When I looked out of my window this morning (onto the High), I noticed that the Town Hall are flying the Gay Pride flag. A bit different to the normal cross of St George and certainly more colourful. Anyway, after a bit of googling I discovered that the May Day weekend is Oxford's celebration of Gay Pride. Apparently the May Day party, which incidently is supported by the City Council and the Fyne Times magazine, will feature a tug of war contest, a dog show and a three-legged race. It will also feature live music and dancing. So there.

Eli Manning - you are an idiot. Firstly, for acting like a big girl when the Chargers drafted you, and secondly, for wanting to go to the Giants. They're going to eat you alive. Smart money would have been San Diego - anyone would be better than Brees, you have a great running back, and nice weather. Philip Rivers is going to have a great career; you will be lucky to get out of Giants Stadium alive the first time you are intercepted.

Well, we really have descended into thoughts of the ‘end of the world’ haven’t we? It seems to have been characteristic of my week.

Firstly, Anthony has been mentioning the ‘end of the world as we know it’ of late – this is more connected to the overuse of hands-free mobile phones by people walking down Turl St; the stopping of post-examination traditions and other such matters, but still ‘the end of the world’ was used. Incidentally, I think we can add the invention of ‘robotic bollards’ to this list too. Whatever shall become of us?

Secondly, if the degradation of society wasn’t enough, I was reading the paper whilst having lunch and the Daily Mail has a report on whether the film The Day after Tomorrow portrays an accurate depiction of how the world will end. Now, maybe this is very British of me - the ‘burying of the head in the sand’ technique - but surely it is better that we live in the present and stop prophesising about how the world will end? This is not to say that we should not take any precautions regarding terrorism, or that we should refrain from being ‘environmentally friendly’, but to dwell on the ‘end of the world’ too heavily is surely a bit too depressing.

We must accept that the world is changing, that adaptation is necessary; but this should, at least in most cases, be seen in a positive, rather than a negative light. If we don’t take this frame of mind, then surely there is no hope whatsoever, and the end of the world may as well be nigh.

Can we change to a more fun string of posts now, please?

There's a plague of locusts gathering in Africa. A few weeks ago it was in Australia. Let's go through the list, shall we?

1. Waters turn to blood
It is widely believed that over the next century, the vast majority of global conflicts will be over the scarcity of clean water.

2. Invasion of frogs
Immigration concerns aside (which would be merely an Invasion from the Land of the Frogs), the people of Moses are going to be set free until the frogs die and begin to decay and smell, at which point Pharoah prohibits their departure. Increased global waste, anyone?

3. Lice
Numerous interpretations, I would have thought. You could have narrow interpretation as uncleanliness, perhaps disease related to waste (above) and flies (below); or, perhaps, lice as parasites on society, terrorism? Yes, this is my entry into Private Eye's Warballs.

4. Flies
Ravaging and looting by 'flies' on the back of increasing global anarchy when faced with terrorism.

5. Cattle start dying
Decay of agriculture and global food supplies on the back of earlier woes.

6. Boils on humans and animals
People become seriously ill and bubonic plague makes an unwelcome return as worldwide food and water shortages lead to severe malnutrition and squalor.

7. Hail
Global warming switches off the jet stream, plunging Britain (not to mention vast swathes of the rest of the world) into a Siberian climate. cf: The Day After Tomorrow.

8. Locusts
Well it's steadily growing, isn't it? Two continents already affected.

9. Darkness
Global warming or nuclear fallout?

10. Killing of all male first-born
End of the world as we know it. Could either mean the collapse of world order, or the obliteration of the entire race.

I should stop writing essays so late into the night. I'm starting to think that the above is simply wishful thinking so that I don't have to finish this ("Sorry Dr Maddicott, I didn't complete my essay because locusts ate my paper, I couldn't see a thing for three days and then angels tried to kill me.")

I'll proceed immediately to today's first order of business: click here for the catalogue accompanying the auction of items derived from the wool of Shrek, the sheep who escaped the shears for six years in New Zealand. I, personally, rather like the idea of my own made-to-fit Icebreaker Shrek, number 2 of 5 (Sir Edmund Hillary is getting number 1).

In between ogling woolly items, excluding OJ, I have been doing some thinking. And I have concluded that the world's ills will be solved by a single invention:

The ability to beam power.

What this means (well, it should be fairly self-explanatory, but Amy reads this so it needs expanding upon) is that just as we beam radio signals, visual signals, light signals etc, so we should eventually work out how to transmit power without the use of wires.

This, I believe, will be the end of the world as we know it. First in a good way, then in a bad way.

The first part will be achieved because suddenly, power will be available in all corners of the earth, on demand and in infinite (well, very large) supply. Humanitarian aid missions across the globe will be able to harness wireless energy to establish and maintain vital outposts in the most inhospitable of locations. Portable medical units will be able to quickly and efficiently tap into a power supply at the site of major disasters. Homes across developing continents such as Africa and Asia will be able (for a fee, of course, let's not be getting too Utopian) to access power without waiting perhaps decades or centuries for the traditionally prerequisite infrastructure to be laid down. Cars will be able to abandon fossil fuels in favour of wireless electricity, allowing the adaptation and successful implementation of existing electric vehicles without the inconvenience of having to charge them at regular intervals. The world will be a better place.

For around twenty years or so. Then some smart-alec gone wrong will figure out how to concentrate these wireless energy signals into a form of weapon capable of wreaking destruction beyond our wildest dreams. Vast beams of funnelled and focused energy will be harnessed as weapons, sweeping across battlefields and nations, obliterating all in their path. They will no doubt be tinged green, blue or red depending on which side they're on, and make a little humming noise when they hit each other.

The United States, realising that Israel, having just conquered China and declared itself a continent in its own right, is now coming under attack from Japan and Russia, will implement what will come to be known as a "Holy F**k It Is Star Wars" policy in order to protect its defenceless little ally. President Kerry Bush, the first female centrist US leader, will instruct NASA to establish wireless energy weapon modules in a number of the moon's craters as permanent military installations, capable of focusing their weapons arrays on any one corner of the globe at any point (to an accuracy level of +/- 100km, which in the words of Ms. President "will suffice"). The Sun will, in a moment its sub-editors would later rank alongside "SuperCaliGoBallisticCelticAreAtrocious", dub the moon the "Death Star". Tony Blair, however, now 92 and seeing out his days in a residential home in Sunderland - "so as to be near my favourite football team", he tells journalists - claims that there are definitely no weapons of mass destruction on the moon.

So in summary, my invention will bring 20 years of happiness followed by aeons of fear and destruction. But we'll be dead by then anyway, so who cares.

As we are all aware, Oxford is famous for its bikes. Both students and tutors can be seen riding them everywhere. It is easy to nearly get run-over by a speedy cyclist – especially when one steps out onto the Turl without looking or decides to cross over randomly at the KA… Today, I was witness to three amusing incidents involving cyclists. The first one was occurred whilst I was in the company of a certain Mr Williams. The cyclist in question appeared to falter in front of us, come off his bike, check his brakes, decided they were ok and the gingerly ride off. However, he continued to check his rear brake pads, whilst cycling. This involved him riding his bike with one hand on his handlebars and the other through his legs - rather like an elephant scratching his backside with his trunk. At any rate, it was an amusing sight and complicated by the fact that I had to be restrained from totally cracking up – very loudly. The second incident was when I saw someone swerve rapidly around an oncoming pedestrian, only to be greeted with a Lance Armstrong figure on a bike, coming in the opposite direction, also aiming to avoid the said pedestrian. As a consequence, the two bikes crashed into each other and the pedestrian walked away oblivious to the carnage she had caused. The last, and funniest was also on the Turl. I was standing in Lincoln lodge; a cyclist went passed and then suddenly fell off his bike backwards. His seat scooted off behind him. It’s the first time I have witnessed the seat come off a bike – good job the guy leapt off, rather than having a pole up his backside. Ouch.

And the moral of the story – stick to busses; taxis; cars; trains and walking – bugger bikes!

Today shall be remembered as the day that I was told by someone who is both a Law God and the Sub-Rector of College, that my essays are both wrong on a micro and a macro scale (maybe I should write for the 'Economist'?), that I have problems with both my reading and my sentence construction and that my spelling, punctuation and grammar need attention.

My bedtime reading for the evening is entitled 'The Sudents Guide to Writing' and includes guidance on "all the key aspects of writing, starting from how to write a sentence through how to build and shape an essay". Whoop-de-do. If I didn't laugh (as everyone else who I have told e.g. Anthony; OJ; Ollie has done), I would cry. However, it does say a lot if I can both get to Oxford and achieve a high 2:1 in Mods without being able to write English proper like.

MobLog - continuing this rare venture of mine into the world of random linkage, this site does exactly what it says on the tin. It's a weblog where you send photos direct from your mobile phone to the site once you've registered. I've been crying out for this kind of thing for ages, yet strangely, now that it actually exists, I don't care any more. How odd.

www.bumpsdaq.org - yet another of those ideas where you think, damn, that's so utterly simple yet amusing. I should have done that. Meh.

Odd things have happened today. OJ will recall that in the History Faculty this morning, items like notepads and pens just would not stay in my hands and kept succumbing to bizarre gravitational eddies that would pluck them from my grasp and deposit them on the floor. Later, I went to the Radcliffe Camera to do some work and the porter outside said, "Back again, eh?" as I walked in. I haven't been to the Rad Cam for over two months. Then on the way home, the bus I was travelling on crashed into a car coming in the opposite direction. In the Co-Op, the guy restacking the shelves kept whispering to himself about how nice his display looked. I am half-expecting a jet engine to crash through my ceiling in the middle of the night. If that happens, you'll find me on a golf course and there will be a small post-it on my desk saying "They made me do it".

Finally, I have made myself a fridge. It involved filling my sink with cold water and immersing stuff in it. Works like a charm.

I've applied for a Manchester City FC Platinum Visa card.

The rates seemed fairly competitive even to my financially naive mind, and I'm confident of paying it off every month. I was waiting half a year for a gold AmEx card to appear, but alas nothing, so I've taken matters into my own hands.

This stems from a number of core issues. Firstly, I'm sick and tired of Visa Electron. Amazon accept it, that's good. However, I can't immediately think of anyone else who does. Of course a lot of places probably do, but nowhere near enough - I tried booking tickets to see The Delays, only to have the sodding Electron card turned away. I can't book a hotel anywhere because none of them take the sodding Electron card. Thus my only resort is to acquire a proper card.

Of course, this all assumes I pass the credit check. Two years ago, Lloyds TSB invited me, having opened a student account with them, to apply for a card. I did. They refused me. I did not understand the logic of asking me to apply only to say no, but there we are. It's eminently possible that the same thing will happen again, regardless of my creativity with the application form on the basis that if Enron survived long enough, similar business practices will get me approved.

Why can't we use PayPal to pay for tickets and things online? Bah.

In other financial news, my train ticket to Manchester on Thursday cost me £13.20, bargain. This means I'll be able to put the extra cash towards landing me a Franz Ferdinand ticket off a tout on Friday night. Now all I need is a hotel. If only I had the means to pay for one...

Most of the time I am all for tradition amongst the 'youth of today' - people going camping; outdoor lifestyles; help in the Community (Girl Guides acting as bag packers in Safeway... or visiting old ladies) - you know, the kind of thing I mean. Anyway. The Scout Association. Great - apart from possibly enhancing paedophilia and making boys where shorts and long socks, it promotes all of the above. So far so good. However, the tradition of the Scout Association loses its appeal somewhat when they march around the streets with purple flags and playing atrocious tunes via their brass band. Today, the sound of busses was halted in Oxford, and instead we had the ‘Great Escape’ being hammered out on drums and xylophones. What ever next? I was trying to work at the time and was prevented due to the large racket coming through my open window. As a consequence I had to holler for Anthony, who promptly came and climbed out of my window to survey the marching band of ants from the roof of the Mitre. A noise polluting, pointless, embarrassing (for those involved) spectacle. Tch!

I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. This image actually existed out there on the web, it's no creation of mine. Purrfect, no?

(To anyone else reading this, it's an in-joke, ignore it...)

Firstly, may I say what a delight it was to have the company of OJ and Amy for a meal at Pizza Express this evening, and subsequently Amy's company for a screening of Kill Bill: Vol. 2. This is an odd film, as I'm sure Amy will agree - it has a slightly different feel to Vol. 1, perhaps a slower pace and an ending which is both unexpected and, I would venture, something of an anti-climax. Of course, I'm messing with Quentin Tarantino's idea of film-making, and given that puppy's sick imagination, I wouldn't want to get on his bad side. So let's just say I still enjoyed it and I think Kill Bill will become a classic. I don't think many people would get bored if they screened the two back-to-back.

Secondly, may I say what a delight it would be to report the entire proceedings of the evening meal with my two partners in crime, yet even I have sufficient restraint to avoid reiterating details which were painfully humiliating enough for some of those present in the company of just two people, let alone the sodomised gaze of the entire internet. Suffice to say that I learnt many details I never expected to know, and yes, OJ, I know about the KY Jelly.

The most odd event of the evening, bar the ending to Kill Bill: Vol. 2, was the presentation of a different kind of bill at Pizza Express. For the second time in three attempts, a restaurant has forgotten to charge us three for our desserts. This first happened a few months ago in the Mitre restaurant at the end of Turl Street, in the company of Amy's straight/gay/who-knows/certainly-not-him friend Anthony. Amy began to complain that she thought they had overcharged us, and then we realised that they had in fact forgotten to charge us for any of the puddings. Tonight, a repeat performance - I joked that maybe they would have forgotten to charge us for something, and lo and behold, there was no sign of the desserts on the bill. As before, we paid and left hastily.

Filthiness at alleged academic institution.

I don't know how anyone can bear to be associated with that place... this would never happen at Oxford. Primarily because here, every day is Newman's Day for most people.

Well, looks like we are all back in Oxford now. I for one am currently partaking in the act of procrastination before my Collection tomorrow. Hence, this train of thought which is about to be presented before you. It is not particularly coherent, but never mind. Lets just say, it is reflective of my revision and also the fact it is still early evening and I am a double G+T down – oh, and a bag of skittles.

Anyway. The night before I left for Oxford I spent some time with close friends from home. They were larking about the fact that their taxes go towards me spending eight weeks away from home, doing nothing more than rowing and drinking Pimms and when I return I still appear as blonde and unintelligent as I always have done. Any Oxford undergraduate knows that in part, the fact we do no work is truth, and in part it’s also fallacy – we do have to study at least some of the time. Afterall, if not, it would surely be a waste of the glorious flirtation or stealing which can be done in the Rad Cam. By the way, at this point let me say that a certain person has discovered that he has over 8hrs of lectures per week this term and is going to be anal and go to them all. Fool!

However, the conversation got me thinking - how much of what we learn from a degree is actually ‘given back’ into the community. I don’t mean so much when we have completed a degree, but rather when we are still studying. For some degrees e.g. Law, the end result is potentially more obvious - qualify and then screw lots of people for money. Similarly, a car-selling qualification, or business management course would presumably reap whatever is sown as well. However, does the community actually gain anything whilst people do ‘during’ their degrees?

Now, I am not trying to start the lifelong debate between the benefits of a Law degree over a Modern History degree – I appreciate that I am outnumbered 2:1, so there is no point in even trying. But, with the increase in people attending University, the ordinary taxpayer does have to contribute – and for what? Just to fuel the drinking and social life – oh, and maybe a job at the end of it that, no doubt, in the vast number of cases could have been achieved without a piece of paper?

If I consider my present position – a Law degree – well yes, the Citizens Advice Bureau has gained from my experience. I can at least sit for several days each vacation and advise the population of Maidstone, or indeed Barnsley. I have also answered a few queries made by friends regarding covenants when they have purchasing land and on terms of leases etc. Other than that though, no on has gained anything yet. And what about for you little historians – whenever a factual question is asked of you, the response I always get is… “hmm, well… I’m sorry, it’s not my period…” That may be because the colour of Anglo Saxon coins, or the relevance of the American Revolution on migrating Bison are rather obscure topics to specialise in, but, how much do you give back into the community? Has the ordinary taxpayer gained anything from you so far? Ok, ok, I know that nothing can replace an Oxbridge degree – academic excellence; studying; in-depth research skills; yadda yadda yadda - it all bodes well for excellence in future employment. But, you can’t help sympathising with those who think we are a bunch of good for nothing toffs who spend their time drinking cups of tea - I mention no names here… Anthony (who partook in the G+T purchasing with me). I suppose it just depends what sort of people we are and what we do with our lives – and sure enough, you don’t need a degree to do good in this world or give ‘something back’.

I really don’t know what I am getting at here – maybe it is an obscure slant on being pro-tuition fees – if we want resources and the ability to study, then we should * posh accent * “bloody well pay for it ourselves”. Why should someone else fuel our pleasures? Or maybe I am criticising the good-for-nothing degrees where people do waltz in, attend a few lectures and come out with a third and then end up with a huge debt and a job as a cashier in Somerfield. This is enhanced by the fact that some of the most influential people never even went to University – e.g. Richard Branson. I guess we make the world go round, but it certainly is a strange amount of money ploughed into little short-term gain – and no secure long-term gain either where some people are concerned.

Now, if I lived about 5 miles West of where I do - which, I am glad I don’t as the place turns from idyllic Kentish fields to a dumpy town – then, Ann Widdecombe would be my MP. Whilst I don’t particularly agree with her on all of her political ideals, I must admit, she is certainly a woman to be admired –she speaks her mind; isn’t afraid of what people think or say about her; she does a lot for the local community; and she is the most wonderful Agony Aunt. That’s right, its good bye to Dear Deidre and hello to Ann.

Dearest Ann now has her own page in the G2 section of the Guardian on a Monday. I am not so sure that all of the stories she gets into her column are entirely truthful, but fictitious or not, her ‘no-nonsense solutions to life’s knotty problems’, as they are described, are a total hoot. Today, she calls a stepmother complaining that her stepchildren are hostile to her, the ‘stepmother from hell’ and that the husband in the situation must be as ‘weak as a weed’ to have put up with her for so long. Great empathy there. The Labour supporter who complains about wanting to throw abuse at the television every time Tony is on screen, isn’t given much sympathy either… now why isn’t that surprising?

You certainly wouldn’t write in with something for which you wanted a sensitive and helpful response – but Ann delivers wit with no problem.

Thus, I urge you to read it. Available online if OJ or Ollie wish to post the link. Its absolutely great. Pure satirical elegance. A woman to aspire to!

Oh and the Guardian has another interesting article today on blogging – worthy of comment I think…

I think that we’ve already established what the tripe that is The Games is. Absolute rubbish, but hugely enjoyable. Jamie Theakston deserves a lot of credit for being able to hold that sort of straight face for such a long period of time. God knows he was cracking up inside. This is in direct contrast to Jayne Middlemiss, the roving reporter. How she ever made a career as a TV presenter is beyond me. Give that girl a bath, or at the very least a hair wash, some elocution lessons and the imagination to ask questions beyond the banal.

Tonight was the Grand Finale, which pitted the top four from this year against the top four from 2003. The competition came down to a 4x100m relay, which 2003 duly won due to a blistering last leg by Harvey, who I believe is a member of the So Solid Crew (and hence was commiserating with Romeo). The guy can apparently clock 11.3, and based on that I’m not surprised.

However, it says a lot about my armchair athleticness, as well as how involved I got with the show, that I (and my mum) was screaming at the TV that 2003 should have been disqualified. Josie d’Arby was clearly out of her lane on her leg. But no, even though the commentator saw that something was off, Middlemiss got in with her interview and the trophy was presented before any replay could be shown. It is doubly disappointing given how quick they were to disqualify Shane in the speed skating for an equivalent transgression. But still, I salute you Channel 4, for coming up with a celebrity show that I just had to watch.

As a final point, I’m coming up to Oxford tomorrow, so will endeavour to bump into as many tourists as possible as well.

I have just finished watching A Beautiful Mind, the story of John Nash, the eminent Nobel prize-winning mathematician whose life was blighted by paranoid schizophrenia. The film was a masterpiece, sympathetically portraying both Nash's own struggle and realisation of what he was experiencing, and the perspectives of those around him. It offers, on a deeper level, a harrowing example of how easily one's reality can become distorted. Nash himself doesn't believe the film to be an accurate representation of his life, but since when did major motion pictures deal in the naked truth? I recommend the film to anyone.

I'd also encourage people to go to Google, type in "John Nash" and discover more about him. Those of us who did Mathematics and Further Mathematics at school, and then went to Princeton - Nash's current and former institute of residence - may like to indulge themselves in a little light reading.

Well, it seems as though we're only a week behind the times. The fantastic new game gripping the blogosphere is what I shall call the "Page 23 Game". Rules are as follows, via Crescat.

1. Grab nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.

Heh. My entry:

"The Walking Purchase swindle of Delaware Indians, and the Quaker involvement in Indian affairs are skimmed over, and Franklin's equivocal relationships with Quakers are not to be seen."

With thanks to Benajmin Franklin: Politician by Francis Jennings (New York, 1996). Isn't thesis research fun? I'd love to be able to say I was dissertating, so that I could hang out with all the cool guys at Oxblog and elsewhere, but somehow a 12,000 word undergrad thesis isn't quite the same. I am open to suggestions though. Thesising? Thesisination? Thesisting?

UPDATE: After a boring evening (other than The Games) reading and now not typing, I do believe that thesisting can be used only in a negative sense, i.e. not wanting to do research. Such an act is one of thesistance.

I have abandoned any attempts of revision today – exams are close, yet somehow not close enough for me to be thinking ‘oh f***’ and spending hours on end staring at law texts. Thus, I thought it was only fair to discuss a phenomenon which has been present in my life for the last week – and indeed in OJ’s as well. ‘The Games’. A pun on the ‘Olympic Games’ one must assume. For those who have sadly not watched this Channel 4 production I shall briefly explain what it is about – prepare to be enthralled (?!)

Ten so-called ‘celebrities’ are competing against each other in a series of sporting events – The two teams of men and women have been training separately in order to compete in different sporting disciplines. For the women it has been curling, swimming (50m freestyle), hurdling, track cycling, floor gymnastics and tonight the finale ends with the hammer and 100m sprint. And for the men, we have had diving, weightlifting, speed skating, vault, wrestling and tonight sees them compete in the javelin and again, the 100m sprint. Quite a spread of activities. The participants have been training in the activities for a couple of months, rather amazingly by some of the top professionals in the particular sporting field – for example, last night’s curling episode for the women saw the Olympic Gold Medal team doing the brushing; Matt Roberts has provided fitness information and Colin Jackson was involved in hurdling training – amongst a host of other sporting stars. All money raised goes towards a charity of the winning celebrities choice - so far, so good. The program has the potential to be rather good fun…and for a good cause.

However, we then turn to ‘who’ these ‘celebrities’ actually are… First up, the men. Romeo; Mr Gay UK (he doesn’t appear to have a name); Mjr Charles Ingram (of Who Wants to be a [cheating] Millionaire fame); Pat Sharpe (Fun House) and Shane Lynch (from Boyzone, as was). And for the women we have Lady Isabella Hervey (complete with posh accent and small dog); Charlie Dimmock (with sports bra I am relieved to report); Jodie Marsh; Linda Lusardi (ex page 3 – so every man I have spoken to so far seems to have vivid memories years spent staring freely at her breasts) and finally, the person who seems to be the favourite amongst these men – Katy Hill. So, quite a collection – and what entertainment they have provided.

The thing is, I am not usually one who gets addicted to reality television – the only part of ‘Big Brother’ I ever saw was the 30mins on a Friday night between programs such as ‘Friends’ and ‘Graham Norton’ where the participants got kicked out – the only amusing bit in my opinion. However, ‘The Games’ is certainly compulsive, trashy viewing. I’m not sure why – maybe it’s the fact that we only ever see about 2mins of actual sport – the rest is satirical, and rather good, commentating from Jamie Theakston and Jayne Middlemiss; or is it the insight we are given into the bitching between the contestants – the squabbles Katy and Lady Isabella are highly amusing for sheer ridiculous value; it could be the fascination of Shane’s tattoos – or even the emotional reunion with the Boyzone members a few nights back; is it the arrogance and pomposity of Charles Ingram; Lady Isabella’s dog; the endearing characteristics of Pat; or the scene where Jodie attempted to chat up Mr Gay UK (duh!)…

Oh I don’t know, but whatever it is I urge you to totally lose your faith in humanity tonight, turn on to Channel 4, and you are assured of a good laugh.

So yes, I'm sorry, but in my late night TV trash watching phase, I managed to catch a repeat of Sky One's "The Posh & Becks Years". One of the commentators was Julie Burchill, one of Amy's most disliked people. Having heard her speak, my opinion of her has fallen further. Hard to take her advice on what David Beckham sounds like when she seems to have her own vocal cords contracted.

I take it all back.

I like Oxford really. It's positively humming with activity today. The sun is out, it's a glorious day, there's a cool breeze from time to time, the birds are singing and the place is swamped with tourists.

I spent the afternoon in the Fellows' Garden of Exeter College doing some work, which is about as picturesque a location in which to study as you could wish for. There was a steady flow of visitors through the entrance, along the path by the side of our library, and up to the balcony at the end of the garden from which one is afforded a glorious view of the Radcliffe Camera (a beautiful library building for those who haven't been to Oxford). There were a number of parties of foreign schoolchildren, chattering away in languages I can faintly understand and using the occasional English word to help me along ("hummadahummadahummada sexy! hummadahummada weekend hummada"). Then there were old couples, admiring the architecture and the foliage and admiring the hardworking students sat with piles of notes on the benches, only for one of the students to invariably yell "f**k!" and spoil the illusion. Finally, there were the ubiquitous Japanese tourists, in at least five of whose photos I now star, who never lingered and who were presumably on whistle-stop tours of Oxford with the intention of capturing as much of it on film as possible.

Cornmarket, the shopping focal point of Oxford, is thriving in the absence of the builders and rubble which had previously been peppered across its gaping thoroughfare ever since I arrived at the university. Now, with new pavement and swanky benches in place, it has blossomed with the summer into a glorious haven of culture and commerce. A man thrashed out a traditional melody on bagpipes as I walked past Boots, competing for attention with a medieval dance troupe who had gathered the gazes of some hundred passers-by in the centre of the parade.

It seems as though Oxford is a very seasonal place. I remember vividly my first two terms here, during which I swear it never once stopped raining. Each morning I would wake to a grey sky, puddles under foot and, above them, a separate sea of umbrellas, dark suits and stony faces matched only by the weathered gargoyles. However, the coming of the Trinity (summer) term saw the city burst into life, culminating with the Saturday of Summer Eights (a rowing competition), for which a good majority of the university decamped to the banks of the River Isis to drink Pimm's and watch the rowing. Well that's a lie, no one watched the rowing, but the atmosphere was fantastic.

The same is happening again. Though the first two terms of the 2003/04 academic year were relatively mild compared to their predecessors, once again I feel that Oxford is coming into its own as the days become warmer and longer. It is once again a pleasure and privilege to be here. Now all that those of us without exams can do is bide their time for six or seven weeks, then prepare the buckets of water to give those finalists a good dowsing.

Well, after a couple of weeks with nothing foolish to report, so it is my turn to be humbled by simple stupidity. As many of you know, this is a regular series occurring about once a month.

Three weeks ago, with both parents at work, I was tempted out of my room by the sound of running water, only to find the washing machine flooding all over the kitchen. A quick fumble for the stopcock, a basin, and a phone call to my father solved the leak, but I was left with a very wet floor to clean. Now, I mopped up a large amount of the water with kitchen roll, and decided to vacuum the rest up. This was not unusual to me – I had previously used vacuum cleaners to clean up water.

Except last time I used a Wet n Dry Vax. This time I used the Barbie Pink Dyson. I have no qualms with the Dyson; it did a remarkably efficient job of taking up the rest of the water. And with my job seemingly complete, I put it away and felt satisfied with my performance as a quasi plumber.

Fast forward to today. My mum wants to clean the house. With the Dyson. Except she can’t – because there is a large amount of dirt that is stuck to the cylinder. She comes and asks me if I had cleaned the flood with it. I nod, beginning to realise the horror ahead. I come out to the kitchen to be faced with a quite distinctive smell, one that reminded me, truth be told, of the very worst states my rugby kit used to fall into. So I was given a pair of tongs and had to dig out the dirt, a remarkably unpleasant job, but I suppose no worse than I deserved. And then, in a wonderful piece of metaphysics, I had to clean the vacuum using another vacuum.

As punishment for forcing my mum to use the backup vacuum to clean the house with, I was told to clean the bathroom. It is now spotless. This, as anyone who has knowledge of my water buffalo tendencies, is a remarkable achievement. And the house is clean. And the Dyson is now in bits drying.

The moral of the story? Not sure there is one, other than don’t buy a washing machine that requires you to switch of the water supply when not in use. And the sooner Dyson makes a water vacuum, the better.

I have a habit of picking up on news and trends a long, long time after everyone else. This, I like to think, is because I'm involved in so many different areas of interest that it's really difficult to keep on top of all of them at once. In reality it's because I'm backward and useless. I digress.

Firstly, the headmaster of my old school is leaving for some other place. This OJ and Amy already know. No one thought to tell me. Anyway, OJ will no doubt swoop from on high with the inside gossip he got, no doubt from the family of some vacuous, hob-nobbing bimbo who used to go there, on why the head is leaving. I reckon he's probably a) taken the school as far as he can and b) been offered much more money to go elsewhere. Options c) he's having an affair with nine members of staff simultaneously and d) the place is falling apart ever since OJ and I left, must also be considered.

Secondly, Jennifer Government: Nation States is pretty good fun. Again, I bet you everyone but everyone (particularly OJ) will have found this first. You get to create your own nation with the minimum of fuss and effort, then gradually and painlessly (i.e. you don't have to spend all day on it) shape it how you want it to be - authoritarian, left-leaning, police state, democracy, etc etc.

The site was set up by Max Barry, both as an interesting experiment and as a publicity tool for his book, Jennifer Government. He has a little weblog where he documents how he's doing as an author, which I thought was quite funny. For example, entry for 3rd July 2003:

At last! Jennifer Government hits bookstores across the UK today, in “ridiculously large paperback” format. It’s been a while coming, mainly for legal reasons associated with using real company names in a work of not-so-flattering fiction. Abacus, the British publisher, got several different lawyers to carefully study the book and devise a strategy for minimizing any potential legal exposure; they came up with: “Wait six months and see if anyone sues the American publisher.” (Nobody has.)

Bloody hell!

I got back to Oxford last night, and I'm already utterly bemused with the place. Firstly, having not gone to bed properly until 3am due to a combination of factors (none of which involved going out or drinking, I'll have you know), I was woken at 8am by the cleaner.

Now, you must understand that this woman is my sworn enemy. I realise that in Gerbil Or Quits (below) I preached about racial tolerance, but this African lady frankly deserves deportation and summary execution for her crimes against my slumber. And so it was, as has happened all year long, that this morning she came rattling round with her hoover again.

I suppose I should be grateful that she cleans the place, and indeed I am, although even I don't make enough mess for the twelve square inches of carpet in my room to require vacuuming on a regular basis. It is not what she does that grates with me, it's how she does it. She slams the bloody nozzle of this hoover into any solid surface she can find - walls, doors, ceilings, ming vases, nothing is sacred for her. So, at 8am, I am woken by this ear-piercing, constant slamming.

At this point you're thinking, well, it's a minor inconvenience but come on Ollie old boy, there's worse things at sea. Well I seriously doubt that, because not only does she make with the slamming every morning, she also sings. No, actually, let's be more specific. She does a kind of yodelly hum, sliding up and down octaves, singing nothing at all recognisable. If it's some form of ululation from deepest, darkest Africa, fine, but why inflict it on me at 8am? If she's that desperate for the world to hear this, she can bloody well put it on a CD and I'll listen to it when I need something to assist my next suicide attempt. My mornings are punctuated by SLAM eeeee SLAM eeeeyaaaaalooooo SLAM SLAM lalalalaleeeeee SLAM oooooeeeeeeyaaaa.

By 8:30am, she's gone. I drift back off to sleep, even though I promised myself I'd be up early today, because I now feel as though the world has robbed me of an hour or two's sleep and I'll be damned if I'm not getting it back. However, is she done tormenting me? No, of course she isn't. At 9:30am, there's a knock on the door. I frantically scramble out of bed, throw some clothes on whilst yelling "Hang on a sec!", and open the door. There she is. "Hellooo," she beams in her African lilt. "I was jus' checking if you were back yet."

The day can only get better from there, can't it. Ha ha. Oh the naivety. First stop the Sackler Library, which is a big place with so much security you'd think they had all UN delegates, living and dead, stored in the basement. I hand back two books that I forgot to return at the end of last term. They're a good month late. The lady behind the desk charges me a £4 fine. That's fair enough, I deserved it, but at least the books are back where they belong and we can all get on with our lives.

But no, we can't, can we? Because when I get back to my college and check my mail for the first time, there's two letters in there from the library. One, from mid-March, tells me to hot-foot it back with the books or else they'll invoice me for them. The other, dated a week and a bit later, tells me actually don't bother, we're going to invoice you anyway. Joy. So whilst the lady in the library saw absolutely no problem with me returning the books, aside from a small fine - and let's not forget she had a screen in front of her with my entire borrowing record there - it now appears as though I'm being charged for both books and they've suspended my borrowing privileges! Well! Frankly it isn't a privilege any more anyway, you bastards, is it?

By now quietly wishing I was back home again, I wandered into town and bought some lunch. Returning with it to college, I was astonished to find that none of the rooms are bloody open! The JCR (Junior Common Room, for us undergraduates) and the GCR (General Common Room, for those undergraduates who like fags... cigarettes that is) were both shut. The computer room was open but I daren't eat my lunch in there because with the day I was having, I'd get chucked out and have my technological "privileges" suspended. So I went home. Bah.

Actually, not about Whitsun or Weddings at all, but I am simply using the title of Phillip Larkin’s epic poem. Larkin – a poet who brought life to my A level English and fuelled my love for sarcasm and satire.

Anyway, why I revert to The Whitsun Weddings is that it is an exquisite poem about Larkin’s journey on a train. I have travelled over 250miles by train today – from the edge of Dartmoor to central Kent. Now, this post is not a rant about the state of the English railway network (for a change) but it is a recognition about how delightful it is to travel by train and how many more people really should do so. I advocate this not for the normal reasons – the car sharing and environmental benefits, though they are certainly true, but for the insight into English life that one gets from travelling via train.

As Larkin notes, ‘They watched the landscape, sitting side by side, - An Odeon went past, a cooling tower, And someone running up to bowl’. From peering out of the train carriage so much is visible – fields, farm animals, rolling hills, flowers, back gardens – both well-kept and those which are rather derelict, the backs of warehouses, giant car parks, storage depots for HGV vehicles, motorways, traffic jams, colourful roundabouts, parks with people sitting or walking dogs, joggers, elderly ladies on park benches reading books, groups of school children waiting for a bus, people on moile phones, cement plants, paper mills, royal mail distribution centers, allotments, schools with rugby sports fields backing onto the railway line - advertising their website on a board visible to all on the train, the sea, ox-bow lakes, chalk cliffs, stately homes - and I could go on and on. Not only outiside of the train, but inside the carriage a myriad of people can be found – some to avoid, the talkative, the drunks or those stuck to their mobiles. But then there are others with interesting tales to tell, or with delightful (or screaming kids), the young and old, all sharing one journey together.

What a section of English life which could usually just pass us by. Just stopping for a few moments really makes us appreciate our so-called ‘green and pleasant land’ – so, whilst it isn’t perfect, at least some English charm can still be found.

What an odd world it is in which we live.

Having watched the final few minutes of Manchester United v Leicester City on Sky's Premiership Plus channel, I decided to flick through the other channels and see if there was anything good on. I got to channel 431, iSport TV, and something caught my attention.

Gerbil Roulette.

I'm not kidding, this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen. They take a big, green, circular table with eight boxes - four red, four black, numbered 1 to 8 - arranged around it. In the centre is a green box concealing yes, you guessed it, a gerbil. They spin the table round a number of times (whilst the gerbil in the centre remains stationary) and then lift the box off the gerbil. Whichever box the gerbil stumbles into first is the winning box. You and your friends can therefore sit at home and place bets with each other over which box will be the winner. Will it be 3 red, or 6 black? All the thrills of the casino, but with cute rodents. I was quite disappointed that there was no option to press the red button and go interactive, where viewers could properly bet on the outcome. Maybe in the future, eh.

Luckily, for every Gerbil Roulette there's a Football & Freedom. On Monday night, BBC Four reran the latter, a fascinating study of the development of two young South Africans: one, Seth, white and the other, Thuso, black. They both want to become professional footballers. Seth comes from a well-to-do South African family and goes to the best school in the country, but has to deal with some fairly severe attitude problems that presumably come with the territory, as well as a father who develops a drink problem after he is the victim of a car hijacking. Thuso has a loving mother who has scrimped and saved to get him a good education, but he sleeps on the floor of his grandmother's kitchen with his mum and two other siblings. Even this arrangement is under threat from the government, which has sold their ramshackle house to a private buyer despite it having been occupied by Thuso's family for more than half a century. The case is due to go to court when filming starts in 1998. By the time the documentary ends, in 2003, the issue has still not been resolved.

The footballing aspect of this film alone was intriguing, viewing the process by which African youngsters from two very different backgrounds go about trying to get selected by talent scouts. Seth ends up at Ajax but can't cope socially and comes back home. Thuso never gets a big break but does get into a South African top flight side.

Yet the documentary was far more powerful for the many and varied aspects of life in modern South Africa it offered. Both Seth's father and Thuso's mother are the victims of violent car hijackings by gangs of black men with guns during filming - Thuso's father had previously been killed in an identical incident. Seth's father's hijacking occurs on his own driveway, whilst waiting for the electric gate protecting the property to open. The impression is that these events are commonplace.

The extended and unresolved debate over Thuso's family's place of residence appears symptomatic of a government which has largely lost control of issues such as housing, and there are numerous references to corruption. More strikingly and surprisingly (though perhaps it shouldn't have been), there is a clear and thinly veiled tension between the black and white inhabitants. Seth's father complains to the camera that there are ten black footballers accepted into training programmes for every white youngster - "that isn't right", he laments. In a scene which particularly amazed me, Seth and another white boy sit isolated and forlorn in the corner of a changing room whilst their nine black team-mates sing songs about beating and killing their white oppressors. On a minibus, Seth complains that the black boys sing these songs on purpose, and only sing louder when asked by white colleagues to stop. Yet for all this flagrant black antagonisation of whites, there is an overwhelming sense of white arrogance and self-aggrandisation from which it is hard to escape.

I strongly urge, if BBC Four repeat this documentary once again, that everyone watch it. It is enlightening, depressing, yet inspiring. Thuso has incredible mental and emotional strength at the age of 13 or 14. Having seen his father murdered and his family threatened with eviction, he is then told by his distraught mother - on camera - that he has been turned down by a prominent soccer school. His reaction is simply to shrug, smile, and dismiss the news with a statement of his intent to get in next year. In private, we see him weeping, and he is on the point of breaking down when he sees his mother's car being hijacked in the same fashion as that which led to his father's death. At this age, he has to bear far more on his shoulders than I expect I will ever have to cope with. If nothing else, this is the kind of television which puts our own problems into perspective.

Well, clearly Ollie has disappeared now he is worth as much as Bill Gates, and OJ is...well...he's just being typical OJ.

I am in a totally relaxed, ditsy, bouncy, frolicing blonde mood today - so, for those of you who know that an un-tense Amy is a rare thing, this may be a frightening prospect. I think it is the thought of being taken on a family trip out to Cornwall (happening to me + Wooding clan today) - a) I'm totally relaxed b) never went on family days out as a kid (heart strings pulling) and c) I've never been to Cornwall - great excitement here! In addition, I have completed the 'spot the difference' on the side of the mini-egg box and also joined the dots on the creme-egg. How amazing - something designed for people from about 2-5yrs can still engross an Oxford undergrad. Its a sorry state of affairs really, but heh - it makes me smile. So, here's to really silly cereal box and chocolate box games and feeling like a spring lamb!

So, I'm substantially richer than the last time I saw you all. Well technically I'm not, it's just that now I know I'm substantially richer.

It turns out that my dear father has been ploughing funds into two savings accounts in my name for a very long time. One, to which I have access from March 2006, is worth just under £3,000 at the moment and growing by circa £300 per year. The other, which I could technically get at now but am under instructions to leave until I'm 21, is worth over £10,000.

This is welcome and surprising news. I knew I did have a savings account somewhere, but I only thought there was one of them, and I thought I'd blown most of it on a car which is no longer in my possession (my mum drives it given my distinct lack of a driving licence).

This knowledge was only revealed to me because my dad, for the first time ever, failed to get to the annual statement (addressed to me) before I did, and so I opened what I thought was junk mail only to be confronted with the immediate and unconditional end of my student debt.

Not that I'm entirely sure I will use it to wipe out my debt. It may be wiser to just pay off the debt the standard way (as a percentage of my wage once it reaches a certain threshold) and use the savings as a deposit on a house. Taking a lead from Sky One's "Double Or Nothing", I might cash it all in for one chip and put it on "black" at a roulette table somewhere (at my school 6th form ball I was doing a roaring trade for about half an hour, then promptly did a Nick Leeson on mine and OJ's parents' funds). Any other suggestions?

I am not sure how one follows Ollie’s profound post today, but I do want to discuss something that came to my attention earlier – the act of relaxation.

In our troubled world, people often say ‘oh, I wish I wasn’t so stressed – I wish I had more time to relax’, or words to those effect. However, what do people mean by relax and if they had this so-called ‘relaxation time’, what would they find to do with it. I have (as a few of you know), been very busy since going down at the end of Hilary, and have come to Devon to relax and do nothing. For me this includes sleep; spending time with OJ; going out for a few drives or walks; good company; the odd DVD fest, and sewing (to be explained later).

I am doing things, yet they require no ‘effort’ as such – no ‘brain power’. My ability (if I ever have any on a good day) to write a legal essay tonite would be non-existent. That side of my brain appears to have stopped functioning, and the endless ‘things to do list’ has ceased to drum on my grey cells. And, all for the better. But that is just me. I like nothing more to be in a family environment, with some embroidery and be able to sit for a couple of hours in the sunshine, cats around me, boyfriend at my service, the break for afternoon tea etc. Picturesque, very Jane Austen almost, – but it works for my relaxation.

But for some people, relaxation may not be ‘stopping’, it could be becoming more active. I must admit, I do find running relaxing on a daily basis, but my mind is still active. Many people, on a regular basis, go surfing, sailing, painful tour-de-France esque cycling, gardening, DIY etc to find this so called ‘relaxation’. So what is it? I don’t really offer any thesis style answer here, I just aim to provoke the question inside you all.

The reason being, is that I think it is important that we find a way in our lives to relax. Maybe it can be found having a hug, maybe it can be reading a book for an hour or so, or maybe having a night out down the pub with some mates – but whatever it is I think we need to find it for our own sanity. Coupled with this, it is probably equally important to know when we need to relax – the sudden outburst of acne and mouth ulscars illustrates we have travelled a step too far along the ‘stress’ path. I know that the first sign of a migrane headache indicates a need to shut down and stop – and if I do so, it normally leads to increased productivity when I eventually return to ‘work’. This relaxation is the ability to switch off from the hum-drum that dictates my daily life.

So, whatever relaxation is for you, I think that this Easter we should acknowledge that we are in a privileged position, not to take our lives for granted, and to embrace this feeling of relaxation. Leading on from what Ollie said, maybe if we can find some form of inner-contentedness or satisfaction, if we can enjoy that precious time with loved ones, then maybe we shall become better people all round. Hopefully if we can relax and wind down, then we shall be ready to hit the coming months – whether they bring A-levels or a Trinity term, with vengeance . And of course, we shall still have the fond memories of ‘relaxation’ close to our hearts, even when burning that midnight oil.

So, go forth and relax. Enjoy this Easter, but also spare a thought for those who, for reasons beyond their control, are unable to take time out to ‘relax’.

Those of you with a musical inclination will be aware that the Scissor Sisters are fairly prominent at the moment and I have to confess I love their debut album, which is now safely tucked away in my collection.

I don’t suppose we can go through today without commenting on the article written by Simon Garfield for the Observer. (I expect OJ or Ollie to post the link in here for me :p) It is entitled ‘New kids on the blog’ and discusses the apparent phenomenon of blogging.

I suppose Dayorama is slightly different in its approach compared to the blogs that are commented upon in the article. It may be termed a blog, but it is reporting on random aspects of society, rather than providing the reader with a detailed account of our emotions, feelings and latest loves or betrayals. These aspects may feature, but Dayorama does not fit into the category of something, ‘written by a teenage girl who uses it twice a month to update her friends and classmates on happenings in her life'. Granted, Williams is still a teenager, and his level of masculinity is questionable, but even for me, to call him a teenage girl would be rather harsh.

I must admit, and I may just be being very typically English and reserved (Anthony would be proud of me), but I would find it strange giving a detailed account of my life for all to see. Passing comment on events or news stories is acceptable. Voicing my opinion on matters is as equally valid. However, telling you all about my ups and downs, stresses, needs to throw hole punchers across rooms and swear at shop assistants, would be taking it a little far. I also doubt that OJ would want to find every little fact about our relationship, down to wearing pink boxer shorts, found on the internet. I suppose it must work for some people and if it does, then great. If it gives people a voice, a friend, maybe a façade to hide behind, then that can only be a good thing. If they report on conditions around the world, for example during the conflicts in Iraq, then such blogs are surely playing an important part in society. For me however, I shall stick to waffling and rest assured, my private thoughts will remain safely tucked into the diary beside my bed (or maybe those late nite MSNs). Despite this, I hope there is still some remote chance that we may find ourselves on the ‘best blogs’ list next year – and if not, then we should be!

This season's Student Support form now comes in a number of different colours, going through the rainbow as you go through the form. First time I've ever had a headache from the form because of its colour, rather than its contents.

Edit: It's being sent to the "Lifelong Learning Directorate". I thought all directorates fell alongside the Berlin Wall?

According to this report, the US is going to start fingerprinting all British citizens entering the country. Part of me is shocked that this will happen; the other part of me is surprised that it has taken this long already. Looking at the other countries on the list - pretty much the EU and the English speaking Commonwealth - it seems as though the chances of finding a substantiated threat versus the number of people to be checked are very low, but probably worth it. This reminds me of a letter in today's Telegraph from an Irish man who was subject to body checks every time he travelled from Ireland to Britain, given that he was white, male and Irish: the de facto description of IRA terrorists at the time. He then calls on Muslims to accept that security searches will be normal for them given that they match the typical profile. Sad but true. Although this new policy by the State and Dept. of Homeland Security (whatever happened to the INS?) will be a hassle, I daresay it is nothing compared to what other profiles have to go through. Hell, it's enough that we don't need visas...going to Princeton with a valid Academic Visa still made me enjoy ten minutes of document producing and serious questioning.

Also worth noting is the fact that the US is effectively forcing Britons, in this case, to have biometric information in their passports. I wonder if I could just produce my ID card instead?

Michael Grade is the new BBC Chairman (was there really anyone else?). Daily Mail journalists go mad; expect tomorrow's edition to be 'interesting' or maybe 'powerful'.

I'm sure this will start some kind of debate. Not that we are competitive or anything.

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If Google can have one, so can we.

You may recall that last year, I revealed how some people had arrived here in search of some odd things. Well, that pattern has continued. For whilst we may have been away for half a year, Dayorama has not been left entirely unattended and we've been averaging a steady number of hits every day.

There are some acceptable reasons for having wound up here. "Princeton pictures" features heavily in the queries of people who arrived here, which is sensible enough given OJ's post of the same name. Similarly, one person got here searching for 'amusing place names in Britain'. The subject matter we discuss is clearly of some relevance, with visitors coming in search of information on such matters as:
Usherettes
Alan Davies in QI
George Shrink
Sexy Dismissed
Exeter St Thomas train station
"Explain the ending of Meet Joe Black"
Shih-tzu hairstyles
Nash Bridges
Eating Clubs
etc

All well and good. As are searches for "Dayorama" and "discussion of the day", which are both quite apt.

However, beyond these fairly reasonable requests lurk some quite sinister and disturbing reasons for being here. The person who came here having searched for "stacking pigs" is risking an RSPCA investigation. The one who was looking for "frilly knickers" may have more luck now that Amy is here, and may be the same person who was looking for a "channel five weather babe". We continue, to my utter bemusement, to be a resource for people searching for childminders.

This pales in comparison to one person who I would dearly love to find. This individual, at some stage in March, found themselves on our site having searched for "defuse bombs liquid nitrogen". Now, heaven knows what kind of situation they were in when they made that search. If we were their last hope as they stood over a ginormous liquid nitrogen bomb, wondering whether to cut the blue wire or the red wire, then I fear we have just lost a reader.

Returning to my original mention of Google, we also appear to be turning into a gathering place for those who despise the search engine the earth has embraced as its very own. At least five or six people turn up each month having search for "Google is rubbish" (probably using Google. Oh, the irony). In my original zeitgeist in September, I asked people to leave comments, and leave comments they did. I shall ignore the one from "Jordan" putting my writing style to the sword, and focus on Ashleigh and Mr Boyce, who both used their comments to complain about Google. Mr Boyce then went off to do something else highly unorthodox, but the less said about that, the better.

Finally, I was shocked and offended to find that someone suspects me of a drug addiction of unprecedented scale. There can be no other explanation for someone arriving here having searched for the "world's highest Ollie"...

I think it would be wrong to say that I continually criticise the actions of others. However, there are certain things that really grate on me. For example, those damn round robin emails or letters that people feel the need to send – I await with glee for Simon Hoggart’s book (any loyal Guardian reader will understand this reference). Maybe it is something very English, but people seem to believe that others are interested in their private affairs. Why should I care that our ex-neighbour’s dog has just had a leg amputated or that cousin Lucie has a Saturday job working in Woolworths.

This brings me nicely onto that last post by Mr Williams. An MSN conversation. No explanation, just a cut-and-past job. Laziness. Why am I interested in following the conversation anyway, especially as I am unable to fully appreciating the context – though I would place good money on the sexual connotations behind it. Clearly a ‘you had to be there’ joke. I may chuckle at the witty remarks, but the humour is short-lived. I reach the end, and I have learnt nothing – well, apart from the fact that my dear friend has rather abstract MSN dialogues. I already knew that though.

The thing is, it isn’t just Ollie who commits such a self-ingratiating sin. The Guardian (yes OJ, you can cheer as I am criticising it for once), also has a column entitled ‘Chat Room’ in their Friday edition of the G2. I am mystified every time I read it. Admittedly, there are some odd lines which are amusing, but you can tell that people are using their imaginations a great deal, answers are contrived and the informative content is minimal. Today, it begins by discussing the potential political point-scoring implications of immigration – potentially interesting. However, the conversation degrades to members chatting each other up and one girl announcing that she is wearing a wedding dress at the time of typing. Maybe this digression is meant to be amusing. Maybe it would be if I was drunk or tired, but it fails to have any affect on me as I read it at the breakfast table.

Thus, Ollie I detest your use of this website to post your private conversations, the journalist in the Guardian clearly has far too much over-paid time to research chat logs, and my opinion of round robin emails is well known. Self ingratiation at its worst. And if you can’t tell what time of the month it is for me, then you are a man who needs to learn more about female hormones. Happy Friday everyone!

[00:17:31] No Anacondae: oh look at it
[00:17:47] [Ollie]: at what
[00:18:20] No Anacondae: at that
[00:18:22] No Anacondae: shameful
[00:18:24] No Anacondae: what a sin
[00:19:20] [Ollie]: well i don't really think it's shameful
[00:19:27] [Ollie]: it's a question of choice and individual liberty
[00:19:30] [Ollie]: if it wants to do that, it can
[00:19:47] No Anacondae: no it can't
[00:19:52] No Anacondae: to flaunt itself in that way
[00:19:55] No Anacondae: is purely a travesty
[00:19:59] [Ollie]: well not in my back yard it won't, admittedly, cos
that's just rude
[00:20:05] [Ollie]: but in the privacy of its own nest
[00:20:30] No Anacondae: it doesn't live in a nest.......it's not a
goddam animal
[00:20:37] No Anacondae: don't treat it like some kind of zoo animal
[00:20:47] No Anacondae: it has rights........just, not the right to
do that in public
[00:21:12] [Ollie]: so all not goddam animals are equal, just some are
more equal than others?
[00:21:37] [Ollie]: who are you to say what it can and can't do, and
where?
[00:21:37] No Anacondae: im just using an adjective to add emphasis
[00:21:41] No Anacondae: i can
[00:21:42] No Anacondae: look
[00:21:43] No Anacondae: okay
[00:21:50] No Anacondae: humans have the same rights as any other non
organism
[00:22:01] [Ollie]: so why are you telling it what it can and can't do
[00:22:06] [Ollie]: like some kind of supreme overlord
[00:22:17] [Ollie]: couldn't it be telling YOU what you can and can't
do?
[00:22:33] No Anacondae: no............look, okay
[00:22:42] No Anacondae: there's a place and a time for that kind of
thing, and in public is not it
[00:22:49] [Ollie]: so where then
[00:22:54] [Ollie]: cos let's face it, it's got to happen
[00:22:57] [Ollie]: maybe it was desperate!
[00:23:06] No Anacondae: hm
[00:23:08] No Anacondae: true
[00:23:15] No Anacondae: maybe it needed the quick relief
[00:23:24] No Anacondae: but to leave a mess like that, when there are
children present too
[00:24:03] [Ollie]: admittedly it should have seen to that before it
left, but i