full story soon, but first I have the little matter of a holiday in the US to finish and for anyone remotely concerned, that should tell you how I feel right now.

A bientot, mes amis.

Une liaison dangereuse?

2006-03-25T15:40:00.000Z

"These pockets are very full," said my uncle Chris, of the coat I'd lent him as protection against the biting London evening air.

"Yes," I replied, "there's all sorts in there. I should really clear them out."

So it was that I found a reminder of an evening in America almost 10 years past: a bracelet, an accidental memento of a girl with whom I had a brief, entirely unexpected but very enjoyable liaison. A night which my inexperienced and panicking mind then sought to ensure was unique by scaring the young woman in question with a very intense, confused letter.

I remember the bracelet because after our tryst, she'd expressed concern about it having gone missing. It had no value other than sentimental, she told me. I swore I'd look for it.

It wasn't until months later that I found it quite by chance, hiding in a suitcase pocket. By then I'd lost all nerve and decided to hang on to it as a keepsake. The wrong decision, I know.

But I thought I'd lost the bracelet years ago, and its sudden reappearance presents me with a problem. I'm not entirely sure what to do with it. Because I know I'm highly likely to meet the girl again in the autumn, for the first time since that night in October '96.

Except she's now, to the best of my knowledge, a married woman. A New York lady married to a Geordie. One with bad teeth, by all accounts, probably obtained by being very protective about his women.

I have to give the bracelet back, that much is clear. The question is how do I it while preserving as much face as possible.

And more importantly, how do I avoid causing a scene at a large Italian-American wedding? Not that I wish to bandy about stereotypes, but knowing the family as I do I don't want to spoil the bride's big day.

Please help me do the right thing. Or at the very least get out of this with all limbs and senses intact.

Random access memories

2006-03-12T17:12:00.000Z

General stuff from the past few days, including...

* Star-spot of the week: Simon Pegg at Team Albatross' pub quiz (not at the Winchester, sadly). Not that he seemed to be trying to hide: as the quiz neared its climax and teams cheered right answers, he and his mate leapt up to high five each other. In a very post-modern, ironic way, natch. We owned his ass, by the way.

* Pain of the week: All good things must come to an end. Still, ouch. But we shall have our revenge.

* Phrase of the day: Fit to be tied. Meaning to be very angry, livid

After an unfortunate experience this morning (my cab into work was an hour and a half late - no fun when you've got up at 4.30 expecting your ride 30 minutes later. We can go into how incredibly lucky I am to have transportation to work provided for me in the wee small hours another time but for today let's just accept it as an unquestioned perk of the job) I professed that I was "fit to be tied".

I was met with nothing but puzzled expressions. No one in the office had heard it before. I was amazed. I'd thought it to be a phrase from the north of England - turns out it's most likely from the southern states of the US.

* Word of the moment: Meta-bigot. First coined by Slate's Sam Anderson to describe the gorgeous (in all senses) comedian Sarah Silverman and those like her.

"Silverman has become an important member of a guerrilla vanguard in the culture wars that we might call the "meta-bigots"—other members include the South Park kids, Sacha Baron Cohen's "Ali G", and the now-AWOL Dave Chappelle.

The meta-bigots work at social problems indirectly; instead of discussing race, rape, abortion, incest, or mass starvation, they parody our discussions of them. They manipulate stereotypes about stereotypes. It's a dangerous game: If you're humorless, distracted, or even just inordinately history-conscious, meta-bigotry can look suspiciously like actual bigotry.*

First used here.

Cool.

2006-03-06T17:35:00.000Z

As longtime visitors to nota benny may remember, I'm never one to hold back when the Oscars are announced.

Unfortunately this year the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences have given me little to complain about. Admittedly, had you told me six months ago after I'd seen Good Night, And Good Luck, that it would not be the magnificent David Strathairn taking home the Best Actor award, I'd have torn you a new arsehole. (Forgive the language, but my feelings regarding cinema can be a little on the strong side).

But that was before I'd seen Philip Seymour Hoffman's turn in Capote. My god, that man can act. Not that it's any real revelation but looking back over his career not only has he shown great versatility, but also the ability to portray credible, complete characters with unerring regularity.

It's a rare thing. Tom Cruise is always Tom Cruise. Tom Hanks will seldom be anyone other than Tom Hanks. Mr Clooney, talented though he is, will always be just too gorgeous to completely erase George's shadow from any of his roles.

But Philip Seymour Hoffman consistently creates characters who eclipse the actor: Joe White in State and Main, Punch Drunk Love's Mattress Man, the miserable Allen from Happiness, Boogie Nights' Scotty. Can't speak for anyone else, but I never think, "Hey - that's wotsisname up there." He's always 100% in the role. Truly, the mantle of Hollywood's greatest Hoffman has been passed from one generation to the next.

What he doesn't do though, journalistically speaking, is give good talking head. Watch any number of interviews, such as his post-Oscar presser (especially when compared with George's easy winning effort), and many recent print pieces have been "In conversation with..." or part of a group discussion. Whatever, one comes away feeling less connected to him or with less of an insight than one would necessarily want. Similarly, people who've spoken to him for the Beeb say it's hard to get more than 90 seconds of usable material out of him - a very poor showing when you're the hottest tip in town for a top award. Maybe he's just shy - he certainly wouldn't be the first actor to hide behind his art.

As long as he carries on putting in great performances, That's something I can live with. And how many other actors could credibly follow up something like Capote by playing the villain in one of the biggest blockbusters of summer 2006. There's only one reason that rather than avoiding it at all costs I'm actually excited about Mission Impossible 3 - and it sure as hell ain't Katie Holmes' baby's daddy (whoever he may be).

So, yeah, can't complain about the Academy's choice of winners. I have every faith they'll be back on form next year.

But fans of angry tirades don't go home completely empty-handed. I'm calling for a boycott of Vanity Fair after they evicted one of my (properly accredited) website colleagues from their party allegedly just because she wasn't a TV journalist. And if they think they can get round me with cheap stunts like nude covers of Keira Knightley and Scarlett Johansson they've got another thing coming. Or my name ain't Philip Seymour Hoffman.

2006-02-28T17:17:00.000Z

I am not a practical person.

Take my bathroom sink. Something somewhere in the system went "THUNK" one night and for the past three weeks or so the mixer tap hasn't been drawing cold water. Hot water, fine. All the other cold water in the biscuit, fine. This tap, no cold water.

And what with it being a "designer" thing installed by the bloke who sold me the house, of course it requires special parts to make it work. And special parts have special suppliers. High street they ain't, and knowing where to buy them is just the first problem. But I track them down eventually and explain what's happened.

"Sounds like you need to replace the cartridge," says the salesman during my first phone call. "Come by, and I'll pop the top of the tap and show you how to do it."

This is great news as I've been determined to resolve it myself. The purchase of parts and tools to finish the job, finding the stopcock, taking the tap to pieces and reassembling it, all with the minimum of professional advice and assistance.

Yet after my second visit in two days to the upitsownarse bathroom supplier, things are no further on.

The lack of manual and inadequate explanations provided by the shop staff ("You didn't tell me there were two grub screws" "Oh, yeah, right, sorry" or "So you're saying those shouldn't be lined up, but your colleague said they should be, which is it?" "Well they shouldn't be, I don't know") have left me frustrated, bleeding and still without cold water.

Trouble is, I have no aptitude and a similar amount of experience in rudimentary plumbing, and everyone else I talk to concerning the matter regards it as second nature, with a made up language ("Look down the spline and you should see it" "The what?"), an expectation that everyone else understands what they're talking about, and a deeply impatient, condescending manner towards anyone who dares ask a simple question.

Another two phone calls after my second visit stretch us all to the limit.

Saleman: "Sigh... It's really very easy."

Me: "With the greatest respect you've done this before, but I haven't, and I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU!"

Salesman: "Well, we sell loads of them and nobody else has ever had a problem."

Yeah, well I fucking well am.

Three weeks of cleaning my teeth in the kitchen sink is as much as I'm willing to take. I'm grateful for running water in the rest of the place, but what use is designer chic if it doesn't bloody work.

And fuck pride, I've got a plumber coming in.

It may be pampered and an indictment of my abilities as a barely-functioning man, but molecules just don't work for me the way they do for other people.

And I'll feel so bloody smug if it's something other than the cartridge.

2006-02-19T18:08:00.000Z

Shameless plagiarist that I am it was only going to be so long before I signed up for the "101 Things in 1001 Days" project.

You can find my list of things here.

The eagle-eyed will spot that the programme actually entails more than 101 individual things, but I don't consider one trip to the theatre to require any effort. Twenty times in less than three years? That requires some dedication. And that's one of the easy ones. Learning to drive? Whole different kettle of ducks entirely.

Anyway, 101 or not, who's counting?

Long and short, you'll be able to track the progress with a running commentary o'er on t'other blog or, for those who can't face it, trust that it'll provide enough anecdotes to breathe a little more life into trusty old nb. I'm sure it will. Cos let's face it kids, things have been a little tired around here since the angry, lovesick days of 2003.

I'd better stop procrastinating and get on with stuff. So enjoy the ride. Just don't expect everything to happen at once.

2006-02-15T19:35:00.000Z

Phrases I never thought I'd hear (No 1 in a likely one-off series)

"Don't miss that with our all-star cast including... Steve Guttenberg"

Monday 13 February 2006, 7.30pm, Sky One

Twenty years too late, surely?! Or maybe not. What is Hollyweird coming to?

2006-02-13T22:54:00.000Z

I don't often feel the need to big up something done by my colleagues (not that I couldn't every day, it would just get boring) but all this month the BBC News website's running a series on 60 years of British public information films.

They've unearthed some real gems, such as a semi-naked Rolf Harris on teaching kids to swim, the fixtastic Jimmy Savile on the importance of wearing seatbelts, and a cartoon about coastguardswhich I've seen on TV in the last five years, despite it having been made in the late 60s.

It's interesting how many of the ads concern themselves with water - or perhaps not, considering our island status.

But it's a theme continued in the best of the bunch so far, a cautionary tale about the dangers of lonely water. Voiced by scaremeister-general and one-time 007 foe Donald Pleasence as the very grimmest of reapers, it's creepier than the majority of modern horror movies.

Don't watch it before bed...

2006-02-02T23:57:00.000Z

Previously on nota benny...

This is a big fat hairy mistake which can end in nothing but tears.

Last time I grumbled about Graeme Souness (April last year - amazing restraint, I know, but I didn't want to bore people) Erik said "I would have fancied City against yours on current form". You may have been 10 months out, fella, but I suppose I have to thank you for last night's 3-0 drubbing.

Well as you can see, I never wanted Souness at Newcastle United in the first place. And now, thankfully, he's gone, far too long after dragging us into the depths of mediocrity that had Blackburn considering whether to sack him just before we gave him the call. It seems far too late to go into his inadequacies now, but Jean-Alain Boumsong's defending (well worth £9m) and enough hamstring injuries to occupy even the most workaholic physio are just the tip of the iceberg.

So with former West Ham boss Glenn Roeder and St Alan of the Gallowgate taking care of the team until a permanent replacement is found for the dour Scots bully, we face a rocky few months. Because who's fit to take over? I don't fancy Sam Allardyce (we should play better football than Bolton), hiring Steve Bruce would be a repeat of the Souness mistake, Sven is unlikely (although he may be tempted by Newcastle good ferry link to Scandinavia), and Shearer isn't ready to take over yet, even if he wanted to, something I find highly unlikely. Besides which, neither he nor Roeder is actually qualified to coach permanently.

Today hasn't brought me happiness, just the feeling of emptiness that comes with seeing ugly inevitability realised.

I think there's a much deeper problem than coaching staff, though: the chairman. As long as Fat Freddy's in the top job, the club's going nowhere. But that's another story.

I keep reminding people that we've never won a trophy in my life. It looks like I can safely use that line a while longer.

And while I'm here - is this really news, let alone a second story? It's what everyone's known for years. Slow day at the office, obviously.

2006-01-25T23:56:00.000Z

I was going to blog something personal tonight, some thoughts about the world and my take on something happening in it.

Instead I got stuck at work for two hours past the end of my shift making sense of this ship covered in ice.

Please accept it in lieu of original thinking, or at least that which occasionally passes for it.

2006-01-15T18:35:00.000Z

This is not amusing.

Okay, maybe just a little bit.

Especially Goals Allowed and the picture of Shay Given surrounded by kittens.

As Homer says, it's funny because it's true.

But don't let me catch you laughing. It's cruel to mock the afflicted.

2006-01-09T18:18:00.000Z

So as promised, here are my "cultural" high points of last year. I'll explain the rules as I go along. The first one being that these aren't presented in any meritocratic hierarchy, just the order in which they occurred to me.

I find choosing a group of favourites difficult enough at the best of times, it's not a task I take lightly, and I'm not going to demean any of my selections by ranking them. So there.

And unless I decide otherwise, there are five entries in each category.

Ready? Then I'll begin.

Movies (any film seen at a cinema while on general release is eligible)
Good Night, And Good Luck - Clooney's mad as hell with the submissive nature of television news in the face of government corruption and ineptitude and he's not going to take it any more. Plus David Strathairn is just brilliant.

The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou - deliciously odd, just what one expects from Wes Anderson

Serenity - Fox are stupid. Firefly should still be running. Maybe following the success of this movie they want to give it another crack, with one change - stop screwing around with the schedule. They should be so lucky.

Garden State - I'm not too keen on actors dallying as directors, but Zach Braff is allowed to make more films if they're as good as this. I'll forgive him the Hollywood ending - I've heard even he thought it was wrong. Plus the soundtrack rocks.

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang - clever clever, laugh laugh. Nuff said.

Sideways - even socially-challenged borderline alcoholics who steal from their mothers need love. And the fact that the Academy ignored Paul Giamatti's turn as Miles just goes to show what a bunch of idiots they are. Again. Don't get me started.

Bubbling under: The Woodsman, Batman Begins, Team America: World Police, Hitchhiker's Guide, A Very Long Engagement

Nowhere near: Star Wars Episode III

Somewhat depressingly these are almost all English language (with the exception of Engagement, which didn't make it into the top tier because lovely though it was, it just felt a little Jeunet-by-numbers to be truly captivating - maybe a second viewing would change my mind), so no Downfall, Kung Fu Hustle or Night Watch - must do better this year. Mind you, those are out as I can't reasonably claim anything I haven't seen, so no Kong, Capote, Brokeback Mountain, Corpse Bride or countless others.

Special archival mention has to go to Three to Tango, which not only proved to be a superior romantic comedy (an oft-unfairly maligned genre), but also created a good game for Jen and me to play on the way back from Lake Burton.

Music (criterion: released in 2005)
Hung Up - Madonna (gratuitous number one pick, catchy as hell, but the genius is in the Abba)

Feel Good Inc. - Gorillaz (difficult to jettison Dare, Dirty Harry and others, but this just snuck it)

Gracie - Ben Folds (there are "better", more worthy tracks on Songs for Silverman, but I just love the simplicity and honesty of this one)

Suddenly I See - KT Tunstall (I could have chosen any of half a dozen tracks from her album, making this selection pretty much arbitrary. And Scottish women are hard to beat.)

The Bold Knight - Seth Lakeman (Actually gives me shivers up the back of my spine. Okay, it was technically released in 2004 along with the rest of Kitty Jay, but I didn't discover it until late last year, along with most of the rest of the universe. Plus it was eligible for the 2005 Mercury Music Prize, and it's gorgeous, so I'm having it.)

I feel my age and how little time I spend listening to music radio show through awfully here. Picking five was difficult enough, and I'm not even sure it's my top five, as I can't remember everything I heard. I've probably forgotten some classics, and I've have loved to get a new Cardigans track in there, but none's grabbed hold of me yet. But it would have been easier had I not limited myself to one track per artist. Tell you one thing though, I definitely don't care for much British guitar-based rock/pop at the moment.

Books (criteria: read, but not necessarily published, in 2005; but published within last five years; hey, it's my list - if you don't like my rules, go make your own)
Empire Falls/Richard Russo - accidentally recommended (by Jen again - she meant to tip Straight Man) but a cracking read nonetheless, with some beautifully crafted characters

The Algebraist/Iain M Banks - Dwellers are his best creations since the ships of Excession. Oh, and I want a Planetary Protector (Deniable).

The Meaning of Everything/Simon Winchester - just to show that the best stories don't have to be fiction. Anyone interested in words should read this book.

Lost in a Good Book/Jasper Fforde - not too intelligent, well-informed and witty for its own good... but only just

America: The Book/The Daily Show with Jon Stewart - although I only got it for Christmas (thanks Sam!) and haven't finished reading it, this can't not go in, even if it means excluding the likes of Carl Hiaasen and Christopher Buckley from the fifth spot. I have other things to say about the show that inspired this book, but they'll have to wait.

The one-eyed god (rules pretty much go out the window)
New TV show - US: Weeds - gloriously funny and very watchable even if it didn't star Mary Louise Parker, but the fact that it does makes it unmissable

New TV show - UK: Nathan Barley - the twisted genius of Chris Morris strikes again

New TV show - UK MkII: The Thick of It - the satirical brilliance of Armando Iannucci strikes again

Old TV show - Doctor Who - Christopher Eccleston made a decent enough Doctor, a trophy for the relaunch but I suspect David Tennant outshine him. Eccleston regarded the Tardis as an interesting folly but was never likely to stick around. Young Casanova, on the other hand, will really own the role.

That's it. Feel free to argue.

2005-12-31T18:46:00.000Z

New Year parish notices

In an attempt to enter 2006 with a slightly shorter backlog of things to say, here are a few points of order...

Normal service resumed a couple of weeks ago when Team Albatross won the final round of the pub quiz and the season title along with it by the whopping margin of 33 points, more than most teams scored in a whole week.

I'm sure the world will be relieved to hear this, if not out of good will, then just to save itself from more of my bellyaching (although that did prove most cathartic in that it got the quiz monkey off my back).

Mind you, there was very little good will when it was announced we'd won - the boos and hisses being rather unsporting even in what may have been the best of natures.

In the same mean spirit, it was good to see the Colts' winning run brought to an end by the Chargers, thereby ensuring that the '72 Dolphins' perfect season remains unique in NFL history for at least one more year. You stay classy, San Diego.

Reporting Slipper's death back in October, I gave the impression that every member of the family heralded her arrival with unbridled joy, even the dog.

I have to confess that this version of events is not quite the one that my mother remembers. The way she tells it, Boot had to be tied to the kitchen table, frothing at the mouth, while Mum held Slipper out of his reach. This continued for a week or thereabouts. So not quite a inter-species vision of harmony, then. Hopefully this won't undermine my journalistic credibility too seriously.

The funny little barcode and his fifth metatarsal ensured that the next year will start as miserably as this one ended for those of a black and white persuasion. Who knows. Maybe we'll have a new manager to look forward to.

I'm thinking about my most memorable moments, movies, music of 2005. I'll let you know when more of them come to mind. The word favourite is bandied about far too lightly these days. These things take time. :)

Happy New Year everyone. See you on the flip side.

2005-12-18T03:56:00.000Z

I didn't think it was possible but I now have even greater admiration for Ben Folds.

At another great gig on Tuesday, he took a couple of minutes to explain the inspiration for The Ascent of Stan, a song about a hippy who abandons his principles in order to get on in the world.

The idea for the song came to him when he got a lift from said far-out groovy guy in a car adorned with peace stickers and witnessed a bout of near road rage from the driver.

Not that it had anything to so with the song, but at the end of the journey, the hippy told Ben he'd been "dialoguing" with his girlfriend.

At this point in telling the story, Mr Folds stopped to make a comment about people who use the word dialogue as a verb, a comment unsuitable for reproduction in a family environment such as this. Actually, that's not true. The truth is I can't remember exactly what he said because I was too busy screaming to process the precise words. Cheering grammar lessons at a rock concert - geek much?

Don't give me any BS about the evolution of language - although nouns like focus and parent have already been lost for ever, the further development of such practice is just plain wrong, and I'm damned if I'll give up any more ground.

But with all the dialoguing, incentivising, disincentivising, tasking, transitioning and actioning that goes on in popular speech there's little doubt that we're unlikely to win this war.

At least now I know that with Ben on our side, we're definitely going to have the better sounding argument.

2005-12-15T23:15:00.000Z

Loser
I know how Alex Ferguson and Bill Belichick must feel. It's funny how addictive winning can become. I've never really experienced it before, at least not on a long-term basis.

And now... loss. It's almost too much to bear.

A few weeks ago, disillusioned with the chronic mediocrity of our performances in the Harringay Arms quiz, Team Albatross decided to try out another pub. An experimental competition saw us come fourth, and it was generally decided that with a change being as good as a rest, we might see an upturn in our fortunes.

Sure, the questions seemed a little easier than at the old place, but with the chance to prove our mettle over a six week season, the move - even if only temporary - seemed too good to resist.

Aided by the relative easiness of the questions, the results were immediate. We won the first week of the season with a record score. We won the next week too. And the third, with a total beating our own record.

It was starting to get embarrassing, partly because we were so obviously punching below our weight. We were quickly becoming the least popular team in the pub. The first week we won we were warmly applauded, the second less so, but still a polite congratulatory ripple. But the third week? Nothing. Tumbleweed. And by the fourth victory on the trot, people were asking the quizmaster whether he was going to ban us.

Short of deliberately giving the wrong answers we'd done everything we could to reduce the likelihood of us winning, even going so far as to demand our paper be remarked when we were sure we'd got points for an incorrect answer that had been misread by the scorer.

But all to no avail. Our winnings kitty continued to grow, and the lead over other teams in the race for the end of season prize reached 26 points - more than some competitors score in any one week.

So when, last Monday, we turned up with more than the regulation limit on players, Team Albatross had to split in two. This, we thought, might finally see us lose and regain a little bar cred. Certainly the first half of the quiz felt a little shaky for our depleted forces, and the half-time score confirmed it, putting us in joint second place.

Despite redoubling our efforts in the second half, when the final scores were in revealing a three-way tie we knew our time may well have come. And indeed we flunked the tiebreak question. Our crown went to another group.

But while we were generous in defeat and enjoyed the boost in morale and hope it gave to the rest of the teams in the pub, our loss has haunted me all week.

Why? Because this week's picture round was on British political figures, and while I got nine of the featured individuals immediately, the other one left me agonising: a black female Labour peer. There are only two that I knew of , but which one was it - Baroness Amos or Baroness Scotland? I went with the latter and resisted several urges to change the answer before handing the paper in.

And when the answers were revealed? It was Amos, of course. Bloody Amos. Something I guess I knew all along. The two of them don't even look alike.

I'm still gutted.

I know I ought to be big, that spreading the wealth and ability to rejoice in a win can only be a good thing, and that everyone on Team Albatross felt some sense of relief at finally losing. I also know that we're still long odds-on favourite to take the title in the final round.

But bugger magnanimity - I'm hooked on this victory high. Winning most of the time isn't good enough. We could have had a pefect season, and we blew it. I blew it.

Next week there'll be no surrender. It's clobberin' time.

2005-12-11T23:35:00.000Z

Hey folks, please excuse the trumpet-blowing but it's a Ben Fell exclusive.

As I've said before, so rarely do we get to do anything truly original (and by that I mean 100%) that when this guy brought us some video footage of the massive explosions at one of Britain's biggest fuel depots, I just had to interview him about the blasts he'd seen from the air. It was our chance to scoop not just the rest of the media, but our own TV and radio colleagues too.

Phil was a nice guy, he needed a bit of coaching to get the best out of the story and was clearly a little nervous about being on camera, but I don't think I'm fooling anyone by saying the final product was worth it.

News 24 clearly agreed, because they used the interview when we offered it to them.

Not bad for a day on which I wasn't even supposed to be at work.

2005-12-03T13:39:00.000Z

Hmm...

Which File Extension are You?

2005-11-21T22:07:00.000Z

Wasted (even if I do say so myself)

Just occasionally, when something comes along like this piece of video featuring Dubya's latest comic blunder, I think I'm really in far too straight a line of work.

The obvious, scream out loud, killer line is one about the president showing that of all the lessons he may have learned from Iraq, the importance of developing a proper exit strategy isn't one of them.

I suggested a severely toned-down and much more circumspect version to colleagues writing the text story and while they cooed and shouted "Yes, thank you! That's got to be our line" in the end they took a safe route, as I always suspected they would.

Hopefully Jon Stewart and friends will think along similar lines and I'll be able to feel smug, clever and witty vicariously.

2005-10-31T23:41:00.000Z

Slipper came to us in December 1989, a tiny stray by way of a student who'd been temping in mum's office.

She was such a wee scrap of a thing that we thought she was only a matter of weeks old. The vet told us she was actually a few months, just small. And she never grew into the biggest of cats.

At first we worried about how she'd get on with the dog, Boot. Or more to the point, how he'd get on with her. But it was never a problem. In spite of his natural disdain for all things feline, he seemed to understand that she was part of the family. Indeed, there were times we thought she was being brought up more dog than cat. Even when Boot died and Boggart arrived on the scene, she was the boss. Sure there were times when the pup would try his luck, but he'd never push it too far, fearing a scratched nose or worse.

When my parents moved to Wales in the mid 90s, she stayed with me in Yorkshire to look after their house. During this period of a year or so, we became particularly close, forming a bond that was never really broken, even after she moved down to Wales and I struck out on my own.

We could always pick up where we'd left off. We had this routine, wherein she'd lick my fingers and I'd use them to stroke the crown of her head. I never knew exactly what she got out of it, but I like to think it reminded her of being groomed by her mother.

She was fearless for such a small thing. She took on foxes in the middle of the night, warning them away from her territory. Once she even jumped on the back of my grandmother's dog, Sally, after she attacked Boggart. She knew where her loyalties lay.

In later years, she seemed to go a bit dappy. Mum was convinced she lost her marbles a couple of years ago. But she was always in good spirits, happy to come on late night walks with the dog - a habit which always mystified and amused us.

And the end came quickly, in a matter of a fortnight or so. Apparently she probably had end-stage kidney failure. Her muscles had wasted away, so that in recent weeks she'd barely been able to walk. She ate very little, Mum feeding her her last couple of tiny meals on the end of a teaspoon.

Slipper died this morning at the age of 16, the vet's doing, but something he didn't have to talk my parents into. A cat of such calibre deserved something of a dignified ending, and it seems that's what she got. Quick, peaceful, in my mother's arms. I'm only sorry I didn't get to say goodbye when I last saw her in August.

So goodbye princess. I love you.

2005-10-07T05:12:00.000+01:00

The reason for the current silence is that I'm currently on retreat, recharging my anecdotal batteries. High time, some might say. I'm inclined to agree. Stories aplenty when I return in a couple of weeks. So if you wouldn't mind popping in to water the plants, I'd be ever so grateful.

2005-09-15T23:16:00.000+01:00

More animals for you. This time, dolphins - fitting, considering my American Football allegiance. My modest contribution to the flood of Hurricane Katrina stories. Short and sweet, quick and easy.

And fluffy is not the sum total of what I do, honest, however much that might appear to be the case. My other, bigger contributions to the newsroom's effort are just less tangible.

One of these days I promise to share something people don't automatically want to cuddle...

2005-09-12T19:23:00.000+01:00

Who needs football?

Kylie, Skippy, Rolf Harris, Chopper Read, Bob Hawke, John Howard, Mick Dundee, Shane Warne, Ricky Ponting, Rupert Murdoch, Donald Bradman, Harry Kewell, Olivia Newton John, Harold Bishop... your boys took one hell of a beating, I said your boys one hell of a beating.

(With thanks to a certain Norwegian football commentator.)

2005-09-05T19:19:00.000+01:00

It's not big and it's not clever

It struck me last night that I've not had a hangover in more than a year. This has been through choice, admittedly, but for someone who used to suffer quite badly on more than a strictly healthy regular basis, it's still quite a lifestyle change.

So in honour of the headaches and DTs that I've consigned to the past, and in no particular order, here are my top five most memorable hangovers:

Warning: graphic description of shameful drunkenness and bodily functions follows.

Yorkshire/Manchester, January 1995
It had been Thomas' last night in the family home before he and Lizzie were due to set off for six months in Tanzania. The two of us decided to mark the occasion - a school night - with beers and vodka depth charges. It got messy, natch. And unsurprisingly I didn't feel much like work the next day. But I managed to make the hour or so's journey from home to the office - just about five hours late. Finally rocking up at New Broadcasting House in Manchester at about 2pm, I slumped in my corner for a couple of hours before excusing myself, blaming a bug or something. But these were hard-bitten and sozzled media people I was working with - I'm fairly sure not a single one of them was fooled.

Sweden, July 1995
Officially my Worst Hangover Ever. Developed while on holiday with University friends Andy, Matt and Chris, at the latter's grandfather's log cabin in the woods of back of beyond Sweden. Mix a very hot summer, closed windows to keep the mosquitoes out, no TV, several hundred hands of pontoon (matchsticks one credit, 10 matchsticks = one bottle top, five bottle tops = one loo roll) and two litres of duty free. With two of the boys already nursing a hangover, much of the drinking fell on me. When I went outside for a pee and fell over backwards with the force of zipping myself back up (my head missing a breeze block step by a matter of inches) they decided it was time I should go to bed.

Several hours later I woke up lying across the bed, my head lolling backwards, unaware I'd just escaped death for a second time that night, this time Hendrix-style. However, I had just managed to, err, revisit the bedroom's interior design during the night (and as a former library student, I'm still quietly proud of the fact that I managed to miss the bookshelves completely).

Although my friends tried taking me to the seaside for some fresh air, I couldn't actually handle being anything other than horizontal until late afternoon, Chris nursing me with tonic water, fruit salts, and blueberry soup - traditional Swedish hangover cures.

And when my dear friends decided to clean up my mess, they found that the combination of alcohol and stomach acid had eaten away at much of the bedroom wallpaper. Chris' father had to drive the 100 or so miles from his home to redecorate. And while Chris' parents must have known what had happened, I'm not sure whether they knew exactly which of the four of us was responsible. Even if they did, publicly at least, they just smiled and put it down to the high jinks of young men.

I've not drunk Southern Comfort since.

Yorkshire, March 1996
Not so much memorable for the hangover as the manner in which I got it - locked in during a snow storm with Paul and Laura waiting up for the Tyson-Bruno fight. Paul and I worked our way through a box of bottles of French lager, plus one shot short of two bottles of Bourbon - all supplied by me. Well, I had said I'd bring drinks.

I can't remember whether we actually saw the fight (I've never actually liked boxing), but we were still going at six the next morning, and after nodding off for an hour or so, I decided that what with it being Mother's Day, I'd better go home. My mum's first comment? "You reek of booze. Fresh booze." The fact I'd left her card and present at Paul and Laura's didn't help. Not that she appeared to mind, particularly. The day with her, dad, the brothers and my grandmother felt pretty gruesome, but I made it through in one piece.

Paul, on the other hand, stayed on his living room sofa all day, before eventually deciding he had the strength to stand up at about midnight. Problem was that once he'd achieved vertical status, he couldn't stop going, falling over and breaking his ankle.

This has been known ever since as "the time I hospitalised Paul."

Yorkshire, Summer 1998
Another one of the many sessions with Paul and Laura that ended far too messily. I was due to meet Thomas and his then-girlfriend Gina at a pub in Hebden Bridge, half an hour or so's bus journey from Laura's house. Everything was going fine until we got halfway, and I had this urge to be sick. I hit the bell requesting the next stop. But it didn't come quite quickly enough. Although I attempted to stem any flow by putting my hands over my mouth, unfortunately my fingers only served to act as a kind of spray attachment. This must have been particularly gruesome for the two elderly ladies sitting in front of me, presumably off to something nice, sociable and wholesome on a Sunday morning.

I managed to get off the bus at a small industrial estate, find a tap and clean myself up a little. I think I may even have had a change of clothes with me. Still, nothing could disguise the fact that I must have met Gina for the first time smelling of vomit. It was something of a strained meeting, and as it happened, our only one. I'm not saying it was anything to do with me, but Thomas and Gina didn't last long enough for me to meet her a second time.

Wales, November 2003
Possibly the best hangover ever, the day after my mum's surprise 60th birthday party (and England's rugby world cup victory). A group of very old friends - Joseph, Lizzie, Robin, Hugh - who mum just happens to love, waking from our slumbers all around the living room (we'd been left where we fell), being very silly, playing word games (fish-based quiz shows), being scared by modern television for pre-school children, and generally just laughing until our sides were fit to burst.

Of course, this list is not to be confused with the top five times I've been plastered (as if such a compilation could even exist). There are many drunken afternoons and evenings I've enjoyed - weddings, stag nights and birthdays included, as well as spontaneous sessions, very special (and sometimes somewhat hazy) memories all - which would otherwise be recorded here.

Now I'm more about restraint, quality not quantity, the quiet pint or two of something good, rather than litres and litres of whatever gets the job done quickest. Yeah, I sometimes miss those raucous days and splitting headaches. But not really enough to want them back.

2005-08-30T10:47:00.000+01:00

Oh glorious day.

Cue manic laughter.

2005-08-28T23:14:00.000+01:00

Look, kittens!
At work it's good form to create the odd "original" package occasionally, taking pictures fed by one of the agencies, knocking out a short script and putting it all together to provide something the rest of the Beeb doesn't have time or possibly interest to cover. It mixes up our work, helps us hit our objectives for creativity, and sometimes proves very popular with the site's users.

This piece about a pair of baby snow leopards born at Berlin Zoo is my first production in 18 months. Not exactly hard news, I know, but it's the first offering since the Great Gorilla Disappointment of 2004, which knocked my confidence and put me right off packaging material.

I'm something of a reluctant broadcaster, feeling much more at home expressing myself in type. I tend to seize up in front of a microphone. Strange for a kid who grew up on the stage, I know, but there you go. Besides which, I think there are people better and more naturally suited to this kind of work - Sam, for one.

Despite the fact I hate listening to my voice, and think there's still room for improvement, I'm quite pleased with the way it turned out. Hopefully the next thing (for next there must certainly be) will be another notch up the scale. After all, practice makes adequate.

2005-08-24T10:02:00.000+01:00

Oh please!
Pleasepleaseplease, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease, PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZE!

2005-08-21T19:36:00.000+01:00

If all has gone according to plan then today Mr Danny Fantastic should have set off on his journey to India.

"Big wow," some might say, "India's so 90s." Or, "Terrific! What a place to visit. Not the best weather at this time of year, but hey, who needs the sun?."

But for those who don't know the thing that makes Dan's trip a little different is that - but for the little matter of the English channel - he's planning on cycling pretty much all the way from Barnet to Bombay (and maybe a little bit further) with just 40GB of iRiver music and a big book to keep him from losing his marbles.

Having packed in his job with the evil Murdoch Superglobomegacorp, he'll ride through Europe, Turkey, Iran, and on to India, camping where he can, relying on the kindness of strangers when necessary, and maybe giving the odd dusky local beauty a story or two to tell about her night with the strange English boy who rode through town one day.

He even has the ambition of providing local news outlets with the occasional outrageous "And finally..." along the way.

Whatever he gets up to, he's promised to document at least some of it along the way, on his specially built blog.

We're not expecting him back for about nine months, and he'll leave a big hole behind. As a founding member of Albatross his reliability, intelligence and steadying influence will be missed at the pub quiz. And it's strange to think that we won't be seeing his big smiley face, listening to another of his seemingly endless supply of fresh anecdotes, hearing him play sax, or just talking crap over beer for a long while.

I think I'm right in saying we're still building our friendship after a fairly slow, tentative start that dates back several years, but this much I know: he's a good man, a good friend, and he'll be missed.

God speed, Dan. Travel safe, and come back soon.

2005-08-17T23:39:00.000+01:00

Things I mistakenly never thought I'd do (number something in an occasional series)

Play the voice of Diego Maradona in a professional broadcast. Honest.

Hello, by the way. Sorry about the lengthy silence. I've had a lot on my mind. Hopefully that's all out of the way, though. Good to be back.

2005-07-08T19:56:00.000+01:00

Wot no terrorists?
According to the house style guide at work, use of the word "terrorism" and derivations thereof should be avoided in copy on the BBC News website unless attributed to a reported individual or organisation. One man's terrorist, the thinking goes, is another man's freedom fighter, especially on a site read the world over.

So yesterday's attacks on London were apparently not the acts of terrorists. Yes, more than 50 people are thought to have died. Yes, they came out of the blue. Yes, a self-proclaimed affiliate of al-Qaeda has admitted responsibility for them. But is it terrorism? Apparently not.

The anti-terror line of editorial thinking obviously has some merit. In the case of most Palestinians, for example, they are simply fighting for autonomy and equality in a land that used to be their own. The methods employed by Hamas and their like may be deplorable, but they are born of frustration and hatred of the people they see as their oppressors. Ordinary Israelis, on the other hand, are being made to pay in blood simply for occupying the land they were taught was theirs by divine right, however archaic that may seem to those who don't share their faith (as well as some who do).

And the British people were clearly against the US-led invasion of Iraq, even if Mr Tony didn't appear to give a toss what we thought.

Al-Qaeda's main aim, on the other hand, appears to be devoted to anything but increasing liberty. Yes, they want to end the West's involvement in the Arab world, but they want to replace Muslim secular states with a single Islamic leadership. Government on their terms, not those of the people.

Not exactly my definition of freedom.

And just as the Crusades weren't exactly a great idea, I don't think the slaughter of innocent Britons is how the majority of Muslims would really want to achieve an Islamic utopia, however desirable an ideal that may actually be.

As for the people who attacked London yesterday and what we call them, well if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck... it's probably got explosives strapped to its chest.

2005-07-08T00:20:00.000+01:00

My friend Chris, in Malmö, Sweden, sent me this message after hearing I was okay.

It’s a violent world.

Today, during my lunchbreak I walked with Ulla-Karin, Signe and a Client on the main shopping street in Malmö.

We walked into a crowd of people who were looking at a murdered man on the street.

He was shot by two guys as he sat having a cup of coffee.

The Client works with marketing at The Sydsvenskan Daily News and took this picture with his mobile which is now a news picture on the web.

Violence is everywhere.

Idiots are everywhere.

I won't include the picture.

Times like this make you realise how much you miss your friends.

2005-07-07T14:48:00.000+01:00

For anyone worried about me and the bombs, I'm okay. At work, busy, but okay.

2005-07-06T20:25:00.000+01:00

Fuckin' yes!

Please pardon the French, as the unfortunate saying goes, but this has to have been one of the most exciting days I've ever had in the newsroom, if not my whole time in the BBC.

All morning we'd been hanging on every word to come from the International Olympic Committee meeting in Singapore, as we caught the tail end of the presentations. At first glance Seb Coe's very simple presentation looked almost apologetic next to the extravagance of Luc Besson's mini-movie for the Paris bid. I wthought we were sure to lose.

Then the painful minutiae of the voting system explained time and again for all those IOC members who hadn't quite caught it the third time over.

And the votes themselves with hearts in mouths as one by one Moscow, New York and Moscow were knocked out of the competition.

Then nothing but silence for an hour or more, as the bastards kept the results of the final ballot to themselves until they could set up the big reveal. After the break: if it's good enough for Who Wants to be a Millionaire, it's good enough for the IOC.

So when Jacques Rogge announced the games would be coming to London, it was just a magical moment.

Cries of "Yes!" and applause went up spontaneously across the office. (This has to be one of very few places of employment where the watching of television at one's workstation is actively encouraged.)

For months, battles have been raging between those excited by the prospect of London 2012, and the doom merchants and naysayers who could see only congested public transport, irritating tourists, and inevitable humiliation as incompetent Britain drops the most keenly contested Olympic ball in front of a world audience.

But I believe London 2012 will be phenomenal. Apart from the compelling sport, massive urban regeneration, radically improved infrastructure and very likely rise in house prices, the truly exciting thing is the fact that the whole world will be arriving in our city. The already cosmopolitan nature will be magnified a hundred fold as the entire globe focuses on our backyard. What could be more exhilarating than that?

In the long run, I'd very much like to be part of the Games, even just a tiny speck, hopefully from within my current organisation - host broadcasters, of course.

Seven years and counting. There's a lot to be done. And I want to see that it's done right.

But for now, just fucking yeah...

2005-06-30T18:22:00.000+01:00

Puny creatures, tremble before your destroyer!
The unfortunate thing about trying to keep a garden in shape is the number of battles in which one gets involved.

Mum gave me a lovely little rose bush for my birthday. "It's disease resistant," she advised me. Not being that green of finger, I took this to mean it would be relatively low maintenance - regular watering and feeding during summer, maybe the odd bit of dead-heading, but otherwise something that could be left to its own devices.

Oh no.

Having been back to Wales for a long, hot weekend, I thought my garden was in need of a little attention. Most of the rose bush's flowers had died as a combined result of the sun and the fact that they'd come to the end of their natural life. So this morning's task was the removal of dessicated blooms.

Something else didn't look quite right, though. Didn't the bush used to have more leaves? Looking closer, I found the little culprit responsible - green, squirmy and enjoying a feast of foliage.

And he wasn't alone. Why dine on your own when you can throw a party? Upon thorough inspection I found dozens of the little buggers had stripped several of the branches as good as bare. Evidently I was facing the massed ranks of the caterpillar army.

So dead-heading became bug-chasing, as I scoured the rose bush for my herbivorous foes, picking them off and throwing them onto the decking for birds to find, or maybe for an appointment with the frog/toad/amphibious thing that seems to be resident in my garden (of whom more another time, hopefully). But eventually, much like sniffer dogs with drugs, a kind of caterpillar blindness develops, and the initial sharpness fades. Even so, by the end of the session about 50 had been forcibly evicted.

And still I can't be sure I got all of them, can't be sure that my rambling rose will be allowed to recover without the threat of being eaten alive. I read the Very Hungry Caterpillar enough times as a child to appreciate the scale of the appetite I'm facing. And why can't they eat something ugly and useless like weeds? Why does it have to be the pretty, delicate stuff that gets devoured?

Yet, knowing that the caterpillars are just following the course of their nature as flutterbys-in-waiting, I can't help but feel a little guilty. I didn't squish the little critters, but by separating them from food and camouflage I can't deny being guilty of conspiracy to murder. Genocide, even. Insecticide!

But what else can I do? It's them or me.

In the words of another great bug hunter, I say we take off and nuke the site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure.

2005-06-24T12:38:00.000+01:00

This might appear very cheap of me, but...

My, if young William's squeeze Kate Middleton isn't a very attractive young woman.

With genes like those on show at Buck House, I could be persuaded to put the Republic on hold for a year or two.

Hang on, though. Is this actually just a monarchist ruse to quell the people?

Brothers, sisters (although mostly just the brothers), it is vital that we do not allow ourselves to be distracted from the cause.

(I strongly deny any allegation that rather than being discussion of a serious constitutional issue this post is actually just a thinly-veiled excuse for publishing a picture of a hot girl.)

2005-06-21T22:18:00.000+01:00

A Sunday stroll
Arrive at the National Theatre on the South Bank at 1330. Despite the formidable heat in London (33c/91f) the place is thronging with people ready for Crusaid's annual Walk for Life fundraiser.

Hotties for people of all persuasions abound. DJ is playing a medley of tunes with the word walk (and derivations thereof)in the title: Bangles, Mellencamp, Aretha, Katrina and the Waves, Run DMC and Aerosmith of course, to name but a few, but no Nancy Sinatra or Johnny Cash, as far as I notice.

The appointed departure time of 1400 approaches and people make a last dash for the loo, eager to balance the intake and output of fluids correctly. Two o'clock comes and goes. Still, the collection of gay activists, charity workers, compassionate corporate teams (in t-shirts which delicately balance understanding and branding), and other concerned individual seem to be happy enough.

The compere keeps promising we'll be under way in "just five more minutes", but the DJ's run out of fresh tracks to play. Ignore Susanna Hoffs' advice. Emulating Egyptians for 10km is not viable.

Eventually, quarter of an hour late, the MC introduces the guest "stars" who are to cut the ribbon and start the walk. Sir Ian McKellen's place in history is assured and I'm suitably in awe of his presence. Dannii Minogue's presence is less inspiring, but I have a soft spot for her as Kylie's sister. AS for the others, we have a ghost of Big Brother past, Captain Jack from Doctor Who, and some bloke from Eastenders. Good job I'm here for the exercise rather than the autographs.

Finally, at 1417, we're sent on our way. But with thousands of people trying to filter out of the narrow exit from the National's square it is, as one wag observes, more like the shuffle for life.

The early going proves heavy as the crowds prevent me from setting my own pace. If there's one thing I hate, it's walking slowly. I have an optimum rate, and much below that I start losing my balance. But as we move past the tourist traps on Westminster Bridge, I get the chance to start cutting through the dawdlers.

Turning east onto Whitehall, I start getting into my stride. As we pass a protest outside Downing Street, a mother and son who'd obviously been at the front of the group are arguing about who was going to carry the child's silver scooter. There's about 9km to go. Will these people never learn?

Passing through Trafalgar Square, we turn down Northumberland Avenue towards Embankment. As we reach the north bank, a group of corporate girls enjoy a flurry of excitement.

"We're halfway there," says one, "that official lady just told me." I look at my watch. 1450. We've been walking barely half an hour. Either we're breaking records or these girls have a nasty surprise in store.

The Embankment goes by without much worthy of comment, although I notice more than a few fellow walkers taking a rest or grabbing an ice cream. Every now and again we pass the walk's stewards who greet us with varying degrees of enthusiasm, ranging from disinterest to a one-woman extravaganza of whooping, applause and encouragement for each participant who passes.

We cross the Thames for a second time, over Southwark bridge and back onto the South Bank, where the buildings are starting to provide a little more shade for the savvy to walk in. It's about this time that I notice I'm regularly trading places with a couple of girls, a veritable Little and Large. As patronising as this may sound, the big girl's pace and stamina are impressive.

Another volunteer, a lovely lady of Latin extraction, assures us we're over halfway by this point. It's good to know, but I think she's missed her cue. Wonder how the corporate girls are doing.

Then back across the Thames over Tower Bridge. This is the start of our trip back west. The heat's really beginning to tell now. I'm thirsty, in spite of the litres of water I've drunk, my legs are tired, and my eyes are stinging from all the sweat that's run into them.

But there's fresh impetus when the girls ask a volunteer how many people have already passed her. A couple of hundred, comes the reply. The girls seem surprised and a little disappointed that it's so many, but I'm quite pleased with my position - not that it's a race, of course.

My pre-race banana has worn off by this point, so it's time for number two as I approach Cannon Street and pass St Paul's. A cheery Irish fella assures us we've passed the three-quarter distance mark, another piece of good news.

And so it's one last crossing of the river, south across the Millennium Bridge. I still rue the day they decided to amend the architect's original plans and de-wobble it. The big girl gets caught among sloth-like pedestrians, and I make a little ground on my adopted rivals.

But then we all fall victim to the tourist traffic that surrounds Tate Modern and the Oxo tower, and hit much worse when we get to the charming wharf near Coin Street. Which just happens to be having its annual festival.

Can't really blame them, but with less than a kilometre to go, extra crowds and stalls to avoid are the last thing this walker needs. However successful this Walk for Life may have been as a fundraiser, the practicalities of the route seem to have been given surprisingly little thought.

Still, with the National looming, the finish line is in sight. Despite having lost ground to the girls around the festival, the celebratory balloon arch is a welcome reward.

My time? Two hours, 10 minutes. Not too shabby, especially considering the conditions and the cattle-run nature of the start. And confirmation that I've come home "well within the first 200" is cause for extra celebration.

But my journey's not quite over. It's off to Battersea Park (my first visit, and a pleasant surprise to find it beats Hyde Park - reminds me of Vancouver's Stanley Park, but with less ocean and mountain) to meet Thomsk, Josh, Jane and Thea, and finally relax.

As a result of the schlepping, I've managed to raise more than £400 for Crusaid to put towards various HIV and Aids causes, thanks in no small part to many of you.

I've been warned not to make a habit of it. Possibly good advice, but never say never again.

2005-06-19T21:48:00.000+01:00

As Naomi said...
I don't get out of bed for less than 10k.

Full report to follow.

2005-06-18T13:12:00.000+01:00

Good night last night watching Danny Fantastic's new jazz combo play their debut gig. First time I've actually heard him play his sax - and he's good. Particularly pleasing that he failed to keep it together during the closing reggae version of a Mingus classic (at least I think it was - but my jazz knowledge is poor).

Unfortunately with Dan's impending cycle path cycle to India (yes, two wheels all the way), it seems like it's the only set they'll ever play. Stories will be told in hushed voices of the Rhythm Centre sax man who wowed the lucky two dozen brave enough to venture to a little basement bar in Stoke Newington, and then disappeared, never to be heard blowing his horn in public again. (Until he comes back, of course). And we finished the night eating in a Turkish cafe in a borderline dodgy area at one in the morning, discussing Scientology. Only in London. Or Istanbul, of course.

Also, why do people say "I could care less" when what they actually mean is that they couldn't? Presumably the saying had its original meaning (i.e. that it would be possible for them to care less than they actually did, that they actually cared quite a lot), but some lazy people thought it sounded cool, and the fact that they ended up talking nonsense was an acceptable price to pay. Don't cite evolution of the language. It's not going to wash. These people should be stopped.

And if this post seems a little lacklustre, it's because I'm not writing what's on my mind. But that's maybe just as well because, as Jane once remarked, throwing up on a public street may provide instant relief for the one doing the chundering, but in the long run things rarely work out for anyone.

2005-06-13T15:28:00.000+01:00

I recently started swimming again, and I'd forgotten how much of a hub for the community a local pool can be.

But over here are mothers, babies and toddlers (some showing early signs of transvestism - "It's very impressive that he knows about Snow White," says one mum. "Oh yes," comes the reply, "Snow White, Belle, Cinderella, he knows them all. We've been to fancy dress parties as them."), over there the schoolkids learning to swim, out of the pool just in time for the water aerobics with accompanying megamix of pop favourites (Durannies and Kylie vs New Order), with a big German girl floating up and down one of the lanes on her back.

In fact, even when one times one's visit to hit the quietest periods, there's so much vitality that there's very little room for those of us who actually want to put in a few good lengths.

I've never been the strongest swimmer. I think I was about 11 before I was able to keep myself afloat independently, and even now I wouldn't be any kind of challenge for Ian Thorpe, even in terms of shoe size. Hell, I'd struggle to keep up with Equatorial Guinea's Eric the Eel in the pool, even without the added hazards provided by the occasional escaped sticking plaster. And my repertoire's pretty much limited to the breast stroke (insert your own double entendre here).

You'd hope that a swimming pool would provide more than a quarter of its capacity for actual swimming. But that's proving to be a rare treat. So those of us who want exercise rather than indulge in a bit of splashy-splashy are forced to share two lanes, squeezed out to the edge of the pool, going up one and down the other, with me playing the role of tractor on a long Cornish country lane, all the family saloons trudging in my wake.

All of this is tolerable, when compared with the worst affliction of public baths: teenage boys. The less said about them the better, other than they ought not to be allowed. Anywhere. If we ignore them, they might go away.

Is there a point to any of this? Not really. I'm just getting it off my chest. Except to say the one unbeatable aspect about the pool is that it's where Mum used to take us after school when we lived in north London more than 20 years ago.

I like it when life goes in circles. Unlike swimming.

2005-06-07T17:02:00.000+01:00

A word for our sponsors
You can't believe how incredibly sordid I feel doing this here, but...

In a little less than two weeks I'm going to be participating in a sponsored Walk for Life around London, in support of the Aids charity Crusaid. They exist principally to generate cash for Aids projects in the UK and around the world: vaccine research, education programmes, poverty relief - you name it, they'll throw money at it.

Now this walk is quite a big deal for me. Not because of the distance - I shouldn't find 10k on hard streets too taxing even on a sunny summer day - but owing to the fact that I've got considerably fitter over the past year, and this was the first opportunity I had to put that progress to good use.

Problem is, after a good start, the fundraising's temporarily dried up well short of my target. Of course, I have a lot of people to go to cap in hand nearer the time, but having e-mailed them all once (to some benefit - thanks Sam and Jane, particularly), I don't want to be too much of a nag.

I abhor people using their blogs to beg for money, particularly when it's just for themselves, but the thought that the charity might miss out on a few quid because I didn't pursue a potential source of revenue, well that's worse.

Hence the shameless plea here.

So if any of you benevolent souls do feel like adding to the coffers before 19th June, you can do so by visiting my sponsorship page, where absolutely anything would be gratefully received (it all goes directly to the charity - none of it passes through my hands, either physical or virtual). Plus, you should get a warm glow from the knowledge that you've done A Good Thing.

While I don't expect to come out of it challenging Maurice Greene or Haile Gebrselassie for honours, I do promise to post an illustrated account.

Many, many thanks in anticipation, and we now return you to your regular programming.

2005-06-02T18:04:00.000+01:00

I've been trying to construct a paean to Ben Folds after seeing him play last night, but I'm so much in awe of the man, that all I can manage is wow.

I'd been waiting years for this gig, the chance to see one of my favouritest artists perform live. But when he toured in 2000 I couldn't see him, then in 2002 I was in the US (at some wedding or other :) while he was in the UK, and finally the original November date for this show was cancelled because Ben had a serious chest infection.

But it was worth waiting for.

It was just fantastic, everything I had hoped. The mix of old tunes and new, the slowies and crowd-pleasers, the mandatory audience participation on tracks like Army and Not the same, the ironic cover of Dr Dre's Bitches Ain't Shit (with melody specially penned by Ben), the slightly country acoustic guitar support act (who may or may not have been Ben - a topic of fervent debate), Folds' mastery of the keyboards and the proof that pop and piano can mix without being bland (Dame Elton he ain't), the seemingly improvised riffs ("The Barbican is not your bitch/The Barbican will not be rocked"), the humour and humanity running through his work - it was almost three hours of pure joy.

If I had one criticism, it would be that the staid London crowd were far too slow to get out of their seats and on their feet.

But the guy just has fun on stage, and eventually it proves infectious.

And judging by the way my legs were shaking with excitement by the end of the concert, I think I'm about ready to have his children.

More please...

2005-05-26T14:14:00.000+01:00

This is a little behind schedule, but on Monday Gary asked, "Are you striking today Ben? If not, how may people are at work with you. If so, tell us why you're striking."

In short, yes I was striking on Monday, so I have no way of knowing exactly how many people were in the office. However, from what I've heard and can guess, my section of the BBC News website was hit pretty hard by the action.

On a normal working day there should be approximately two dozen people on shift in our team over the course of the 24 hours. On Monday, their jobs were being done by maybe five or six staff, none of whom was a union member.

Whether it had much of an effect on the output as far as users are concerned, I'm not sure. On the internet, unlike TV and radio, it's much easier to paper over the cracks and present an illusion of normalcy. Of course, I could tell that we weren't doing everything we'd normally do, and that the staffing level could only provide a minimal service, but then I know what to look for.

As for our more senior siblings, the gogglebox and the wireless, it was clear there was something definitely rotten in Denmark: makeweight presenters standing in for household names, middle managers voicing tracks for tv packages - despite obviously not having been near a microphone in years, whole programmes replaced with highlights and fillers.

Of course, not every division is as highly unionised as news - journalists are nothing if not bolshy buggers - so there were certain offices and elements of output where the day passed without incident.

But still, I think people noticed.

So why were we striking? Well, it's basically because Mark Thompson - the director general, the top man at the BBC - plans to cut almost 4,000 jobs over the next three years. That's almost one in five of the UK public service workforce - a pretty big chunk in anyone's money. Thompson wants to plough the money that's saved through the cuts back into programme-making and improving existing services.

The unions want to negotiate certain issues, such as guaranteeing there will be no compulsory redundancies. The BBC also says it's happy to discuss certain issues, but the unions claim they are being talked at rather than with (in as much as I hate the neologism talking with, it's important to use it here to make the distinction).

If I was being completely honest, I'd say I wasn't initially wholeheartedly behind the strike. I've always thought industrial action on that scale is something akin to nuclear weaponry - mutually assured destruction, good for no one.

And I think that some of Thompson's plans will be good for the BBC. But then I work in one of the areas that stands to gain from the extra money, a growth area, and have the benefit of knowing that as far as anyone can make temporary assurances, my job and those of most of my direct colleagues are safe.

But a lot of people feel much more strongly about these job cuts than I do, and the fact is that eight out of ten union members who expressed a preference voted in favour of a strike. A lot of people (including some I know) are going to be hurt if Thompson's plans go through.

And that's why I joined a union. You shouldn't just be a member on the offchance that things go pear-shaped for you. It's about supporting those in a less fortunate position, regardless of one's personal fortune.

It's the least I can do to respect the decision of my peers, and honour the strike. It's the democratic way.

I just hope we find a good solution soon, so we can all get back to doing what we do best.

2005-05-09T19:18:00.000+01:00

Have I done a bad thing?

On my way into work I noticed that the seat next to mine on the tube had an empty sandwich wrapper on it. Rather than one of the traditional Marks and Sparks plastic efforts, it was a very American-style open wrapper, enabling better access to the food within. It also seemed to contain the remnants of someone's lunch.

At King's Cross, with all other seats taken, I noticed a large-ish man angling for the seat. He was carrying a couple of bags, and quite clearly needed to take a load off. I assumed he'd see the wrapper and discard it, but no, he turned round and slowly lowered himself into the seat, seemingly oblivious to the lunch up his backside.

I stayed quiet, not wishing to be associated with the offending article should blame become an issue.

So I'd seen all this happen, had it within my power to prevent trouser spoilage, and chosen not to.

The question is, would I have done anything different had I failed to notice the bloke heading for arse-sarnie interface was carrying a rucksack emblazoned with the Manchester United shield?

2005-05-06T10:33:00.000+01:00

Who should I vote for?

Your expected outcome:

Liberal Democrat

Your actual outcome:

	Labour 12
Conservative -31
	Liberal Democrat 50
	UK Independence Party 11
	Green 3

You should vote: Liberal Democrat

The LibDems take a strong stand against tax cuts and a strong one in favour of public services: they would make long-term residential care for the elderly free across the UK, and scrap university tuition fees. They are in favour of a ban on smoking in public places, but would relax laws on cannabis. They propose to change vehicle taxation to be based on usage rather than ownership.

No suprise there then - just unfortunate that I'm traditional Labour by nature. What's a little worrying is the strong showing for UKIP - can't think what caused that. Aside from the fact that I was just a handful out in the office sweepstake to predict the final Labour majority (I said 63, the final tally clocked in at 67), it seems to have been a good result. A greatly reduced majority should help keep Blair's more maniacal leanings in check. Could Laura have been right when she said we'd elected something close to a socialist government? I hope so. Now we just have to wait and see.

2005-04-23T08:12:00.000+01:00

Heavens, I'm smooth.

Last Saturday I had the pleasure of meeting Wendy Darling of Magic Short Bus fame.

In London for a working holiday, and having been an online acquaintance for some time, she suggested we meet: put faces and personalities to names, show her a bit of London, have a drink, that sort of thing. So we decided to meet at Tate Modern, perfect for a couple of intelligent young media professionals.

It's a while since I've had a close encounter of the web kind*. Not since Jen have I met someone I got to know in text mode. Needless to say, then, I'm a bit out of practice.

It was an interesting, enjoyable afternoon, with a smart, wry person, and I hope I get the chance to meet Wendy again next time she's in town.

Although I'd understand if the feeling isn't mutual, because inbetween the discussion of her work, my work, the absurdity of the British electoral process, and the relative merits of Giacometti (cool), Mark Dion (intriguing), Bruce Nauman (huh?) and Mark Rothko (absolutely no redeeming features whatsoever) these are my most memorable moments from the afternoon...

* Forsaking the familiar route to the museum, in favour of a "clever" new one, and consequently arriving 15 minutes late, hot and flustered. Oh, and 11 hours out of the shower.

* Asking my professional stop-frame animation companion whether she was familiar with the work of renowned stop-frame surrealist Jan Svankmajer. Not at all patronising.

* Discovering the awe-inspiring breadth and depth of my ignorance as regards the city in which I've lived for four years, and been familiar with for most of my life. From the historical, to the architectural, to the culinary, when meeting someone wishing to learn more about London, the stock reply "Err... I don't know" really doesn't cut the mustard.

* Frantically trying to remember sketches from hit animation series Robot Chicken and hoping they were ones on which Wendy might have worked. Usually without success.

* Splashing out for a whole pot of Earl Grey. Drunk standing up.

* Sam Taylor-Wood's fascinating time-lapse film of a bowl of fruit decaying, which appeared to be Wendy's favourite thing in the whole place. We watched it twice.

Mouldy fruit and tea.

Never let it be said I don't know how to show a girl a good time.

*Actually, the nerd kind sounds better, but I don't think it's a fair description of Wendy or, for that matter, myself.

2005-04-19T17:50:00.000+01:00

Morto un papa, se ne fa un altro

My idle thoughts?

1. I was writing something else, something remotely personal, but that will just have to wait til tomorrow.

2. In Joseph Ratzinger, or Pope Benedict XVI as he'll be known, the cardinals seem to have gone down the route of the hard bastard. So don't expect any hippy liberal tree-hugging out of Rome any time soon. But he's old, so maybe he won't time to do that much damage.

3. It's also annoying because I was quite confidently proclaiming in the office just the other day, "It won't be Ratzinger. He's too old school." I hereby give notice of my resignation as religious pundit.

4. My dear colleagues, bless them, actually had the audacity to call the live web feed of the Papal chimney "Vaticam". We'd all been using the phrase in the office, but actually to publish it? I love 'em to bits.

That's enough Catholicism. Ed.

2005-04-16T13:27:00.000+01:00

Gobby gallic sulkpot that he is, Laurent Robert is right: Newcastle United are not as good now as they were this time last year.

April 2004 saw us fighting for a Champions League spot. April 2005 sees us scrambling for a place in the top half of the table.

April 2004 saw us in the semi-finals of the Uefa Cup. April 2005 has seen us dumped out of the competition after rolling over in Lisbon.

And heaven knows how we've made it to the semis of the FA Cup.

I was reluctant to welcome Graeme Souness' arrival as a new dawn for the Toon, mainly because I'd never particularly liked the man. But I was willing to give him a chance, and was starting to come round once we'd strung a few good results together. Now the rot's set in again - best displayed by the fight between Dyer and Bowyer.

And while Robert was wrong to mouth off to the press, especially as he only performs to his ability in one game out of every three, Souness was wrong to leave him out of the squad for the European match. That's where Robert is at his best. Yet when we went behind, we couldn't ask him and his phenomenal left foot to save us.

This is all because Souness is a macho bully. Discipline is important, but he takes things too far. Bellamy was a little gobshite, but good for the club. Yet when he publicly questioned the manager, he was out. Now it looks as if the same thing is happening with Robert.

This is not a team that can afford to lose the level of athleticism or talent that the likes of Robert and Bellamy brought to Newcastle United - but that's precisely what Souness' ego is depriving us of.

Punishing a player for telling the truth? He needs to get a grip on reality before it's too late.

2005-04-03T16:03:00.000+01:00

There can be few things more frustrating for a journalist than waiting for a story to happen. So has it been these past few weeks as Pope John Paul II's health rapidly deteriorated before his death last night.

We knew it was going to happen. We were as ready as we could be - the obituary prepared, the archive material sourced, related stories written, the plan for reaction to his death being refined further and further to make sure our response was as smooth and comprehensive as possible. The only thing holding us back was one very poorly old man.

Indeed, my 10.5 year career at the BBC has been defined, in part, by the Pope's health.

From virtually my first day with the Corporation helping to organise the biggest ever Songs of Praise, I was aware of John Paul's failing health, and the Pope Kit that was passed earnestly from one week's producer to the next.

But he pulled through all the scares and survived.

And when I joined BBC News Online, the Pope was still there, and we were still waiting for him to die.

So it came as a relief when, just before 9pm BST last night, word finally came of his passing.

If this sounds uncompassionate, please don't think of me as unfeeling.

I didn't agree with what he believed, the doctrines he preached which were informed by those beliefs, or the subjugation of people and their rights that came about as a result of his teachings.

Despite the fact that his works led or aspired to much good (an end to poverty, the end of the deeply corrupt Communist bloc, the betterment of the developing world, and more), they also perpetuated many wrongs (overpopulation, disease, poverty again, suppression of women, etc.)

So neither did I consider his place in society nor the unquestioning faith and devotion he inspired in hundreds of millions to be well founded.

But my greatest problem was with the fact that this frail, confused old man was not allowed to withdraw from the public eye when the Parkinson's disease and related illnesses finally proved insurmountable, nor did it seem he wished to. Instead he lived his final days tending a flock who demanded the presence of the same shepherd who'd looked after them for almost 30 years.

Instead of being able to retire gracefully and die in dignity, the whole world witnessed the debilitating disease take a man of undoubtable charisma and character and turn him into little better than a freak show or just more reality programming.

And for that I blame the intransigence of the Catholic Church.

Too often people of faith mistake piety and devotion for morality and compassion.

Coming from a follower of an alternative belief system (that there is no supernatural higher power, nothing holy, no afterlife, no grand plan), that shouldn't come as a surprise.

I realise that I have no place to tell others that what they believe is wrong, just as others cannot deny me what I believe to be true. The problems only start when people tell each other that they're wrong.

However, the reality is that a great many people, whether Catholic or not, are mourning the loss of a spiritual leader. And it's a hard man who'd fail to feel compassion or sympathy at a time such as this.

But the Italians have a saying: morto un papa, se ne fa un altro (when one pope is dead, they make another one).

For the sake of the man, Karol Wojtyla, rather than Pope John Paul II, I think it's a shame they didn't remember that a little sooner.

For despite all the garb, the ceremonial robes, the scriptures and tradition, this was just a human being, flesh and blood, breathing his last.

He should have been allowed to rest in peace.

2005-04-01T11:37:00.000+01:00

Before writing anything meaningful, I just have to mention another of the seemingly infinite number of online quizzes that exist. This one I picked up from the ever-wonderful Sherm (if I'm still allowed to call her that) while catching up on her blog, which thankfully seems to have been given a new lease of life.

It's the Canine Algorithmic Transfer System at Gone 2 The Dogs i.e. it tells you what kind of dog you are. The questions are thorough and the interface is more fun than most - almost worth trying the quiz for that alone. And as for the results, at the risk of sounding smug and self-congratulatory, I think it got me pretty much spot on. Have a go.

And I'll write something substantial once I've figured out what it is I want to say.

2005-03-25T04:39:00.000Z

Your Icecream Flavour is...
Cookies 'n Cream!

Smooth and creamy with a few rough bits mixed in, you are a real treat! You are probably very popular amongst your friends. Remember too much of a good thing is not always good! Don't lay it on too thick!

What is your Icecream Flavour?

Find out at Go Quiz

2005-03-16T20:47:00.000Z

Touched by balls of greatness
I've never been that much of a fan of rugby union.

This is probably because of its place as the sport for the great and the good at dear old Crossley Heath school. Being short, plump, slow and generally physically underdeveloped when I arrived at the age of 11, it will surprise few to know that I was not part of the elite.

No place in the first fifteen for me. Nor the reserves.

No, by the second year it was widely accepted by both the fascists who ran the PE department, as well as my peers, that I was more suited to spending gym class with Paul Meredith, the kid with MS.

So I got my kicks from rugby league (egg-chasing of choice for West Yorkshire's working class), along with American football, cricket and, eventually, the Beautiful Game.

I carried my disdain for the elitist code of my schoolday enemies into adulthood, never really bothering to learn the rules.

Even now, I struggle to muster any enthusiasm for the sport, occasionally watching an international match, but caring little for the domestic game (although I did, of course, welcome 2003's World Championship as eagerly as most, simply for the reason that as a Newcastle United fan of less than 35 years old, celebrating silverware in any discipline is something of a novelty).

So Sunday's trip to watch Newcastle Falcons play Harlequins was, for me, more of an experiment than a foray into genuine fandom.

That said, the appearance of England hero Jonny Wilkinson (in his first game back from the most recent injury) was definitely exciting.

What I certainly didn't expect was for one of Jonny's successful kicks to sail over my head. Bound for the man in the row behind me, he knocked it forward, from where it bounced off my back, and into the opportunistically-positioned hands of Thomas.

(And that little sequence says a lot about my relationship with the older of my two brothers, as well as our relative approaches to the world - but that's another story).

Shortly after this happened, Jonny went off. Injured. Again. And Newcastle ended up losing.

But a ball kicked by Jonny Wilkinson hit me, me. You certainly can't say that every day.

So while I can't say my first taste of live rugby union acted as any kind of Damascene conversion in overturning my deep-seated prejudice against the code, it would be equally false to say that my brush with one of the greatest left feet in international sport left me that bit closer to admitting that maybe, just maybe, this game ain't all that bad...

2005-03-08T23:31:00.000Z

I know I've been quiet for a while - I've had nothing much to say. Or maybe it's just that I've not felt the need to say anything. Everyone needs a rest from time to time.

But I can't let this piece of news (Kaplinsky wins big at TV awards) go without mention.

All I want to know is how can this happen? What kind of industry am I working in? Is there a new, derogatory definition of the word best with which I'm unfamiliar? And did the judges ever watch Kaplinsky stumble through the easiest of two-ways at seven in the morning before casting their votes?

The dancing girl's not a great journalist, certainly not a great broadcaster, she's tits and teeth for those who don't like to think about their news, and she's not even that attractive to boot.

Is it a coincidence that Kaplinsky's partner, Dermot, handles most of the heavy-hitting interviews, while Natasha is quietly ushered towards the human interest and fluffy stories?

Sky's Julie Etchingham (who we traded for Natasha) is worth half a dozen Kaplinskys, as are many of the winner's less well lauded BBC colleagues: Fiona Bruce, Mishal Husain, the superlative Lyse Doucet, Zeinab Badawi, Joanna Gosling, Anna Jones, Sophie Raworth, Sarah Montague, Kirsty Wark and others, not to mention the likes of Kirsty Young on five and Sarah Smith on 4. And that's just the ladies.

"Despite all the sequins and other exciting things I have done this year, I'm so thrilled to still be considered a newscaster," she said.

By some love, maybe, but no one I know.

The sooner she makes the permanent move to light entertainment the better. Then maybe we'll get a Breakfast of substance rather than being fobbed off with a Pop Tart.

2005-02-03T16:17:00.000Z

The one that didn't get away

Despite enjoying my work as a journalist, the nature of my job means I don't often get to originate stories, mainly feeding off what the rest of the BBC is doing.

This morning provided a welcome break from the routine.

Going through my e-mails I noticed a piece of spam that had negotiated its way through the two filters I have on my work account. It claimed to come from the Disasters Emergency Committee, seeking donations for the Asian tsunami relief fund.

I immediately smelt a fish. Or a phish, as the parlance has it.

The e-mail in question put me in mind of the internet banking scam that traps so many people, coming as it did from an unrecognised address.

And the link directed users to decuk.org which had subtle but important differences from the real DEC website.

Most details seemed correct, but these operations are always very clever in mimicking the authentic sites. I didn't trust it at all.

It bore all the hallmarks of a get-rich-quick-at-the-hands-of-the-naive-and-compassionate scheme: spelling errors, out of date information, dodgy urls.

Also I couldn't believe the DEC was actively spamming mailboxes - keen for cash they may be, but they surely know spam loosens no one's purse strings.

But was it a story? Had I missed the boat? Was it genuinely from the DEC? Or was it a significant and distinctly unsavoury twist on the tsunami story?

A word in a couple of senior editorial ears, and a couple of hours later the technology section of our site has a new lead story. Turns out the site is indeed completely bogus and the DEC have asked the police to investigate.

I can't claim credit for writing the story, or even the phone-bashing done by the Tech team. I was too busy keeping my own section ticking over to follow up my lead.

But I do have the satisfaction of knowing that thanks to me, the BBC News website is carrying a story that no one else appears to have picked up yet, and a significant and distinctly unsavoury twist on the tsunami tale at that.

So if you'll excuse me, I'll just sit here in my justifiably smug, warm glow, knowing that some good has come of my day's work.

And in the spirit of charity, I hope the bastards cynically cashing in on the misery and misfortune of millions get absolutely screwed.

STOP FTP: Checking the scam site within the last few minutes, I notice it's been suspended. I love it when a plan comes together.

2005-02-01T10:33:00.000Z

A little less than two years ago, shortly after nota benny started, I published this post celebrating the news that Ivan Noble, a colleague who had been battling a brain tumour, had been responding well to his treatment.

Sadly, Ivan died last night.

Meanwhile, the newsroom seems to retain its usual eerie calm. But heaven only knows how my colleagues are feeling. And it's clear from the response of the site's users that many feel they've lost someone important.

There's much more I could say, but it all seems frivolous and inappropriate.

At the time of the original post, I wrote: I probably should have said more to Ivan than I have over the past two years - especially since the diagnosis - but it looks like I'll have the chance to rectify that now.

I never did, and for that I'm sorry.

2005-01-16T08:36:00.000Z

Entertainment people are evidently a very special kind of journalist.

In the entertainment loop running on the BBC's interactive news service, they refer to the villain of Team America: World Police as Kim Jong the Second. Easy to see how you'd turn Kim Jong-Il into that (even though Parker and Stone managed to get it right) but it would have been nice if they'd checked with the grown-ups first.

Then I suppose if it doesn't wear Manolos and air-kiss Scarlett, it doesn't matter.

2005-01-11T16:38:00.000Z

New year, new look.

And it's not finished yet.

But at least people can comment again.

2004-12-22T23:05:00.000Z

Another scary online quiz

How to make a ben fell

Ingredients:

5 parts anger

3 parts crazyiness

5 parts leadership

Method:
Add to a cocktail shaker and mix vigorously. Add a little cocktail umbrella and a dash of curiosity

Personality cocktail
From Go-Quiz.com

By the way, I don't know where the commenting system has gone. Apologies if anyone really wants to say something.

2004-12-21T23:43:00.000Z

I should, perhaps. mention that the medical fraternity of north London has so far been unable to diagnose me with anything big and scary.

No diabetes (a relief), no anaemia (despite low haemoglobin levels), no leukaemia (always a long shot), no carbon monoxide poisoning (although I have Paul the Gas to thanks for that), no glaucoma (or so the optician told me), and no Aids (of course).

The abnormality proved not to be a surprise. Raised urates, better known as the cause of gout. But I've suspected this for some time - occasionally painfully. Now's not the time for that, though.

Yet despite the good doctors drawing a blank, I'm still getting headaches at work. Shouldn't be the glasses, because I've just got a new pair, and the opticians swear blind that it's the right prescription. And it doesn't feel right for eye strain anyway. It's more brainy. Dietary maybe. Or it could be sick building syndrome - the BBC's nothing if not renowned for its dodgy aircon. Or maybe posture, and ergonomics. Who can tell?

So it'll be back to the doctors in the new year. They haven't given me bad news yet, which is good. But I have a feeling we haven't hear the last of this.

2004-12-07T10:20:00.000Z

I have a slight abnormality.

This may not come as news to those who know me, but coming as it does on the back of a couple of tests (right there with you, Erik), it might offer a clue as to why I've been under the weather for several weeks.

It's been a marvellous adventure in hypochondria. Since the middle of November, I've given myself diabetes, glaucoma, carbon monoxide poisoning (that was fun), leukaemia, very briefly and somewhat foolishly Aids, a brain tumour, and now anaemia. But we're close to deciding a winner.

Unfortunately, I don't know any more than the A word, accompanied by the medical opinion that I "shouldn't really worry".

Apparently it's not the sort of thing that needs to be discussed over the telephone - it can wait until I see the doctor in person. If it had been serious, they'd have called me, rather than waiting for me to chase them, as they nonchalantly added.

I realise that this is meant to set my mind at ease. But how reassuring is it that a profession that's supposed to dedicate itself to the preservation of life and health is quite happy to let it charges go on being a bit ill for as long as they want?

Within the realms of taste and decency, I'll share more when I know it.

2004-12-04T10:27:00.000Z

It's surely not absurd to say that all of us who love film have one special movie from childhood, capable of cutting through the life-hardened exoskeleton of a jaded adult to release the untainted, raw emotion of the four-year-old.

Such a film is Mary Poppins, which celebrated its 40th anniversary this week.

In the tale of the Banks family, 17 Cherry Tree Square, and their short time in the care of Mary Poppins, are combined all the elements required to make a piece of Disney magic.

A flawless cast. Captivating performances across the board from Jane, Michael, George and Winifred, their servants, neighbours and people met along the way.

Such adventure. Tea parties on the ceiling, jumping through pictures to win the Grand National, creating an unprecedented run on the bank (all for tuppence), and up on the rooftops 'tween pavement and stars.

Then the songs. Melodies that bond themselves with the soul. Lyrics that tattoo themselves into the psyche. Jolly Holiday, Spoonful of Sugar and Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious may not offer any great insight into man's condition, but they burst with joy at their own simple existence.

Little matter that it all takes place in one of the most poorly disguised sound stages in Hollywood's history.

And at the film's centre, Mary Poppins herself, with Julie Andrews the very embodiment of the perfect nanny. Enough of a carefree spirit to allow Jane and Michael all the excitement they need, equally ready with suitable discipline when they stray too far across her well-worn line, but not too stern to fail to realise when a soft word will achieve ten times the hard one.

It's an outstanding performance from Andrews. Maria may have defined her career, but it's Mary that gave the future dame her first real taste of fame.

In their 25 Most Magical Movie Moments published last year, Empire nominated 'Feed the Birds' as the one which best represented Mary Poppins. All well and good if this alien moment of saccharine in an otherwise streetwise movie is to your taste.

But for real fans of the film, surely there can be no moment more beautiful than 'Stay Awake' as MP sings her stubborn charges to sleep. Andrews' enchanting voice casts her in the role of siren as she lures her victims onto the down-stuffed rocks to meet their slumbery fate. There are few things more likely to drive me to tears.

But what would Mary Poppins be without her Bert?

Dick van Dyke's turn is beyond fault. His much-criticised cockney accent may grate on some, but in the words of Mr Banks, kindly do not attempt to cloud the issue with facts. His charm, his charisma, his stonethecrowswithapplesandpearsguvnor mugging just serve to make the tale all the more intoxicating.

For while Mary and George Banks may lay down the law, Bert is the true moral compass of the film, and the one with whom the viewer can most easily identify: an object of affection and source of constant attention for Mary Poppins, a comforting shoulder for Jane and Michael following their scares in the back streets of the City, some well-judged advice on parenting for the unreconstructed Victorian Dad Mr Banks.

Bert is our mouthpiece, our guide, our friend.

But of course, this film is about the lady. And what a lady.

Yes, there is something sensual, even sexual, about Mary Poppins. Maybe it's the attraction of a supremely self-confident yet tender woman, but long before the Swedish au pair got her hands on the husbands of Britain, which man could honestly resist the charms of the English nanny with a twinkle in her eye?

Mary Poppins, practically perfectly in every way.

(Apologies for the recent silence - I've not been feeling myself).

2004-11-16T23:50:00.000Z

Twenty years ago, when the first Band Aid single came out, my dad was so overwhelmed by the concept that he bought about 40 copies of the single and gave them to many of the people who'd been working on his TV show. It was one of the earliest memories I have of really being proud of my father.

I doubt he'll feel quite the same way about the new version. It lacks passion. It lacks conviction. And maybe I'm being cynical, maybe we've seen so many African catastrophes over the last two decades, but the plight of the Darfur people just doesn't seem as big as the one which Ethiopia faced in 1984.

Nevertheless, this is quite funny.

2004-11-12T03:06:00.000Z

A little less than 24 hours ago, Yasser Arafat died. Not meaning to sound callous, it was the most intoxicating time I've had at work in weeks, if not months.

When the story first dropped, we were a little sceptical - after all, it had broken on al-Jazeera, a fine broadcasting institution, but first and wrong too often to be trusted as a sole source.

And coming just one day after AFP had buried the Palestinian leader, we wanted something more credible to work with. Fortunately, the most reliable agencies piped up with confirmation within minutes.

With the office all but empty at four in the morning, there was just myself and a colleague to handle our share of the site's response to the story. And although I say it myself, we played a blinder, giving the day team the best possible platform on which to build. I was so wired on the rush of a breaking story, I couldn't get to sleep for an hour after getting into bed.

So what of the news itself?

It's mixed fortunes for the Palestinians.

Arafat was not a good man - anyone who at least allowed the various bombings, hijackings, assassinations and Munich Olympics massacre to happen, however noble the cause, can not be described as good.

But he had a righteous (and, for my money, correct) belief that he was fighting a great injustice - Israel's suppression of the Palestinian people.

That shouldn't be seen as an excuse of Palestinian terrorism, but it's certainly a valid rationalisation. After all, on the other side Ariel Sharon has so much blood on his hands as to be immeasurable. The two men were as bad as each other - Arafat just didn't enjoy the unquestioning support of the world's most powerful nation.

The death of Abu Ammar, as he was known, undoubtedly provides the opportunity for movement in the Middle East peace process - the deep, personal hatred between Sharon and Arafat was always going to be an insurmountable obstacle - but three things have to happen if there is ever going to be peace in the region:

The new Palestinian leadership must stop the paramilitary factions - an Israel under fire is never going to surrender the gift of a free and autonomous Palestine, and it's no one else's to give;

Israel's leaders must move past the 2,000 years of persecution of Jews, put theological and cultural idealism to one side and be prepared to negotiate with their counterparts in Ramallah - despite what scriptures might teach, all the killers and the victims have got the same basic DNA;

And, perhaps most importantly, the Bush administration has to stop being so biased towards the powers in Tel Aviv. Junior has the power, the influence, and the political capital to stop this - what better legacy could he enjoy than be remembered as the man who brought peace to the Middle East?

Not much to ask, I know, but short of genocide, it's the only way the Holy Land will be anything other than Hell on Earth.

2004-11-10T03:30:00.000Z

Continuing the fallout from last week's election, Dunc wrote Bush won by convincing Mid-Westerners that if Kerry won they would be forced into gay marriage to terrorists and their offspring butchered by the pro-choicers or the stem cell scientists.

He appealed to those who were least informed but most reactive. We liberals are not so knee-jerk. And while many of the usually apathetic democrats turned out to vote, it was the threat of a gay terror bomb being exploded in Sevenhills, Ohio that took the vote for Bush.

Couldn't have put it better myself, old chum.

Terror was at the heart of the election campaign, just as it had been the focus of Bush's presidency for the preceding three years. Another key theme was freedom. The freedom that generous old America was taking to the rest of the world.

Terror and freedom. Freedom and terror. Lovely.

So it's quite serendipitous that John Ashcroft chose today to step down as Dubya's Attorney General. After all, when it comes to freedom and terror, very few knew more about it than him.

What better way of cutting down on terrorism than limiting personal freedoms?

Just ask New York District Judge Victor Marrero who found Ashcroft's beloved Patriot Act to be a violation of the constitution.

Or Judge Audrey Collins, who found the same Act inhibited freedom of speech.

Or the Supreme Court which rained on Ashcroft's parade when it ruled that terror suspects could use the US judicial system to challenge their incarceration.

Talking of parades, how about the gay staff of the Department of Justice whose pride event was cancelled by Ashcroft last year.

And he'd also be quite keen on limiting the freedom of women to choose whether they could have an abortion.

These freedoms, presumably, are precisely the kind President Bush always wanted to offer to the great unwashed of the Middle East.

Ashcroft signed off by saying he'd secured the safety of Americans from crime and terror. To be fair, bare facts make this difficult to argue with. Not since 9/11 has an American citizen been killed by an act of terror on American soil. And I'm sure the repeal of the ban on public ownership of assault weapons makes everyone feel a whole lot safer as well.

But to borrow a phrase from John Kerry (or possibly Jack Tanner), declaring mission accomplished doesn't make it so. Bush and Ashcroft let their guard down once in the first nine months of the administration. Why do I get the feeling they're doing so again?

2004-11-09T03:11:00.000Z

A week on from America's bad decision, and I haven't really had chance to write about it. Now I think, why bother, really? Better informed and better motivated people have already said it all.

I will say this, though: the night itself was one of the bleakest experiences I've ever had in a BBC newsroom.

I'd volunteered to work the night shift and contribute to the coverage as the results came in. I was pumped, I was excited. And, perhaps surprisingly, this was the first Presidential election I'd seen run its course.

For someone raised on the grand British General Election, with all its crowded town halls, drunken party supporters, and memorable victory speeches this was going to be a new experience.

Of course, early on I was putting all my hopes in the curse of the Redskins and various other superstitions that were calling the election for Kerry. It had to go our way.

But as the hours ticked by, and the networks called the projected result in each state, we could see that the night was playing out all too similarly to 2000, just with any vote-rigging better hidden. And that could only point in one direction.

Doom.

By the time California and the Pacific North West pitched in on the side of Good, even the newsroom's resident American had dropped his regular refrain of "It's too early to call".

And the US election - or at least this one - has none of the drama of a British vote. Just a never-ending stream of perma-grinning talking heads, spinning results both good and bad. But no humanity, no money shot, so to speak. Until someone looks like winning the whole deal, it's just all speculation and conjecture played out in television studios. By the time things really started happening, I was at home. Or, more accurately, in the pub. And that made the red tide of George W Bush all the more difficult to cope with.

So yeah, I can retread the stuff about how it's left a divided states of America - but there's really nothing new there. Very little changed hands on election night. Iowa and New Mexico turned to Bush, New Hampshire swapped sides to Kerry - but then it came as a surprise to many that the state wasn't considered a Democratic safe seat. I've probably been watching too much West Wing. So the same states were shouting the same things as always - everyone just shouted a lot louder this time.

Then there's the doom-mongering. Bush winning the popular vote. More Republicans in the House and the Senate. Likely vacancies in the Supreme Court opening the door for evangelical nutters to legislate - bye bye Roe vs Wade and all that.

Add likely chaos in the Democratic party as it picks up the pieces in replacing defeated Senate leader Tom Daschle, and you've got a mouth-watering opportunity to fashion a very conservative US.

Bush may say he's going to reach out to Democrats in a bid to heal America's bitter divisions - but will he? Does he really need to? Has this man ever shown himself to do the right thing? Has he really proven himself to be more than a neo-con puppet? He went against global opinion enough times in his first term to show that he doesn't really care what other people think - with four more years and no case to answer, is he really going to give a damn about opinions on the liberal east and west coasts?

Call me a pessimist, but I'm guessing no.

To be continued...

2004-11-04T23:56:00.000Z

Oh, really?

2004-11-03T12:20:00.000Z

Okay America, I'll make this easy: which part of John Kerry didn't you understand?

I shall return to this after some well-earned and much needed sleep.

2004-10-31T23:59:00.000Z

Happy Halloween or, rather more traditionall, Super Samhain. Maybe not sure about the super bit, but hey, a boy's got to alliterate. Hopefully the witches will forgive me.

Want to see something scary?

I mentioned Thomsk had been acting with wolves.

Well, here's his new friend Maja.

Who says they're not just dogs...

Their key scene involved her jumping out of a tree and going for his neck.

His other new best chum in Romania, meanwhile, is equally alarming.

While affording this gentleman a modicum of anonymity, a certain elder statesman of Hollywood has allegedly taken to sidling up to my brother on set, farting, and then running away like, as I've heard it told, a giggling little girl.

I'll never watch Bodysnatchers in the same light again.

2004-10-29T00:10:00.000+01:00

Alleged American Al Qaeda Warns of U.S. Attacks
From ABC News
A videotape obtained by ABC News shows a man describing himself as an American member of al Qaeda. He threatens a "new wave of terror attacks" against the United States.

So close to election day?

Please, please tell me I wasn't the only one whose thoughts immediately turned to conspiracy theory and scare tactics upon hearing this.

2004-10-26T22:09:00.000+01:00

Regrets (first in an occasional series)
I should have listened to more John Peel.

Now he's gone.

I'll admit I didn't like a great deal of the music he played, or the acts he discovered, and never got into the habit of listening to the exploration of British idiosyncracy that he seemed to enjoy so much in his later years.

But he had a brilliant ease and charisma as a broadcaster, enabling the listener to at least understand his passion and perspective, if not always agree with it. A colleague called him the champion of the unsigned and the unsung.

The words great and legendary are overused, especially at times of death. And maybe it's folly to use them for someone famed for playing records. But John Peel was so much more than a mere disc jockey, and in his field, few, if any, have ever been more worthy of the epithets.

I should have listened to him while I could.

2004-10-20T17:32:00.000+01:00

It had to happen eventually. Team Albatross finally won the pub quiz.

Even so, I can't help feeling it's a slightly hollow victory.

Firstly, the win didn't come in our regular pub, which has frustrated us for the past six months, but another we were trying out. We'd moved on the grounds that a couple of team members were getting bored with the long waits between rounds and blatant cheating in the cosy snug of the Harringay Arms.

Me, I was happy to keep on going back until we won, or died trying. Two second places in recent weeks and consistent top six finishes indicated we were getting closer. I don't like giving up on something I can think I can do. I reserve that for the things I think I can't do.

Last night's win at the Old Dairy was also slightly tainted by the fact that the scoring was far from perfect. It's difficult to prove now, but we were almost certainly underscored, despite being given full marks for a round in which we failed to answer one of the 10 questions, and got another partially wrong.

I feel no shame in revealing that that round required us to identify quick-fire bursts of Kylie tunes, and that I more than held my own (all those years of education proving their worth now). But the fact that we didn't earn those full marks galls slightly, as does the thought that other teams were probably mis-marked. How credible can the system really be?

Can we really be sure we won at all?

Probably. And the free beer we won will almost certainly taste sweeter than usual. I'm just not going to be completely happy until we win again.