Well, seeing as everyone else has buggered off seemingly indefinitely, I guess I will have to continue making the occasional post just to let any visitors know we're still here. Or I am, anyway. Despite only having had eight hours' sleep since Monday.

Since then, Manchester City have topped the Premiership table and now lie in fourth, a highly respectable position. We face Arsenal on Sunday - bang goes that dream.

I've also started reading my first John Grisham novel (The Runaway Jury, if you're interested), which I bought at Reading station this morning. I was meeting someone but was forced to endure a one and a half hour wait for them to turn up, and then a three hour wait for some transport after they'd gone, which some might say was counterproductive enough to merit not bothering in the first place, but common sense never was my strong point. Grisham writes pretty well but his use of the data as a plural ('the data were') is infuriating, as are the constant references to His Honor without a U (to be expected but still annoying).

I also read the Daily Mail, which must be a constant source of amusement for its own hacks. Today, it launched Peterborough, the column written 'entirely be the public', which I can only assume means something has happened to whoever wrote it before. And yes, what contributions we had, what utterly abominable pieces of blinkered dribble scrawled on the back of sheets of asbestos by disgruntled dwarves, bubbling and frothing with all the vitriol that being old in a nice country brings.

And as for who writes the 'I Don't Believe It' cartoon, well, if I ever met the subhuman beings responsible for that drivel, there would be words exchanged and I might just take them off life support by removing their colostomy bags from the drip feed. Honestly - if we were to believe the picture of English life painted, or more accurately snivellingly offered up in a selection if ink drawings, we would have to concede that a good majority of the population was comprised of witless, toadying, cowardly old men. And going by the letters page of the same publication, it is. So, in two posts, both the youth and the aged of Britain have been roundly condemned. This does not bode well.

I also managed to get through half of the New Scientist and had an edition of Q as back-up, and whilst I got through a Burger King sausage, egg and bacon bap for breakfast at Reading station, it was quite a fight to keep its questionable content inside me. WH Smith must make an absolute fortune out of people like me with no common sense who need to waste a large amount of time and have to resort to reading tat like the Daily Mail. That said, I wasted two and a half hours at Reading and an hour and a half at Slough, is that some sort of record for timewasting on a station platform? If two blokes in a pantomime horse suit can get a man from the Guinness Book of Records to time their sprint, surely I deserve a place...

When driving around West Drayton, be careful when passing under bridges. So I found out yesterday when, ensconced in our people mover like American soldiers scurrying intrepidly through Iraq, we heard an odd 'clunk'. On closer inspection, a gang of kids had thrown a brick from a bridge and had hit the roof of the car.

Obviously this could have been far more serious and I probably should consider myself fairly lucky to be here writing this. If it had gone through the windscreen, the consequences could very easily have been fatal, and what possesses anyone of any age to pass their time idly tossing bricks onto cars - probably aiming for the windscreens, let's face it - is beyond me.

The initial reaction was, of course, to call the police, but the point was made that they probably only had a finite supply of bricks, and by the time the police got round to doing anything about it, one of two things would have happened: either a) they would have got bored and stopped, or b) someone would stop their car, get out, and chase the little sweethearts for around six miles before being arrested by the police for child abuse.

There are a number of key elements of British society at fault here. Firstly, these children are not getting the education, certainly not morally, that they require. This is not primarily the fault of the education system, because despite successive attempts to broaden the sphere of learning with schemes such as sex education at five, drugs education and 'personal and social education', the main job of a school is still to teach your kids to read and write. And they have enough trouble doing that. The fault lies more with parents who maintain little or no control over their children, fail to instil in them the basic rights and wrongs in life, and neglect them to such an extent that they are reduced to the pleasures of dicing with the lives of others on a busy A road.

The government does go some way towards recognising and addressing this problem by providing courses for parents and the support of social services, but you cannot expect the state to mop up the damage wraught by hopeless parenting. Then again it is quite hard to blame the parents themselves in many instances, as more often than not they experienced abuse, poverty and deprivation as children, and never had the chance to understand how to bring up kids of their own. It is an ongoing cycle from which I suspect it is extremely difficult to break out. Ryan Bell, plucked from inner city London by Channel 4 to go and study at the exclusive Downside school, survived quite a while and became a good student but still did not stay the course. It would be interesting to see what sort of parent he made, given that he must have seen all ends of the spectrum.

It is harder still to envisage any method of effectively dealing with this moral decay, which seems to me so deeply engrained in our society that we can only be fighting a losing battle. It may seem like an odd contrast with Ryan Bell, but the decision of the All England Club not to insist that players bow to the Royal Box before matches at Wimbledon was symptomatic of this - society no longer demands sufficient respect from its members. Bowing to the Royal Box was hardly the most degrading, time-consuming or archaic of gestures, and to many was part of the tradition of the competition, but someone, somewhere, decreed that it was a show of unnecessary respect. One hundred years ago, monarchs really were treated as monarchs. Now we grudgingly concede that they were lucky enough to be born into the Windsor family, and then we whip out our zoom lenses and try to get photos of their offspring taking drugs.

That argument opens up whole new possibilities for who to blame for the lack of respect going on in our society. Political correctness has a lot to answer for - people are now too afraid of the consequences to stand up to just about anything. Last week, a childminder with an immaculate 13-year record was graded as merely 'satisfactory' by a government inspector because they failed to provide dolls from ethnic minorities or with disabilities, and failed to cook special meals to celebrate events like the Chinese New Year. One wonders if Chinese childminders do cod, chips and mushy peas for the English New Year. Daniel Pipes, in America, suggested that Islamic mosques needed closer scrutiny than that afforded to churches and synagogues in order to effectively monitor terrorist activity - there was a politically correct outcry against his 'bigoted' comments, but the man was only telling the truth. The Finsbury Park mosque in London has become notorious as a front for the recruitment of potential terrorists, and Islamic militants do pose far more threat than anyone else. Pipes was just acknowledging a reality, something the politically correct ignore in favour of trying to handle the entire population with kid-gloves.

Secondly, the media must be held to account for their despicable portrayal of news in the 21st century. Hypocrisy, deceit, betrayal and blackmail are just a few of the techniques widely used on Fleet Street. Take, for example, the case of disgraced TV presenter John Leslie, who was recently cleared of any wrongdoing. The newspapers had spent the previous half a year or so calling him all manner of names from 'love rat' to much, much worse, and had pronounced him guilty the moment Steve Wright inadvertently spilled the worst-kept secret of all time one morning on Channel Five. As soon as Leslie was found innocent, the entire British press cosied up to him and paraded him as the 'heroic' presenter whose career had been destroyed by lies - lies which they neglected to mention they themselves had spun. The British media show no respect for anyone, and it seems it is from them that society takes its lead. Hey, Murdoch, leave those kids alone.

Where's OJ? We've not had any snarky little posts with links to the BBC in ages.

Where's Amy? I've not been bitched at from afar for aeons.

Where's everyone else? Is there anyone else actually visiting this site on a regular, or even semi-regular basis? If so, don't tell me you actually came here on the back of a recommendation from OJ? Or did you just happen by during your search for info on the Lilt Ladies adverts, simply because I mentioned them once? Sorry about that, there's nothing more to see here on that topic.

Where's Wally?

Where's the love?

Where's better? America or England?

Where's the last ten minutes gone?

I was awake quite late last night. So late, in fact, that by the time I got to sleep the birds were beginning an uneasy dawn chorus and a mass grave of moths had formed beneath my bedroom light. Keeping me company as I lay in bed on my laptop (well, in bed, working on my laptop, as opposed to lying on it) was Nash Bridges.

What a programme. This was the first time I have ever seen it - television in its true 1980s spirit, straight out of the Diagnosis Murder textbook for an engaging detective show with no characters, just hairstyles that talk. I am almost tempted to go in and ask for a Dick Van Dyke when I go to get mine cut this afternoon. Nash Bridges replaces good old Dick with a slightly younger model, and then adds the usual slightly improbable plot: on this occasion, a bomber had taken to hiding bombs in a variety of places which Nash then had to somehow defuse. At one stage this involved making bridges (how appropriate) with furniture to reach a woman in an office, then using a fire extinguisher to disarm a pressure-sensitive bomb strapped to the underside of her desk. I bet every officer has a story like that to tell.

The problem is, television like this no longer gets made. For a start hairstyles like that just don't exist any more, and now it's all about organised terrorism, or it's a docu-soap about the local police force and how they go round re-uniting kittens with worried families... there's more 'MI5, not 9 to 5' and less 'guy working with a loveable sidekick in a really cool car, nailing the bad boys'. And that can't be good.

Take, for example, Starsky and Hutch. I've never seen an episode, and frankly I will not rest until I do. Having played the Starsky and Hutch game, it is obvious that this must have been a lot of fun to watch, but can I find a single Sky channel showing the damn thing? No. We're stuck with Pop Idol Extra every night instead of some quality programming. People complain that we show too many repeats, but when they're like Diagnosis Murder, Nash Bridges and even Murder, She Wrote, how can you complain?

Whilst I'm on the subject of classic television, Channel 4 continue to go up in my estimation for showing wonderful old films every afternoon. A few weeks ago I caught 'It's Great To Be Young', a wonderful 50s tale of a teacher at an exclusive boarding school, and a few days ago I had the pleasure of watching the 1950s 'Moulin Rouge', the biopic of the artists Toulouse-Lautrec, as I worked. It was exquisitely filmed, the acting was superb and the dialogue absolutely hilarious in between moments of despair. If we got rid of wastes of space like shows about package holidays, that new show where one family become servants to the other, the totally irrelevant Big Brother US and others, and replaced them with a blend of Starsky and Hutch and 1950s films, I think the programming schedule would be complete.

Tomorrow, or at any rate later today, I will embark upon a groundbreaking mission. For the first time in my relatively short life, I will actually be proactive about my presence, wholehearted about my health and downright determined to delay my death. Yes, I will visit a doctor and make the damn appointment myself without getting a member of my family to do it for me. I'm 18, you see. Us adults do that sort of thing. If you don't know me, you'll mock me - if you do know me, you'll still mock me because it's the sort of thing my friends like to do, but you'll also be just that bit proud that Ollie can, for once, do something himself.

Yet the road to this medical Mecca is paved with perilous problems. Firstly, in order to accomplish my given task of making an appointment, I need to alter my registration so that I am officially registered at the local clinic in my Dad's village. Now, I am already registered in both Taunton and Oxford, so this will bring the number of doctors responsible for my general wellbeing to three. I am quite pleased by this scenario - whereas most stay-at-home, relatively stationary people have just one doctor to make potentially life-or-death decisions (such as "shall I tickle him with the liquid nitrogen brush?"), I have three individuals each eager to ensure I elude Accident & Emergency.

However, in order to complete the registration process, I do of course have to navigate the treacherous passage known to the young, naive and unwary as 'Reception', and to the rest of us as quite simply a living hell. I have absolutely no doubt that upon being told yes, I would like a third doctor to add to my list of nice people, the lady (for it is invariably so) behind the counter will look at me as though I have said, 'Excuse me, do you have anything for smallpox?' It is going to take a good ten to twenty minutes to convince her that yes, I need a doctor here too - the explanation will involve my life history, which I've only previously recounted to a drunk scouser at university who could remember precious little of it the next day, and so much hot air is likely to emanate from her mouth that by the end of the conversation I will require hospitalisation for facial burns. I am not looking forward to it.

Even if I convince the receptionist that I am a bona fide patient rather than one of those thieving immigrants who believe they have a right to basic healthcare, I am still faced with the question of what precisely I tell the doctor. You see, the original complaint was, and remains, an ingrowing toenail (a complaint I don't expect to suffer again, as the removal of this one will account for the big toe on either foot, the only trouble spot so far). But when faced with a trip to the doctor, my body invariably conjures up a whole armada of niggles, rashes, lumps and sores for me to consider reporting. The poor doctor, as a brand new addition to my medical squad, will immediately find himself swamped:
'Yes doc, it's the toe, but if you've got a moment there's this thing here... yeah, don't do that to it... and then there's this, whoops! Let me wipe that off your foot... and then if I just show here (*zipping noise*)...' etc etc etc.

I would have a general check-up, but I'm so afraid that the results would give me enough worries to induce a nervous breakdown that I'd rather keep my mental health (what's left of it) at the expense of the physical side of things. In fact, a visit to the doctor is often far more emotionally and psychologically testing for me than the original ailment - grinding through my ingrown toenail with my molars before dripping candle wax over the nail bed to prevent future growth would probably be a slightly less painful experience. Maybe I'll just stay at home and suffer... but I really need a haircut as well... and don't get me started on that... I'm seriously contemplating having a blue streak died into it. Suggestions?

Okay, they don't entirely fail me (sorry to dash the hopes of a nation), but ITV's 'The Premiership' can and has got worse. Football fans, i.e. those who do not support Manchester United, had been certain that last season's coverage was as biased, one-dimensional and laughably poor as could be achieved. However, tuning in tonight it quickly became obvious that in their final season before handing the coverage back to a television station that retains a fragment of respect for its viewers, ITV were out to surpass themselves.

Now, by way of a disclaimer, yes, I am a Manchester City fan. Normally I would admit that it's just a case of sour grapes against our 'more illustrious neighbours' (the cheating, diving shits). But this, this was purely and simply Manchester United TelevisionTM, right from the opening credits which fade out with the image of a United player and a trophy in Old Trafford, to the thirty or forty minutes devoted to their match (when did they last not feature?), to the fifteen minutes of Manchester United interviews on ITV News's 'Extra Coverage' (a half hour programme).

That is just not fair. City didn't even play today so I can hardly complain that we didn't get airtime, but the level of coverage afforded to the other teams was paltry at best. Surprise surprise, Arsenal also featured (just like every weekend last season), and ITV only relented and screened Portsmouth v Aston Villa because Liverpool and Chelsea, their other pet teams, had had the audacity to play on Sunday instead (the swines).

If you didn't see it, or don't follow football, you will never quite grasp how appalling The Premiership is, so I might as well save my breath. But my word am I annoyed. Come back Gary Lineker, rescue us from this cesspit of ineptitude.

I had a somewhat unsettling experience yesterday, travelling from Reading to Slough on the 18:29 Thames Trains service. It was a packed train for it seems that, against the odds in my opinion, a quite sizeable number of people moved to Slough only to realise that Betjeman had a point, opt to find a job in Reading and spend as long as was humanly possible there instead. Either that or they live in London but prefer this stopping service to Paddington over the Great Western fast services because the former allows the opportunity to survey the scenery, delay having to see the wife or husband, and silently pity the poor unfortunates from Slough.

However, I digress. I had somehow managed to find myself the sole occupant of a four-seater section thingy (you know what I mean) after the lady opposite had disembarked at Maidenhead, and was sat reclined in my chair reading Bill Bryson's 'Notes From A Big Country'. I had read two of his other books - 'Troublesome Words' and 'Notes From A Small Island' - on holiday, and having been stuck for something to read on my outbound journey had bought a copy of this book at Paddington. Now I was two thirds of the way through it and enjoying it immensely (his sense of humour appeals to me), when all of a sudden a young woman sitting across the way leapt up from her seat as though possessed by some inner demon, swooped down on me, perched like a constipated parrot on the chair opposite and fixed her gaze upon me.

'Excuse me', she chirruped. I looked up out of morbid fear and trepidation - what had I inadvertently sat on, stolen, killed or eaten that was hers?
'He's great, isn't he?' She continued. What? I was momentarily confused but soon I realised she was not, in fact, addressing the rest of the carriage on the topic of me, but referring to Bill Bryson. 'Yeah,' I murmured weakly. She sensed that I was conversationally lame and separated from the herd and moved in for the kill.
'I've read all his books, what other ones have you read?'
'Notes From A Small Island and Troublesome Words,' I bleated, looking for a window hammer with which to effect my immediate exit.
'Troublesome Words, what's that?'
Ah-ha! She now looked somewhat perturbed and I was back in the game. It turned out that she had no knowledge of Bryson's mid-1980s dictionary of words and phrases which had caused him and others some consternation, so I took it upon myself to elaborate on just how good it was, easily his best work etc etc (a lie), just to make her feel inadequate and insecure. It seemed to work, because as the conversation progressed she grew more and more uneasy. When we pulled in to Burnham station she shot out of the door like a whippet on speed, in such a manner that I am convinced it was not her original destination but merely a convenient means of escape.

The most amusing thing about this, to my mind, is that she failed to acknowledge the irony of what she had just done. Assuming she was telling the truth about having read all his books (apart from Troublesome Words, ha ha!), she must have known that in Notes From A Small Island, Bryson complains at length about an old bloke on a train in Wales. The man sits down opposite him, pulls the book Bryson is reading down with his finger and begins to talk about the author, Paul Theroux (I think), and other subjects such as wheel configurations on trains for the ensuing hour and a half. Bryson notes that he finds this urge to converse with random strangers both annoying and unsettling, and now I must entirely agree, yet the young lady clearly had not taken this lesson on board.

Yes, I know that in essence she was just being nice and friendly, saw a bloke opposite who was reading something she knew about, and fancied a quick one, so to speak, before she got off, so to speak. But she failed to appreciate that some people, e.g. myself and presumably Bill, are of a certain mental disposition that we treat this as an unprovoked act of war. It is as if she has disregarded my right and privilege to sit in my own little corner of the planet and read a book in peace - indeed, she has interpreted the presence of the book as a valid reason for a conversation, whilst I intended it to be there as a very good reason not to bother. I ended up mumbling to her like a schizophrenic mime because I wasn't remotely expecting, nor hoping, that anyone would talk to me.

I suppose that what I would really like is for strangers to give me some sort of advance notice if they intend ambushing me with a conversation, perhaps pass me a note airing their intentions and asking for a yes or no in return, so that we can make an appointment. That way I can get my thoughts in order. As it happened, I felt foolish and lost my page. Once she'd gone I looked around the carriage for moral support but everyone else had firmly buried their heads in their magazines and books, each no doubt silently praying that such a horrendous fate should never befall them.

On a final note, she told me that Bill Bryson's 'Lost Continent' is now an A level English set book. Can you believe that? Something worth reading. No wonder ninety-five per cent of the buggers passed.

Tuesday Morning Quarterback is...back! No matter that I've been reading it for the last three years and still don't fully understand Football - the mega-babe goodness makes it all worthwhile.

It seems as though every other news story is about the Hutton inquiry, which at heart is discovering various degrees of incompetence in the processes of the public sector. It's heartening, therefore, to read success stories such as this, where the police managed to stop a seriously sick man who was planning on becoming a primary school teacher.

Well, my family are moving house this week. I, however, have to work for another forthnight 2 hours away from our new house. Thus I'm staying at friends, and although my evil laptop will be with me, posting will now involve using the laptop keyboard, which means more typos. Many more, I suspect. And probably fewer posts.

Our survey says...

Fame Academy!

The Lilt Ladies are destroying my soul. Not only have I been singing the song from the advert all day long, but in this baking heat the image of swimming pools, skimpy outfits and most of all bottle upon bottle of Lilt drives me insane every time I see it. This is extremely effective advertising, because there is nothing I want more right now - with certain exceptions - than an ice cold bottle of Lilt. Get with the crush!

On the subject of the music in adverts, a couple of days ago a friend asked me if I could name the beat behind the new Pringles advert (in which, on this occasion, the plants steal the crisps). He was desperate to discover what it was, and as it turned out, the ad company in charge of the campaign had had the sense to write the song and artist in the bottom corner of the advert. It was a song called 'Come To Me', by an artist called 'Ateed'.

Not heard of them? Neither had I, nor my friend, but a search on Google led me to a fascinating website - Commercial Breaks And Beats, which calls itself the 'UK television advert music database'. What a site. This, my dear Wooding, is a link. Our reader knows where to get her news but I'm fairly sure she hasn't seen this before, and if she has, she will agree with me that it is serves as a tribute to the power of the internet. I find it astounding and heartwarming that people have the time to create a database of the music behind every advert we see and hear in the UK - for Pringles alone there were seven entries between 1998 and 2003, including Basement Jaxx and Lou Bega. You can search by company, artist or song, or view a chronology. I searched for Peter Gabriel (would you expect any different?) and found that his 1986 hit, 'Sledgehammer', was used to advertise the Vauxhall Cavalier in 1999. I could spend hours on this site.

If you like that, try Acclaimed Music. All the top music since the war ranked and rated, another site which demands that you set aside a whole day to play with it.

Julie Burchill's weekly column in the Saturday Guardian never fails to touch my nerve. Normally it's because I think of her voice as a whining, high pitched thing that is not unlike the noise made by running nails down a lamp post. Nevertheless, often it is the banality of her writing that annoys me. I'll give her her due for sometimes presenting a good argument and making me think about an issue in a new way, which is what a good journalist should be doing. But then there'll be the odd sentence that really grates. Today's evidence (and my first mini-fisk) comes from an article on chance and opportunity. Actually, it's only one part:

"But for the past decade it seems that even the lowliest gossip columnist or weather girl has to have a double first from Oxbridge or a famous father. And it seems that many people see nothing wrong with this; that the well-connected have an intrinsic right to nab any job they like, regardless of merit."

What, you don't think that having a double first from Oxbridge actually demanded hard work and merit in the first place? Certainly, the vast majority who are currently at Oxbridge do not have the 'famous father' or the connections. A number do, and for the most part when people talk about Oxbridge, this is the small but vocal group they find. If only I did have these connections! How much easier would my life be? Apparently, when I graduate in two years time, even in this economy, the world will be my oyster. I recently got a first in my first year moderations, something that I a) am proud of and b) worked very hard for. So did most of the others who got firsts, and most of those who got seconds. We work hard for our degrees. We'll also work hard in the workforce. What are two of the main problems that older generations have with mine? Laziness and ignorance. It's not just Oxbridge students, but people at most of the top universities - we work hard and we're clever. We get jobs because we'll be better than others at them. Don't like it? Fine. But don't deny that we don't deserve it.

Burchill does have a point about the 'famous fathers.' It's like the old school tie, the old boys network or whatever else you want to call it - it's still there, far less noticeable, and to an extent, less powerful than it was before, but still there. I salute you in your quest for the equality of opportunity in all forms of work, Ms Burchill. But don't take it out on Oxbridge. The generic use of Oxbridge as an example of discrimination and unfairness is old and overused. I think Gordon Brown's unfounded comments over Laura Spence a couple of years back was probably the tipping point. Oxford students work hard, and as a university, it works hard to broaden access. Part of the deal of being at the best university in the country is that people are always happy to take pot shots at you - look, for example, at the title to this story from the BBC. The use of Oxbridge as a way in which to bash the current status quo is common, but overused. Burchill may wanted to overstate her point, but even allowing for the relatively tongue-in-cheek tone of the article (by her standards), she blew it. Oxbridge as an example just doesn't work - it's been flogged to death.

You know who you are - yes, you at the back, you're the one interested in koala contraception.

Really, this post is just for Ollie. To provide him with a) a snarky self reference to my infinite propensity for stupid typos, and b) evidence that I don't always live on the BBC News site.

Still, there are many good sucking jokes to be found in this article about vacuum cleaners on Slate. It would appear that they have just found the beauty of Dysons. Us Brits, meanwhile, have been in love with our bagless wonders for years, even if some of our mothers insisted on getting the barbie pink edition. Still, leaves plenty of room for jokes about Barbie sucking (and Sindy swallowing, as the t-shirt sort of goes)...

Sense of Humour missing alert: "Pilot Held over 'air joke'". You have to ask which is funnier - that a Frenchman tried a joke, or that the American didn't get it?

No, honestly, I can understand the need for tight security and that everything has to be treated seriously. But a possible 11 year jail term? Assuming that this comes under the Patriot Act, then damn, that really is a strict law. And to think that some want to make it permanent?

Now, I know it's the hottest summer on record, and it's the middle of August, so we are beginning to get a little bored. But still, the rise of the 'flash mob' is becoming widely reported. To quote:

"The latest New York flash mob caused consternation in the Toys R Us store where flash mobsters gathered for their sixth outing.

Participants were told to stare fixedly at the store's giant animatronic dinosaur for three minutes then fall to their knees and react to its roars by moaning and cowering for another four minutes.

But panicked staff quickly shut off the dinosaur and called the police barely a minute into the mass-moaning."

Um. Right. Dada lives after all?

It is always nice to wake up to Michelle Pfeiffer, and today is no different. I switched on the television and cruised through the channels, pausing briefly for Five's 'George Shrink' and Sky Sports News, but then to my pleasant surprise happening upon The Age Of Innocence on Sky Movies Cinema 2.

I will be even more surprised if many people have seen the film or read the book. I had never heard of it until I studied it at A Level, and it is one of the few books (along with Watership Down and one or two others) that have moved me to tears at the end. The book is fantastic, compelling, a far cry from the longwinded and convoluted tale that was Wuthering Heights (another set book for the same exam). Edith Wharton became the first lady to win a Pulitzer Prize with this book in the 1920s, and with good reason, because I can still remember sitting on a train in Switzerland, reading the ending for the first time and getting strange looks from Austrian tourists as I wept softly into the pages.

The film version I have seen once before, but in stilted segments over a series of lessons in my last year at school, so this was the first opportunity I had to watch it in one go. It stars, as I have mentioned, Michelle Pfeiffer and Daniel Day-Lewis, and was directed by none other than Martin Scorsese, in what even the Sky TV guide admits was a departure for him. I am not sure that the film really captures the book, but the book is such an epic over such a vast expanse of time that even Scorsese was taking on a near impossible task.

I actually find it hard to believe that this film was made as recently as 1993. It just seems like the sort of book, and film, that had long since gone out of fashion and would last have surfaced in the late 1960s. The locations, the subject matter (late 19th century New York high society) and the length (over two hours) all seem prohibitive for a film made ten years ago, and I wonder if it got a general release, and how many people actually went to see it. I cannot think of a period romance based on a novel that could rival it within the last decade - Titanic was based on real life and had far more action (i.e. ship sinking) than The Age Of Innocence, Romeo & Juliet retained the Di Caprio factor but was based on a play and still had more action than The Age Of Innocence (in which no one dies).

So on the face of it, the book and film must sound somewhat boring to someone with no experience of either. An affair develops between the beau of high society, Newland, and the countess/divorcee Ellen, snubbed by that same society, and the book simply traces its development, nothing more, until it reaches a truly devastating conclusion. I can't promise any action for there is none, but if you like a good romance (and I previously didn't), then I can thoroughly recommend it.

Whilst I'm at it, has anyone seen Pirates Of The Caribbean? Good or bad? The last film I saw was Bruce Almighty (twice), which was great the first time but probably didn't warrant a repeat viewing...

Firstly, apologies for the title. I can't be the only one to have thought of that.

So Ahhhnuld is running for Governor of California. Wonderfully, in true Hollywood style, he made the announcement on the Tonight show with Jay Leno (a widely underestimated man, in my opinion - I like him, everyone else seems to hate him). Whether Davis will get enough votes to ensure his place in the first round remains to be seen, but I can't really believe that Ahhhnuld will have enough popular support to be the majority vote out of what is currently over 50 contenders. He's spoken out on family and tax in the past, and as a Republican he's well positioned to attract the Democratic vote on account of his views on gay-marriage, but what else is there than that? As the article continues, "California is being run as special interest, politicians are not making moves for the people," he added. "I will go to Sacramento [the state capital] and I will clean house."

Brilliant, his platform for a job that will entail sorting out a state with a budget deficit of over $30 billion will be one of anti-corruption. Would it kill him to be a little clearer on the financial side?

Still, I might yet be underestimating him. His body-building background will certainly give him a psychologically stable base to run on, although I wonder what role his wife's dislike of the idea will play - will he be a Colin Powell, who according to the Telegraph on Tuesday, did not run for President in 2000 on account that his wife would have left him? It'll certainly be one to watch - maybe they could settle it by arm wrestling?

And a final note, who would call their child 'Gray' Davis? I hope it was merely a typo at the Registry Office. I mean, school cannot have been a bunch of laughs for him.

Why is East Anglia so boring? I'm sat in a lay-by in between Bishop's Stortford and Braintree on my way to give a talk on sporting memorabilia to the Colchester Antiques Club (no, I'm not making this up), and for the last hour or so the scenery has been so nondescript that I do not think the words exist to quite convey the tedium. Field after field after field after field, all a sort of greenish yellow, the occasional hedge, a few trees, far too many roundabouts - clearly whoever built Milton Keynes around here was well aware that the locale was so boring in the first place that no one would really mind a heaving mass of concrete cows being deposited here.

It is as if each and every inhabitant of East Anglia has watched a sufficient number of insurance adverts on MTV to break the space/time continuum, creating some sort of wormhole into which whatever once made this part of the country attractive has escaped.

The only clue which leads me to this, on the face of it a somewhat unlikely conclusion, is the little quirks you find as you travel through East Anglia. Firstly, there are unfathomably long traffic queues in highly unusual places, such as down country lanes a good ten miles from any dwelling and with no apparent obstruction in sight. You never see the beginning of the queue (if you're the passenger you're asleep through boredom, if you're the driver you've been on a sort of autopilot ever since Watford), but soon enough you realise that for no apparent reason there are a good three hundred stationary cars on the opposite side of the road. Sod's law is reversed in East Anglia - you never get caught in these queues, they are always on the other side. All the people stare out of their cars as though their destination is just around the corner in bland, unassuming field number twelve thousand, five hundred and seven, and they cannot quite believe that they have been robbed of a clear passage by the presence of a traffic jam on the B1000 somewhere outside Welwyn Garden City.

The second slightly unsettling side to East Anglia is the naming of villages in the area. I can't decide if it is a symptom of the seemingly inherent backwardness to be found in these parts, or a quite unique form of gallows humour - 'well, we're stuck living in East Anglia, let's call our village something patently ridiculous to remind ourselves of the brighter side of life whenever we tell outsiders where we live.'

Take, for example, Shellow Bowells. No, please, take it. It's just outside Chelmsford and its only claim to fame is that Bill Bryson, in his book 'Notes From A Small Island', found it similarly amusing. But my dear Bill, on the very same page of the road map we can do so much better than that! The village of Matching Tye is crying out to be populated by over-zealous Burtons shop assistants, but would their tape measures extend around the residents of Six Mile Bottom, just up the M11? The recent advertising slump must have been foreseen by the occupants of nearby Commercial End.

Then there are hamlets where the imaginative streak on behalf of the locals was so lacking that they clearly just picked up a dictionary and used a random word: Yelling, Reach and Over being examples. And quite what possessed two separate communities within a mile of each other, either side of the A10, to each call themselves Hare Street?
'Here, Wilf, them thar over the way be callin themselves Hare Street!'
'Arrr they be not, I were just thinkin that we be Hare Street. Oi'll be damned if they be having that for a name.'
And so, I assume, a private little war has continued for centuries.

I must press on to my engagement in Colchester, so I will curtail my concerns over the health and well-being of the residents of East Anglia. And yet, as I take a last look at the map, one last village grabs my attention and shakes it vigorously. Who - tell me, who - named their village Ugley?

"Ship wrecked by 'trouser snag'." All stories should be like this.

I keep finding new categories under which to post, and after last night's poetry - which I really did hope would be shoved down the page by a more recent post much quicker than this - I have now come up with a sporting conundrum.

If you know your Busby from your Shankly, know the course of Norwich's European campaign of the early 90s and know that the same team had one Bill Gates as a right back in the 1950s, you will also know that Roman Abramovich and his billions have been put to good use at Chelsea in creating the footballing equivalent of the Harlem Globetrotters, right down to Juan 'Meadowlark' Veron.

Now, most supporters probably concede that football was going this way for quite some time, and would admit that if it was their own team they would not be raising any complaints, but we all retain a certain amount of resentment that Chelsea can now just go out and buy Manchester United rejects or over-rated, relegated midfielders with poor haircuts whenever they feel like it. City could only afford one of the latter and it cost us a lot less. Chances are, by the end of the week Chelsea will have spent £60,000,000 and that figure seems absurd.

And yet I don't think it will have that much effect. Yes they can buy all these players but for a start, the truly world class players will probably want to go somewhere else (Madrid, United, etc), and secondly even big name signings are prone to failure. Veron did not exactly set the world alight at United, performing so badly against City that he was booed off the pitch by both sets of supporters. Note that his transfer fee has dropped by around £13,000,000 in not a large amount of time. Chelsea are not signing players who will guarantee them silverware.

Additionally, despite what our very own Kevin Keegan has been saying recently, it is still more than possible to do what Newcastle did in the early 90s - get promoted, get a decent, hard-working squad and work wonders. It is harder, yes, but it is still possible, you don't need Russian moguls to make it happen. Much as I hate to admit it, I think Wolves (*spit*) will probably survive this season and finish comfortably mid-table, just by putting in the effort. I don't think City will lose 5-0 to Chelsea this season, but we managed it last season and they didn't have any of the stars they will have this time round. Football is far too unpredictable and unfathomable for money to be able to dictate what happens.

And on a footballing note, why do I keep getting asked if I've been watching Real Madrid? Why would I? Did I watch them last season? No. Season before? No. The footballing equivalent of a field goal kicker signs for Real and the whole of Britain is expected to tune in for every minute of every training session. No wonder everyone whinges about the state of British football when as soon as one bloke fancies the Costa del Sol for a while, half the population become Madrid supporters. Go and watch Rochdale instead, they play in white and you can get closer to their stars than you ever would to Beckham...

Presenting the 3D Text Maker! What's more, it's free! It's like the internet is back in 1993 all over again!

Frankly, I would have thought you would have been pleased that I'm moving away from links that make no sense when taken out of context. That at least is an improvement.

Let's be honest. Below, we have three OJ posts. One is a humorous take on the news story about the survey of films Presidents have watched. One is a pithy comment on our society. One is a link to a funny story.

Hands up those of you that went to all the links. Come on, right up. I said hands up. Oh. You are doing, I see. That will be none of you then. Now, I'm not accusing OJ of being boring, far from it - my gripe is that what we are seeing is gratuitous linking, a sort of attempt at bragging rights, a statement which says 'look at me, I have more links than you, I am therefore socially and culturally superior.' See, now if I was OJ, I would have highlighted 'socially and culturally superior' and linked it back to my post on his proposed socio-cultural comparions between the US and the UK. But I'm not, and I acknowledge that if people really are that interested in what I'm gassing on about, they will find it for themselves. It's just down there on the right, look.

No, I'm not accusing OJ of being boring, because he's a product of 20th/21st century education system where students, at least where we came from, had interesting teachers and therefore have interesting things to say themselves. Our history teacher had photos of cats on the toilet in Russia, so we have anecdotes involving the phrase 'young, tight and hairless' (and we're not referring to adolescent Scottish dwarves).

In the 1950s, it was probably a tad different. I'm about to find out, because in ten minutes Channel 4 are airing 'That'll Teach Em', which takes a group of GCSE students and dumps then in a 1950s classroom environment. This promises to be good television, and will no doubt break its promise, but I live in hope. The other day, Channel 4 also aired 'It's Great To Be Young', a film made in the 1950s about a 1950s private school and the teachers there. It was dated but it spoke volumes about what constitutes a good teacher, and I get the feeling that if I want to pursue this career path I can learn from the past. If you watch 'That'll Teach Em', let me know what you think, and I'll be evaluating what I learnt from it later.

See, I can be as serious as OJ when I want to be. Just not about credit cards.

Every now and again, you see a story to make you grin. Here, Monty was offered a gold Credit Card. Monty is a Shih-Tzu. I wonder if he understood the finer details of the agreement, or was waiting for the Treasury Select Committee to act?

It's a tough job, running the country. As Blair recently became the longest continuously-serving Labour PM, we seem to be losing track of the little arguments that eventually have big impacts. In some cases, as with credit card payments, there seems to be some hope. But then you read something so mind numbingly forehead slappingly stupid, or downright wrong, that you just want to scream. And lo, needy parents appear to be too demanding in asking for their rightful payments. It's a disgrace.

Fascinating release out in all the papers and the BBC about a forthcoming documentary entitled "All the Presidents' Films." I should imagine it will be intriguing viewing, if only to catch a glimpse of the White House theatre. The choice of films seems to be garnering most commentary, but not having seen High Noon, I myself won't pass judgement. However, I am concerned about two issues. Firstly, who staffs the cinema? Surely there isn't a presidential usher, or *shudder* intern, whose job is to serve popcorn to the leader of the free world? And if there is, then can you imagine the leery looks Clinton would have (probably) given you? My experience as teenage cinema-goer (limited at best) suggests that it would have been, uh, uncomfortable viewing. Secondly, how on earth can you watch one film 20 times in 8 years? I must have seen my favourite films - Top Gun, the Godfathers, Die Hard - barely 10 times at most, over a longer period of time. Did Clinton not get bored? Or more likely, was he really that wedded to the image of, as Burt Kearns - the executive producer of the documentary says - "a man alone, who has to do the right thing. He's what you think the president would imagine himself to be"? Now, that is worrying - cowboy delusions in two presidents running.

Phew, it's a burning hot day out there. I'm on my lunch break in what passes in my life for work - sat at home with MTV on, all the windows open and a fan on - and even in my Play-DryTM Reebok Manchester City shirt I'm sweltering.

Still, MTV Hits and The Music Factory are providing some comfort. I call them the anti-Radio 2, where you can hear music that after six or seven listens in the same hour actually blends into the background, so much so that time compresses and then expands into a bland nothingness. By watching the same insurance advert during seven consecutive commercial breaks, you can in fact split the space/time continuum.

That said, I am warming to some of the stuff I am hearing. I watched the Girls Aloud Video Diary - I really like Life Got Cold, and I liked No Good Advice - and am now firmly in love with Nadine. Cheryl is not bad either, but Nadine's Irish lilt just does it for me, simple as that. Now, the problem really started when I began to like Triple 888's 'Give Me A Reason', and I saw J-Lo's 'Jenny From The Block' which may or may not be old but I liked it a lot.

This is not Genesis, nor is it Peter Gabriel, nor even Blur. Indeed it would appear to mark a complete departure in my music taste which coincides with my interest in Fame Academy 2 and my contemplation of a subscription to Popworld magazine. I have my reasons for this sudden and quite unsettling liking for commercial pop, but those are strictly between myself and my therapist...

So, here at Dayorama you have a choice. If you can name a single Matchbox 20 song, unlike me, and actually care about Noel Edmonds, OJ is your man. If on the other hand you want to discuss Gareth's new longer hair, or think Busted's 'Year 3000' is absolutely hilarious, you'll be wanting to talk to me. If you love Genesis and Peter Gabriel then you won't want to talk to either of us, because OJ will mock you and I will never shut up.

Wooding:

No. 1. (Notice correct punctuation on 'No.') BITE ME.

No. 2. It's hard on an intermittent connection, sat in a car in blazing heat, to find either the time, connection or inclination to change my comments. Easier to post a quick apology.

Finally, I now have my Manchester City shirts ready for the new season, and have sat in my seat at the new stadium. It is a beautiful place, gorgeous pitch, seats are leather cushioned! Very nice indeed. Bring on Barcelona!

Williams:

No 1. Bite me.

No 2. At least I know how to delete comments when one has been foolish (or possibly, frustrated) enough to double post.

Very hot weather and myself are something of a bad mix. I feel like I have the "rage" virus from 28 Days Later, although I must admit to not having seen the film and taking the reference on the basis of a monkey with rage impression (with hand actions) that was done by a man who is now the Lincoln MCR President.

I intend to use Dayorama to release scandal and gossip on a regular basis, to insult people who I know will never read it (and some who I know will), and to poke deadpan fun at OJ's detailed, reasoned explanations of stuff. In the case of his little diatribe on arts students I lost it a bit, but the deadpan will return some day.

Now, most British students, and for once I include myself in the majority, would laugh heartily at the statement that a little sojourn in an American university is 'a test of the Anglosphere'. I would see it as an excuse to watch lots of baseball and ice hockey, and many other British students would see it as an excuse to become deeply inebriated in Irish theme pubs every night (although if you've heard my tutor's stories of Irish theme pubs you wouldn't). The point is that for most people embarking on this little jaunt, the prime concern would not be the social and cultural divide and an in-depth study of it, to be reported back to Dayorama on a regular basis.

But most British students haven't seen the page showing the members of the 1904 Princeton Waffling Society, or President's Toasted Sandwiches Club, or Morning Darts Union, or whatever it was. Ah ha, here is the link. Each and every one of the people whose photos adorn that page look exactly like, in the event of a transatlantic crossing, their first thoughts would be socially and culturally oriented. Not for them alcohol, scantily clad members of the opposite sex, or evenings in with a Monopoly board (far too debauched, all that paper money, one has credit cards these days). They all look as though you'd only have to gently whisper 'field sports' to empty the room of them.

This means that our OJ will be absolutely in his element. Having complained incessantly (well, bragged while pretending to complain) that people think he sounds American, he will now end up in a country where they all find him, and he them, an interesting social and cultural phenomenon. I can see the conversations now:
'So, uh, OJ, tell me something about what you do in your leisure [pronounced lee-shuh] time in England...'
'Well, in between drinking and smoking to while away the hours, being an arts student and all, I like to play rugby and put the shot.'
'Play... rugby? I-i-i-i-isn't that a fuh... fuh...'
'Field sport?'
'Aaaaaaaaaaaa!' [Exit]

If I were allowed to request something of him while he's over there, it would be simply to tell the following joke:
"Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Bigish.
Bigish Who?
Sorry mate, not got any change."
No real reason, just I'd like to see him try to explain it. And on that note, I shall get out of the car and take my tour around the City of Manchester Stadium.

Since I seem to be on some kind of public purge of all my vices, it was only a matter of time before I came to Radio 2.

I love Radio 2.

I'm 19 years old, and have been listening to it for at least the last ten years. I've never consciously listened to anything else. I make other people listen to Radio 2, and usually they agree with me that it is the best station out there. My unwavering adoration and devotion to Radio 2 is, I think, a result of familial conditioning. My parents listened to it (although curiously, they've gone off it a bit as of late) and so I listened to it. I'm sure that my musical taste was influenced by it. That's not to say I don't listen to or enjoy modern music, but it does not tend to be from the mainstream segment. There was an article in last week's Telegraph (no link as their website makes me want to cry, and I think registration required) that complained that Radio 1's A list of tracks contained only three UK tracks out of twenty. 15% is pretty poor, but leaving aside issues of supporting unknown UK bands, it is also an accurate reflection of the current state of British musical taste. Since the vast majority of music demand is influenced by teenagers, I feel proud to listen to Radio 2 and be steadfastly in the minority.

I have a lot to thank Radio 2 for. It was Bob Harris who introduced me to the joys of Matchbox Twenty, Fleetwood Mac, Tom Petty and Bruce Springsteen. I recommed his Saturday Show unreservedly as the best show on the radio, ever. Recently, Radio 2 has brought me into the world of country, folk and acoustic with such pleasures as Nickelcreek and Alison Krauss. Terry Wogan is almost a God. Jeremy Vine is doing an excellent job taking over from Sir Jimmy Young. All in all the station is in rude health.

Which cannot be said, unfortunately, for Johnnie Walker, who was recently diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma. He's taken a break from his Drivetime show for treatment, and following stints by Richard Allinson and Stuart Maconie (who, by changing the traffic jingle from the stock one to Autobahn by Kraftwerk made me swerve on the road in laughter), they seem to have found a permanent temporary presenter in Noel Edmonds. Again, whilst most certainly in the minority, I enjoyed Noel's House Party as a kid, and his skill as a DJ (in the old fashioned sense) is well known. I look forward to listening to him this evening.

It is entirely in keeping with this site that I should reveal its purpose a day later than I originally intended. It is even more in keeping that I allowed myself some room for manouevre in recognition that I would probably be late. At least it doesn't look orange anymore.

Dayorama, then. The very first site, now sadly not on the net, was formed nearly exactly a year ago, a joint venture between myself and Ollie. By joint, I mean that Ollie provided everything but half of the idea. Firstly, I think that some background knowledge would probably help to explain Dayorama, and no doubt some of the more obscure references on it. Ollie and I first met aged 7 (well, he was 6) at what was then Taunton Junior Boys School, and would later become Taunton Prep School. A firm friendship was quickly formed based on identical initials (OW) and a love for video games (one day, we might see fit to describe how to play two-player Road Rash on the MegaDrive properly). Remarkably, the friendship, despite various efforts by such things as Manchester City, Rugby, and lockers of death, managed to survive all the way through the Senior School, and now at Oxford. We long ago came to the conclusion that when writing and punditing, we do our best when working off each other. Then, in the summer in between A-Levels and University, we had an idea.

To see the original, ground-breaking MSN conversation that lead to Dayorama, then we can exclusively provide it to you, here. The first site, however, had an abundance of white, and was soon upgraded to Dayorama v2 - the Magenta and Cyan years. The site proved remarkably successful in its brief life, winning recognition from The Guardian, amongst others (and by others, we probably actually mean mothers). The concept behind the site was to rate the day in a historical perspective on a scale of 0 to 12. It is probably the one original idea that either of us have ever had. Whilst the concept was excellent, and worked well during the freedom of the long summer after School (in between stints at the cake factory of death, for me), upon our arrival at Oxford, we were quickly swamped by, as Ollie put it, "work, women, fast cars... okay, okay, work." Posting to Dayorama stopped, despite the various attempts by each of us to create a personal blog.

Then came the (fateful?) summer of '03, and we decided to start it up again, with less emphasis on the 'daily' posting. Due to my badgering, we agreed to move from Blogger to MovableType, and get our own domain. Not surprisingly, this cost money - not a huge amount if it all goes wrong again, but enough to hopefully act as an incentive to post. And lo, D3 - Dayorama the Domain (or should that be Dayorama da Domain) was born.

Still, it needs a purpose. Random news topics will certainly feature highly. But for me personally, I hope to use Dayorama to keep my friends up to date and post some thoughts on my next big adventure. In May I was selected for an undergraduate exchange scheme that means that instead of returning to Oxford for Michaelmas in October, I will actually be spending a term (or the fall semester) as an undergraduate at Princeton. Which is an awfully long way from Taunton. Although it is above all else an academic exchange - since I will be graded whilst over there and have to produce two papers that will count to my Finals when I return - it is also as much a cultural and social exchange. I see it as a test of the Anglosphere. How close are we British to the Americans really? For those concerned at Oxford, are tutorials a better system than precepts and class lectures? I don't know - but I'm going to find out. And I'll be posting the answers as I go right here.

You will - well, you should - see a new logo on the site home page, which I have just added. For what I suspect is the very small group of visitors who also frequent the Penny Arcade website, I now feel like Gabe to OJ's Tycho. To the rest of you, this means nothing. Yet there is a warm glow of satisfaction inside me and for once it wasn't triggered by a Diet Coke.

Anyway, I'm only really posting this message so that there's a new comments thread for visitors (read: Amy) to comment on the logo (read: tear my ego particle from particle). Beelzebubbette, do thy worst.

According to Ollie, MT is "toying with [me] like a rattle snake with the mindset of Graham Norton would toy with a small, highly edible puppy with the mindset of Charlotte Church." Unsurprisingly, "it's not the sort of toying I like to see."

So the colours have changed a bit more, and we're both more satisfied. Coming soon - a logo! However, there are continuing problems with the dotted border on the side - if you have any ideas how to make it completely consistent, then any offers of help are greatly appreciated. I'm off to bed now, but tomorrow, in between counting Lego, the purpose for Dayorama (may) be revealed!

It is so heart-warming, yet in many ways so depressing to watch this early flurry of posts... come mid-November, we'll be lucky if there's as many posts per day as there are sunshine symbols on the British weather maps.

Anyway, I'm not posting with a view to any particular insight on the current British political climate or anything, I'm just acknowledging my own return having been away for three days. It is nice to see that the site has been restored to the days of colour in my absence.

I'm very busy elsewhere (August = start of football season) but I will try to scrabble around among my fragmented thoughts for the occasional post here. So, in essence, this is less a post, more advanced notice that I'm not about to become positively profligate in my posting. Enjoy your weekend wherever you are, especially if you're in bed and about to go to sleep like me.

OK, OK, I'm sorry for the orange and brown. I'm trying to get the site to look visually pleasing, but since I didn't do the last one, I'm not doing that great a job. The upside is that at least we have the purple and blue back, and still avoid looking like a second-rate West Ham fan site.

If you want to take a look at the old site, then it's here. It also has some explanation as to what the hell this thing is anyway, although an updated version will soon be coming here, as the purpose has been modified somewhat. Now that we have working permalinks, though, I can post it on the blog itself, rather than having the hassle of an extra page to update.

Seriously, this is the kind of thing I'd expect to see on Dead Ringers: "Crowe set for Rolf tribute." On the subject of Dead Ringers, their impression of Andrew Marr, with orang-utan arms, is wicked. On the subject of Andrew Marr, he seems to be losing his hair at a scarily rapid rate. Compare his mugshot for his weekly column in the Daily Telegraph to the TV, and you too will be shocked.

Worrying news out today that "arts and law students are most likely to die early." Alas, that includes myself, Ollie, and my girlfriend. It was just the news I wanted to see when I woke up.

To be fair, though, my anecdotal experience backs up the researchers' claims. Although I'm not convinced that "[a]rts students were more likely to have experienced socioeconomic deprivation in childhood," I am sure that their belief that the "arts culture" encourages smoking is correct. Not so much because of some trendy, rougish lifestyle aptly described "arty" that encourages smoking through peer pressure - we're probably about forty years past that - rather, compared to science students we have far more free time. Masses of the stuff in fact. Smoking (and drinking, although Medics were found to be the most alcoholic) is for many people something to do to pass the time, because when you have one essay a week, boy is there a lot of time to pass. Prevention and the welfare of our future society can be obtained, I would suggest, by making arts students read more, write more essays or *gasp* have daily lectures to attend, like scientists. You'll just have to remember to get us up in the morning.

[Disclosure - neither myself, Ollie or my girlfriend smoke, so we're either missing out on the arts lifestyle or the report is just wrong. No doubt the answer is somewhere in between]