Today, I realised the meaning of a 'Bank Holiday'. I went to the bank to pay in some money and it was shut. D'oh. How blonde can you get? The ditsy moments continued when I flicked my pen lid down my bra in the Rad Cam - rather unfortunate had OJ not been sitting opposite me and then in Starbucks when I tried to drink out of a sports-capped bottle of water without taking the lid off. 'Dear oh dear' I hear you cry.

It's an interesting point though, Bank Holidays. At one stage they were like another 'Sunday' - no shops open, no one at work. However in today's society we 'expect' shops to be open, thus people have to work; we want to visit tourist attractions and thus, they have to be open - the list continues. What amazes me is how being at Oxford makes a Bank Holiday irrelevant - tutors hardly delay an essay deadline just so that we can have our holiday. The only sign for me (other than the bank being shut of course :p) was that the library shut three hours early. That aside, I was oblivious. I expect we shall all appreciate Bank Holidays when we are at work – either for that triple time, day in lieu or just for a long weekend – and then we can join those who campaign for the introduction of more!

Sorry to go into a little kind of posting overdrive. However, might I ask who it could have been that searched this website recently, at length, for 'Anthony', according to the site stats?...

Strange things keep happening on buses.

Today I was on my way home on the number four bus to Rose Hill, as usual. At Henley Street an unusually dressed man boarded it. He carried himself quite elegantly, and sported an ankle-length trenchcoat, superbly set off by a rather large hat. Imagine Sherlock Holmes, for he was quite a tall gentleman, and you won't go far wrong. He was carrying a neatly bow-tied Tesco carrier bag containing what looked like a few cans of something or other. This is a nutter in the making. You can tell a mile off, from the above description, that the chances are that this man will be entirely out of his tree. We were not to be disappointed.

He sat down, and we waited. That's what we do. Tick followed tock followed... well anyway, after about ten seconds of being sat perfectly still, he rummaged in his coat a little. Then he exclaimed, to no-one and everyone:
"Oh my God! Thank you! I thought I'd lost my silver cigarette-case but I've found it!"

"Thank you, thank you," he repeated to himself, ogling the said cigarette case. "What was it George V said?" He asked himself, loudly, in a relatively upper-class accent. "What was it, what was it... ah yes, BUGGER BOGNOR! Well quite, ha ha, bugger bognor. My word, there it is! Right there. And I thought I'd lost it."

So do the rest of us.

It seems as though every other post I write concerns some aspect of homosexuality these days.

Particularly lesbians, for another pair intruded upon my fragile existence earlier today. Not, I am afraid, in quite such bizarre and spectacular style as the Piccadilly Two, but enough to make me think a little. I was on the bus going home, and this relatively loud, apparently quite drunk, middle-aged guy was sat on the other side of the bus, talking to two girls aged around 15 or so. "I've not got a problem with it," he kept repeating, "I've known you ages, girl A (well, he said her name, but I didn't catch it, so we'll go with 'girl A'), and I would never have guessed, but it's fine by me. Why should anyone care, eh? Why should anyone care. As long as you're happy. If my Bella [which I initially took to mean a labrador because it sounds like a dog's name] was gay, I'd be happy with it. I mean, you think grandkids and all, but if she's happy, I'm happy."

By now, I'd realised that girl A had her legs up on the knees of girl B, who was stroking girl A's jeans lovingly and generally being all cuddly and sweet. This may sound remarkably hypocritical, but I honestly didn't think it was possible for girls to be lesbian by the age of 15. I thought it only happened if they were Russian and were pretending anyway. For some reason it always seemed like lesbianism would only strike girls much later than it struck guys (well, gayness struck guys... lesbianism attracts the attention of straight ones very quickly). You live and learn. I was also vaguely amused at the drunk bloke's assertion that he'd be fine with his own daughter being queer. Judging by the amount he'd imbibed, I'd be surprised if she survived the coming-out experience.

Also, having in the past few moments had my attention drawn to a website entitled OxfordGossip, can I say what a sad indictment of the university's students this is. I was shown a couple of links relating to a certain Lincoln College reluctant (yet talented) gay icon. I don't know if the guy in question reads this verbal diarrhoea (OxfordGossip's, not mine), but if similar posts were aimed at me, I'd actually be quite shocked and upset. It just seems so, so sad that after having a look at all the recent posts on there, all that these students can do is make puerile, testosterone-fuelled insults regarding each other.

*Hour-long break in writing this to watch the end of Friends...*

As I was saying, the tiny minority of Oxford students represented by this message board should be shot, because they are exactly the arsey, ignorant shits that the university could do without.

In other news, I'm in the Cherwell, which is pleasant, and for a good reason. I'm named as the only resistance Exeter B put up against Hertford in the 5-a-side Football Cuppers last week, which isn't strictly true but I'm not going to argue.

I bought a book today entitled The Real Middle-Earth, which, according to the blurb, talks in detail about exactly the kind of magical, mythical culture drawn upon by Tolkien for his books, and which was a feature of the Dark Ages (i.e. the period I've spent the last however many terms studying. 27 tutorials with Dr Maddicott - 19 one-on-one - and counting...). The author, it appears, is a professor of Psychology who offers a course at Brighton in 'Shamanic Consciousness'. I suspect that I may, for the first time, be reading a book about the Anglo-Saxons where I have more knowledge of the period than the author. However, he's combining a lot of disciplines to research this particular aspect of Anglo-Saxon culture, and it does look rather good.

I know I haven't posted for ages and for that I apologise - la-di-da.

Can I just ask why my wonderful boyfriend likes wearing brightly coloured t-shirts? Is it a male thing? A confidence thing? Now, ok, I know I am known as being the 'woman in black' but I do branch out into the odd pink top, the blue and the green. NOT orange and bright yellow though!! If the orange Princeton regalia wasn't enough, we now have a bright yellow tent with 'American Buffalo' written across the chest (breast?). This is what happens when he goes shopping on his own.

He's still wonderful though, even if I need to go and purchase some sunglasses.

**Edit** Before Williams gets here first: The fact that I have an orange Princeton thong is not the point. I did not purchase it. It does not make me 'as bad as OJ'.

***Edit*** The yellow t-shirt attracts flies.

It's been a while since I posted, but today's events are enough to rouse anyone into the posting spirit.

In a cricket match which my Dayorama counterpart OJ was, sadly, forced to miss due to something called 'work', or something like that - no, I don't know either - my Exeter College 1st XI soundly stuffed his Lincoln equivalents out of sight.

The day began promisingly for Exeter, continued promisingly for Exeter, and delivered on said promises by the close of play. Lincoln were left stricken by the loss of a number of early wickets to the pace of Tom Pugh, with captain Fergal McLachlan squeezing unthinkable quantities of swing from a wicket which, frankly, was a disgrace. In places it evoked images of the San Andreas fault, in others it was barely distinguishable from the rest of the pitch. A true bowlers' wicket, and Lincoln were duly skittled out for a meagre 59. On my first team debut as wicketkeeper I had a quiet afternoon generally, despite the uneven bounce causing problems for batsman and keeper alike, claiming only the wicket of 9th man Scheber-Ball (or however you spell that), caught behind.

Exeter, fully aware of the problems the wicket was throwing up, reacted wisely, electing to field a teawatchman in Alex Newberry, who batted first and was duly despatched by Lincoln's great white hope, "Eppo" or some such, for very few runs indeed. The wickets continued to fall as the Exeter batsmen struggled to get to grips with the bearded gentleman's carefully flighted deliveries, but all good things must come to an end, and following the completion of his eighth over, the regulations required that he be rested. Cue the Exeter onslaught, and a mere three overs later, Messrs Beard and Madden returned to the pavilion with Exeter, victorious, on 60 for 5.

Lincoln, reflecting on their shambolic succession of squandered opportunities and preponderous batting, will come to the conclusion that their best performer, by far, was the barman, whose tea was solid if unspectacular. Well, clearly the tea itself was liquid, but we shall not dwell. Exeter, meanwhile, go into their Cuppers clash with Christ Church eager to extend a three-match winning streak.

When one reflects upon the world we live in today, considering the fact that every minute two people are killed in global conflicts (BBC today) it is easy to lose faith in humanity. Maybe it makes one philosophical, maybe depressed, maybe theological. Whatever your emotions, I am that you would agree with me in saying that the people involved in such conflicts certainly deserve our thoughts and prayers tonight.

However, if you do feel gloomy about the world, content yourself that our Prime Minister got hit by a flying purple condom today. Hahahahaha. Wonders will never cease. Sweet Dreams (purple ones at that).

Today, Ollie learnt that relationships which are constructed almost solely around a premise regarding future close contact on a regular basis are doomed to failure.

Ollie also learnt that loving voicemails left on his phone's answering service immediately prior to a conversation in which Ollie terminates a relationship, which are then picked up by his phone AFTER that phone call ends, are particularly heartbreaking.

Well, wasn't Eurovision the usual trash that it always is last night? Wogan was on good form though and whilst it may be crap, its hilarious crap. Maybe I was a little harsh in phoning Ollie and suggesting Idiotchild went on. They would probably get us ‘nil’ points; only blonde, out of tune and lycra- clad women seem to win – going on last night’s performance anyway. I know Ollie is quite feminine and was blonde once, but I don’t want to see him in lycra. And anyway, Idiotchild are far too good - hence nil points; if they sounded like cats wailing, they’d have a good chance of winning. Will OJ agree with me here.

Anyway, what has just made me chuckle was the headline on BBC Online of “Faithful hound escapes hammer in Georgia”. I know there were bulls in the ChCh hammer field this week, but that’s no reason for OJ to fly to the States and experience throwing in a field of dogs. He could go to London and have a whole island if he wanted to do that.

Needless to say, the headline conjured up an amusing image. A bit disappointing when I read the article and found out that it was actually the auction-hammer they were referring to, connected with the selling of rare pedigree dogs.

Talking of auctions, Lincoln are selling a really awful 'Turl St Arts Festival 2003' creation on ebay at the moment. Its currently going for about £5.50. The square cow is due to OJ. Just pop Lincoln College into the ebay search facility. Its worth it if you want a giggle.

Ha ha ha. Piers Morgan has been sacked. It was only last week that a certain person (whose name must be concealed for legal reasons) stated in response to the question, 'in three words, what's wrong with the world', 'the Daily Mirror'. Maybe things are now going to change?

Piers has been sacked over the discovery that the photos, showing British soldiers abusing Iraqi prisoners, were indeed fake. I have lost count of the number of days that I have flicked to BBC News Online (my homepage in fact), and the main photo and article has been regarding the abused Iraqi prisoners. Why didn’t someone find out earlier? I just do find it shocking the length of time this went on for, and the apparent convincingness of the hoax photos. Surely someone knew earlier that they were fake? Don’t we have technology that can identify things like this these days? Or did the Mirror know that they were false earlier and decide not to disclose this as well? In some respects I am shocked that the Mirror actually went in favour of the troops being abusive, making a sensationalist story out of it, rather than showing their usually true British spirit and rallying in defence of ‘our boys’.

It has actually been interesting listening to discussions in College surrounding the topic; some people were totally against the abuse – “we’re doing to them as bad as they do to us; surely that’s what we went to war to prevent” or “it’s a violation of human rights”. However, some people were in support of the soldiers – ultimately they have seen their friends and comrades die in this war, they have witnessed brutal events, had many months away from home in inadequate conditions all for a war they never wanted to enter; therefore, let them have their own sense of satisfaction or revenge. It’s certainly a highly political and ethical debate with strong feelings on both sides.

Oh well, I am sure that the truth will emerge at some stage. The Weekend papers will certainly make interesting reading though. That’s my Sunday afternoon planned already. Bets on who will take over from Piers?

What I am about to tell actually relates to my day yesterday. It seemed to include such silly and disastrous events, that I thought it was worthy of a post - the fact I wrote an email to Anthony at 9.28am yesterday morning, stating ‘its gone badly; very badly’ suggests all was not well even before I exposed myself (see below post).

The reason behind my problems were, in essence, religion. In this respect, my day was reflective of the situation in the rest of the world, albeit on a smaller scale.

Firstly, I am getting baptised and confirmed on Sunday. Thus, I have been keeping up with public displays of worship, rather than just confining prayer to my own thoughts, in the comfort of my own room. As a Chapel Warden, I was part of a planned service of evening worship for last night. One warden, a Cambridge and soon-to-be Oxford graduate, who is on the way to be ordained, had organised it all. Great, an easy ride for the rest of us. The theme of the service was to be Julian of Norwich; the feast day is approaching apparently. Originally, the service was to involve plain-song. However, after a few rehearsals with the organ scholar – neither he, nor any of the choir could be present at the service - it was decided that as most of us were on the way to being tone deaf (if not already there), singing without any accompaniment maybe wasn’t such a good idea. Thus, the idea was abandoned in favour of a hymn - with me accompanying on the clavanova. Now, whilst I can play the piano to grade 6, I haven’t played for a few years. Thus, rehearsing was necessary and yesterday morning I trotted off to Chapel after breakfast to practice. Mistake! 8.30am is Lincoln’s Morning Prayer. Consequently, I had to take part, read a lesson and sit next to the Chaplain. I may add, there were only three people in total – myself, the Chaplain and another person. Whilst it was a reflective and a calm way to start the day, ironically it was also rather distressing. Coupled with the fact that I then had to rehearse, and was going to be late for my 9.00am planned date with the Radcliffe Camera - hence my email to Anthony. Incidentally, the email was written on a computer which I seriously thought was about to erupt – it was chattering away to me and gave signs of grave discontent and old age.

Anyway, I got on with work etc., and evening came round. There was an embarrassing incident in the middle, but enough of that. Anthony and I were on our way to Chapel and got accosted in Turl St by the Mother of one of the guys in our year. Kisses all round, the ‘rah’ accent came on, and we realised that this Chapel service was going to have an audience – something we had not anticipated. Anthony and I led, what seemed like some surrealist nightmare from Winnie the Pooh (can there be such a thing?). By that, I mean we had to take all our peer’s friends and relations (reference to Rabbit in W the P) to Chapel. One Great Aunt asked if Anthony was my boyfriend. I declined, restraining from saying ‘oh no, I’m just his fag hag’.

After Anthony struggled to open the Chapel door, we seated the guests and awaited the Chaplain. He arrived, clearly intoxicated and insistent on me practicing the hymn so that he could sing along at the top of his [Canadian] voice. The congregation could hear all. Panic then set in as the priest-to-be warden didn’t show. Oh dear we all thought, as we contained our laughter - we had no service plans or anything. After a few frantic phone calls to no avail, the decision to ad-lib was made. Just as we started, the doors slammed and in shuffled the said-warden. Great, we had photocopied plans of the service, and all could begin. The piano went well – although, blatantly a clavenova is just a glorified keyboard - the hymn was sung by about two people and the service seemed to go alright despite the fact that people said things at the wrong times and the lessons included phrases such as ‘sardine stones’ and ‘hazelnuts’. Oh, not forgetting the nervous stutter of one of the wardens. Basically though, things were acceptable - that was until Anthony’s intercessions. The standard bits about Queen and Country, all who ‘teach and learn in this College and University’, and those in Iraq were said, and then the immortal line, ‘we pray for those of recent catastrophes, such as the Stockiline Plastics explosion earlier today in their Glasgow factory’… whereupon I descended into laughter.

Luckily, that was the end of the service and we all went to enjoy wine, cheese and fruit. The vision of Anthony eating a banana whilst drinking wine was rather surreal though (think sausage, Ollie) and I don’t think OJ’s comment about despising religious history and iconoclasm went down particularly well! The upside is, the Chaplain gave a drunken impersonation about how his daughter sings ‘all we like sheep’ whenever she sees a field of sheep and both Anthony and I managed to steal a bottle of wine each. It may have been an odd set of events, but at least I went though the day with a smile and lots of laughs!

Today I found out which CDs BBC 6Music sent to me!

Now, there has been some speculation that they would be absolute dross, and by that I don't mean the Absolute Collection of Luther Vandross, which would have been very welcome indeed. However, I remained confident that because this was BBC 6Music, priding itself on good musical taste, I would get some cracking little CDs. And so it proved.

Three CDs arrived in a small package, so small at first that prior to opening I was convinced there was only one CD inside. They were all in thin cardboard sleeves. This is because they were all promotional copies, which is in itself fantastic, as these tend to appreciate in value fairly quickly and are nice little collectors' items to have, regardless of whether you're a big fan of the content.

The first was a promo copy of the new Divine Comedy album, Absent Friends, in its entirety. I have listened to it and it's a very pleasant album, full of tracks which are easy to listen to. The little promotional sticker on the back tells me that the Divine Comedy have embarked on a tour with their own 16-piece orchestra, which is understandable once you listen to the album. It's not something I would have gone out and bought but it's different and, all in all, a worthy addition to the collection.

The second CD was a single-track promo copy of Graham Coxon's debut solo single, Freakin' Out. Wait a minute, I hear you Coxon aficionados cry, since he left Blur his first single was that Bittersweet Bundle Of Misery thing. Au contraire! As the promo label tells us: "Freakin' Out is the debut Parlophone single from the one and only Graham Coxon ... [it] will be released as a limited edition 7" only, with only 2500 numbered copies being pressed. Freakin' Out is the perfect taster from what is to come from Graham's solo album debut for Parlophone." A full UK tour, it continues, will "follow around the next 'proper' single and the album which will both be released in May."

Now, according to Esprit, the leading music memorabilia agency, a copy of the Bittersweet Bundle Of Misery promo 2-track CD fetches £8. The Freakin' Out promo is, by definition, much rarer. It must be worth into double figures, especially as time passes. Fan dabby dozey!

The third CD was another single, this one entitled Aftermath. There's a bit of a serendipitous moment involving the artists, though, who are entitled "The Orb". I find it pleasing to my sense of coincidence that BBC 6Music should send me, at random, a CD by a group whose name is identical to the school newspaper I used to edit. Maybe that's just me. As it happens, the track itself isn't really my kind of thing - the final track on the three-track promo, From A Distance, starts very well but then fades out again.

I've just checked this on Esprit and it is worth £15! The Divine Comedy promo album is worth £18! So, in total, I reckon the BBC have just sent me around £45-worth of stuff for free. Plus a BBC 6Music car sticker. Wahey! Not a bad return on an idle afternoon trawling round the 6Music website, eh...

Well, we are all aware that this did happen to me earlier. I was using a convenience in College, clearly hadn't locked the door properly and our Boat Club Captain/rather fit bloke/best-mate's boyfriend walked in on me pulling my knickers up. A wonderful image I am sure. Any comments asking whether I was living up to being 'small, tight and hairless', or whether I had recently waxed my bikini line (Ollie at the top of the Rad Cam stairs), will not be appreciated :p

Irony is writing a really long post about technology breaking down on me - I upgraded my MSN, then discovered the new version wouldn't work, then spent an hour hunting down the old version online to get it back - then getting a 404 error when I click 'Save'.

First things first - my CDs arrived from the BBC today. I haven't seen them yet because they arrived at my home address, not my uni address. I'll be picking them up on Tuesday. I'll let you know what wonders lie within the BBC box!

My application for a Student Barclaycard was accepted. Frankly, if it had been declined it would have been a pretty damning indictment of what must be a non-existent credit rating in the first place. My credit limit doesn't appear to be shown anywhere so I shall simply assume it to be unlimited. If anyone ("anyone" and "they" mean a customer of mine, where "mine" refers to Ollie Williams) wants the additional cardholder account (where "wants" means intends to apply for, and "additional cardholder account" refers to a second separate account under a different name but billed to the original cardholder), then they should send an application in writing.*

If anyone wants to see The Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind with me, they're more than welcome to come. I've been recommended it, and I am a Jim Carrey fan I have to say.

This is quite a disjointed collection of thoughts, so I apologise. I'll hopefully return with something better to say tomorrow. A whole Sunday! With nothing to do! Fantabulous. Shopping, anyone?

*Please note that credit scoring systems may be used and you may be refused. Terms and conditions apply to all benefits. For more information, call my Customer Services on 07790 304064 or visit www.idiotchild.net. Cards must be used within 90 days ofreceipt. Cash will be credited to your account within 28 days of the first use of your card. Offer is not available in conjunction with any other Ollie Williams promotion. You must be aged 18 or over to have a Barclaycard. Barclaycard is a trading name of Barclays Bank PLC.

reason was that I was blocked by the University for having a version of the Sasser worm (this is all alleged, it should be noted – I have my own theory as to how it happened). After much searching for the lone Lincoln IT Officer, who was most helpful, I am now back and up and running.

How the hell I got the worm I do not know. My virus files were up to date. So too were my Windows Updates. Repeated virus scans failed to detect any form of virus related activity at all. But there you go, I was blocked all the same.

Being without net access for the best part of 4 days made me realised how damned reliant I am on the thing. Economically, it currently occupies a very fine line between want and need. Part of this reliance is undoubtedly due to Oxford. The place is run by email, and my positions in various committees means that having access to emails on my own version of Outlook – with suitable groups and contacts already saved – means that using the old online interface (or *shock* the new version, webmail) is not at all the same.

As for the random websites that seem to prevent me from doing my essays, I can live without them. I can live without checking the 10 or so blogs that I do daily. Going without my usual diet of websites, though, such as The Register (which Amy loves), or Slate, is much harder. But the worst things are a) not having access to Google when I need it, and hence being unable to get information I need when I need it, and b) not being able to check the BBC News website. BBC News is enough for me to pay however much it would cost for a wireless modem, a la Mr Williams.

All hail the BBC!

I was bored this afternoon.

This is a rare phenomenon. It is usually virtually impossible to get me bored, and I did in fact have loads I could have been doing, but I just didn't really feel like doing anything productive. So I started listening to digital radio. Normally I'd go for Five Live, but today I felt like some music, and the best station for good music is BBC 6Music.

I tuned in just after four o'clock. The guy doing the programme was a bit eccentric, particularly his rather schizoid, jumpy, attention-deficit-meets-inability-to-finish-a-sentence form of presenting, so I thought I would check out the BBC 6Music website to find out who he was. It turned out that he was Andrew Collins, and his little mini-site is here - a former editor of Q, no less.

Well, on his little mini-site there was a competition, entitled Line Two. In order to stand a chance of winning, entrants had to correctly name a track and who sung it having been given the second line of the song. "What do I do with it" was today's second line. I quickly googled this and discovered it to be a track by Echo & The Bunnymen. I sent an email off to the station and waited patiently.

At precisely 6:30pm, I got my reward. "Today's winner of our Line Two competition," announced Mr Collins - well he said it slightly differently and used more words but my memory fails me - "is Ollie Williams. Well done Ollie."

YES!

Fame! Haha! And, of course, the prize. "Some CDs". Precisely which CDs, I won't know until the package arrives. But my God it was worth being bored this afternoon. Isn't it amazing how easy it is to win stuff! All I did was surf the net, use a search engine and send an email, and I ended up with some CDs for absolutely nothing. I've never even paid the licence fee because I've never owned a telly. The BBC are now operating at a loss with regards to me.

I shall, of course, update you as to which CDs arrive. If there is any Rodney Crowell I shan't hesitate to pass it on, OJ.

In other news, I was walking from the bus stop to my house when I passed what looked like an injured cyclist, lying motionless on the ground next to the pavement, his bike in a heap beneath him. On closer inspection, it was two people, and they weren't entirely motionless. However, it wasn't quite as sordid as you're now thinking. Though I couldn't see the face of the man underneath, a rather short woman was kneeling on his chest and imploring of him, "Do you love me? Do you wanna be with me?" She sounded so very, very serious and loving about it. I think he was agreeing, but then I think she had him by the throat. Clearly he had been about to cycle away in a huff when she had thrown herself upon him, toppling both of them to floor, then straddled him and begged him to be with her! How sweet is that! Full marks to you, girl. He's a lucky boy.

A bit girly:

There seem to be lots of reports out lately about 'love' and its affects on people - some say it is a great 'drug'; other say that it is 'blind' and the latest report (BBC) says that in hetrosexual relationships it increases the level of testosterone in women and decreases it in men... so why do no men do the housework then and has loving OJ really made me more masculine? At the same time, new regulations are planning to stamp down on teenage kissing/putting/touching etc in public. How does that work? No more frolics behind the bikesheds? Reductions in teenage pregnancies? Even randier teenage boys and more depressed girls?

Anyway, enough of this love business, what I would like to advocate is the power of a hug. Those of you who know me well will appreciate that I have some days which are better than others, and on those bad days, a good hug solves all. I don't know what it is about the power of the hug, but it is certainly great. Maybe it is because it feels like all worries are absorbed into the other person. Thus, I say that we should promote hugging. As well as a smile-a-day, and an apple-a-day, hugs are necessary too.

And very quicly... thank you to the person who is always there to hug me and pick up the pieces when all else fails.

Hugs to all who read this! xx

With reference to my "Wally" post below...

It is my pleasure to exclusively reveal that someone, somewhere, is planning a sequel to a popular children's book where readers are invited to search for a small image of OJ in a sea of similarly coloured, closely arranged characters.

How do I know this? It has come to my attention that the company involved are checking to see if anyone is already using the title for the forthcoming book, thus infringing on their trademark. This can be the only explanation for the arrival of one visitor to Dayorama using the search phrase "Where's OJ Now?".

Today, I went shopping with Ollie. He wanted to ?buy the cheapest pair of trainers possible without looking like OJ?. In other words, a pair of trainers costing under ?30 which looked reasonably stylish. I must admit, I am not a great fan of shopping for clothes or shoes. If I go out looking for something, I never find it and if I am running low on funds then it is always guaranteed that I will find something I like, at the wrong time, and at twice the price I want to pay. Sods law.

Clothes shopping for women is always a hellish experience ? changing room mirrors make you look funny; lights in shops give you bags under your eyes and facial hair and there is always that immortal dilemma of ?will I fit into a size ten?. I know you lads don?t care about such things, but for women (me in particular) it?s a big thing and can certainly make or break a shopping trip.

Consequently, I would never go shopping with friends; I can tolerate (just) going with my Mother; my Aunt is fine (basically as she pays and is lovely) and of course, OJ. Another awful factor is that female clothes shops are also always full of giggly girls.

Usually I'm pretty fine with the weather. But after my grumpiest day...ever?...yesterday, can I put down on record how *£$%ing fed up I am with this pissy rain. Let the sun come out, damnit!

Late in the evening, some time in mid-September 2002, the following conversation occurred. At the time, I posted it to the old Dayorama - the award-winning one! - as a record of our respective stances on the war. More than a year and a half later, I now reprint the conversation, in full and unedited. See what you think. We pick it up with me talking about George W. Bush...

Ollie says: i think he really is a great guy to be in charge
Ollie says: sure, so his problem in life is he gets speeches cacked up
Ollie says: but i think he's handled 9/11 as well as anyone would
OJ says: fine
OJ says: but i dislike his demeanour
OJ says: and his policies
Ollie says: i think it's the best part
Ollie says: and his policies aren't really made by him
OJ says: obviously the folks thing goes down really well in the US
OJ says: which is fine
OJ says: but there are times when he just slips into it unconsciously
OJ says: subconsciously
OJ says: even
OJ says: or not
Ollie says: lol!
OJ says: you can never tell
OJ says: and i am not convinced about his willingness to attack Iraq
OJ says: not yet
Ollie says: i am
Ollie says: it's got to happen
Ollie says: there is NO WAY it will not happen
Ollie says: (see Dayorama column)
OJ says: true - he's got too much riding on it
Ollie says: not just that
Ollie says: but look at the options here
Ollie says: option one is he asks the UN to send weapons inspectors back with a deadline, on its own terms
Ollie says: is Iraq going to okay that? no
Ollie says: so we have a war
Ollie says: option two, Bush goes ahead anyway. thus war
Ollie says: there is no real option three
OJ says: fine in the short term
OJ says: but in the long term
OJ says: i think:
OJ says: a) a victory the kind that everyone expects ie. Saddam dies, the happy regime takes over is unlikely to happen
OJ says: indeed, i'd be surprised if they can kill Saddam
Ollie says: no one expects 'the happy regime takes over'
Ollie says: i expect them to get Saddam this time
Ollie says: they can't afford not to
OJ says: what do they expect then?
Ollie says: the end of Saddam
Ollie says: nothing more can be expected
OJ says: and then.....
OJ says: ....
OJ says: ....
Ollie says: and then we've got to do an afghanistan, leave people in there and see what happens
OJ says: not that way at all
Ollie says: there's not going to be an immediate westernisation and cuddliness all round
OJ says: in Afghanistan there was an opposition party
OJ says: an outcast government
Ollie says: no no no, don't rattle off old column material from other sites at me :)
OJ says: and the rise of the Taleban was recent
Ollie says: i'm well aware of that, but they were no better than the Taliban
Ollie says: there's still plenty of our troops in there
OJ says: Saddam
OJ says: as the Iraq Daily points out
Ollie says: get off my pet site
OJ says: has been in power since 1979
OJ says: and i doubt that anyone can remember what was there beforehand
Ollie says: so what are you going to do? leave Saddam in power because you can't think of anything better to do?
OJ says: it's a great site, btw
OJ says: i'd neuter him
Ollie says: i'd rather knock him out and then see what happens than leave him in full control
Ollie says: "neuter him", come on
OJ says: leave him in power
Ollie says: and do what? take his toys?
OJ says: but humiliate him
OJ says: exactly
OJ says: go in
OJ says: destroy his army
Ollie says: he wouldn't stay in power!
OJ says: his palaces
OJ says: his weapons
Ollie says: if he had no army and no form of enforced rule
Ollie says: the man would not stay in power
Ollie says: you think the generals, the officials, the ordinary Iraqi public are going to accept a humiliated, powerless dictator?
OJ says: and the people would overthrow him
OJ says: not the Americans
OJ says: even if in reality, they had undermined him
Ollie says: so you're saying let a rowdy mob get him rather than any semblance of law and order?
OJ says: think you have just as good a chance of an acceptable outcome as the American option
Ollie says: so why not go for the American option then?
Ollie says: at least then there is no chance of Saddam coming back
OJ says: becaue I fear
Ollie says: if you leave him to it, he may well have a way back
OJ says: that they would be, most likely, a more destablising influence than Saddam
OJ says: we all know that Iran just loves the US
Ollie says: ah, but that's a whole new ballgame
OJ says: nope
OJ says: same part of a bigger one
Ollie says: now we're into American status in the Arab states
Ollie says: that would not be the immediate focus of any war
Ollie says: if necessary leave the UN in charge
OJ says: it would be by default
Ollie says: or give Iraq to Israel and watch the fun begin...

I fear I'm not going to be able to match what Amy clearly regarded as a pinnacle of amusement in Part 1. Herein lie my reviews of the two gigs I saw whilst oop North.

Keane
Thursday 29th April, Manchester Academy

Rhys made the comment the following night that the more he thought about this set, the more disappointed he felt. I half agree, and half don't. Keane are, musically at least, fantastic. Their album Hopes And Fears is released a week on Monday (single Everybody's Changing is re-released tomorrow - it made no. 122 in the chart last year!), and judging by the tracks in evidence at the gig, it will be a contender for Album of the Year.

Somewhere Only We Know, which shot Keane to fame earlier this year, was beautifully executed, whilst a highlight for me was the soaring, emotional climax of We Might As Well Be Strangers, coupled with the melancholy closer, Bedshaped. Frontman Tom Chaplin, confronted with hundreds of fans chanting "Keano" (a la that chanted at Roy Keane by Manchester United fans), remarked that "they did that at Leeds too" [Leeds being fierce rivals of United], only to be drowned out by a chorus of "Manchester, la la la, Manchester, la, la, la" from the patriotic locals. "God, what have I done?" Enquired Chaplin of pianist Tim Oxley-Rice.

Rhys' complaint - and he may correct me if I am wrong - probably centres around the fact that there didn't seem to be any real peak to the gig. Each song was enjoyable in its own right and I left happy, but there was no single moment or set of moments which I will clearly remember for ever more. Indeed, the only lasting impression I have is of drummer Richard Hughes rolling his head hypnotically to every track in a passable impression of a nodding dog. That said, it would be remiss if I didn't point out that he's also a very good drummer, headrolling notwithstanding. As Somewhere Only We Know finished, it occurred to me that there wasn't any part of this gig which was going to be indelibly marked in my mind, so I made a deliberate effort to try to remember some part of it. All I have ended up with is a vivid image of the green curtain to the back and left of Tom Chaplin's head.

Franz Ferdinand
Friday 30th April, Manchester Academy

I didn't have a ticket for this gig, so I ventured down to Manchester University (site of the Academy) on the bus two hours before the doors opened, to see what I could procure. I managed to catch up with your archetypal Mancunian tout - thick accent, face like the back end of the aforementioned bus, Burberry cap, and wouldn't you know it? It was his last ticket. Remind me, next time, to ask for two tickets and then drop it down to one, so that I know for sure that it isn't the last one.

He opened the bidding at £50. Face value from legitimate outlets was just £8, but those sold out long before I'd even heard a Franz Ferdinand track. I was not, however, going to be paying £50 to see them, regardless of their undoubted talent. Ten minutes and the tout's life story later, we agreed on £25.

It was well worth it. Despite not appearing until the ungodly hour of 9:40pm, Franz were ably supported by the Fiery Furnaces, who peddle a form of bizarre yet enjoyable music voiced in monotone by a female lead singer. Their drummer, who reminded me of an adult Brook McAllister (for those who know/knew him), was highly dramatic and exhibitionist, twirling sticks and generally vaguely resembling a labrador being shown - but kept agonisingly away from - a deliciously tempting stick. I won't be buying their album but I would go and see them live again, such was the amusement gained from their stage presence.

Franz received a rapturous reception and the level of excitement among the remarkably Mancunian crowd never dimmed during the ensuing, rather short, set. I say "remarkably Mancunian" because of the uniformity of haircut and dress sense employed by nigh on 95 per cent of those in the audience. On our way to the gig, Rhys, his mate Pete and I had met another mate of his, Craig, waiting for a girl he was planning on taking. We left Craig to wait, and agreed to meet him inside the Academy. I thought I'd try and be clever and spot him despite only having seen him briefly. No such luck - every second person in the place was a dead ringer for him!

Returning to the action, and whilst the delightful Take Me Out lived up to my insistence that it was already a classic track, the show was stolen for me by Matinee - a song whose rhythm carries it seamlessly from start to finish - and Michael. Michael, dedicated to "all you beautiful dance-whores" by the band, is a song about, basically one gay man fancying another. Observe the following lyrics:

This is what I am, I am a man
so come and dance with me Michael
So strong now, it's strong now
so come and dance with me Michael

Michael,
you're the boy with all the leather hips,
sticky hair, sticky hips, stubble on my sticky lips

Rhys, in his self-professed "rent boi" top - some unearthly lycra substance which threatened, but never quite managed, to hug his figure - was duly dubbed Michael for the rest of the evening. He was oblivious to the insult, gaining far too much amusement from his newly purchased Franz Ferdinand slap wristband.

The set was surprisingly short, lasting no longer than 45 minutes, but was extremely enjoyable - crowdsurfing included - and will certainly live longer in the memory than that of Keane. This should not, however, take anything away from the music of either, because both bands will remain the success stories of 2004 so far.

Those in the know will know (as they tend to do) that I am at University in Oxford. What follows is a comprehensive review of the City.

I love Oxford. I was born here; I will be baptised and confirmed here in a couple of weeks; and I am likely to get married here. Oxford is not just a City, but it is a University. This attracts a myriad of different people from tramps to bus drivers; students to academics; tourists to locals. It has some quaint restaurants and clubs, world-renowned tea houses and a unique covered market selling a wide-rang of produce.

On arrival to Oxford, you sense the uniqueness of the place ? there are sports fields backing onto the Isis where there will always be a rowing boat or two out in training. This is in comparison to the tourist busses taking people around Oxford?s highly acclaimed architectural buildings and Colleges. Further out of the city are the University Parks ? always full of students or runners, parents and children feeding ducks or a sports match taking place. In addition, Magdalen Deer Park has an individuality of its own. There is a cosmopolitan feel and buzz about the whole place.

Shopping is good in Oxford. I have already mentioned the Covered Market with its interesting boutiques, array of eating establishments, delicatessens and florists. There is also Cornmarket, hosting the standard high-street shops and also two covered shopping arcades offering similar establishments. However, wander into the back streets and you will find antiquated bookshops or rare art galleries. Oh, and of course Oxford is home to the famous bookstore, Blackwells.

I must admit, some strange things can occur in the City? I can?t be bothered to make up some story about sitting on a park bench during Gay Pride weekend; being met by a bloke who lo and behold turned out to be a woman; started chatting to her and realised she may have fancied me; admitting I was straight and then being met by an obviously gay friend.

To be continued...

Those in the know will know (as they tend to do) that I spent the last few days in Manchester. What follows is a comprehensive review of my time there.

I love Manchester. Oxford pales in comparison. Oxford is not a city. It is a university which happens to have attracted a rather large number of other people to drive the buses. It has a few pitiful wretches for clubs, places which would, in Manchester, have been put out of their misery long ago. It has one, maybe two passable music venues (Brookes and The Zodiac). It has Cornmarket for shops.

Manchester, by comparison, is a gleaming metropolis of cosmopolitan glamour and dodgy haircuts. Even on arrival, you sense the vastness of the place - Manchester City's new stadium glides by on the horizon as you pull into Manchester Piccadilly, which boasts a top notch information system, a little shopping arcade of its own and a central location. Walking out and down to Piccadilly Gardens, there is a buzz about the entire place. The Britannia Hotel, where I stayed, has a reputation for being "shit" (to quote my mate Mike), but did not particularly disappoint - despite the lack of a window, replaced by a wall-sized poster of the Empire State Building, with the twin towers in the background...

Shopping in Manchester is fantastic. You've got the Trafford Centre and the Arndale Centre, of course, which are fairly well known, but then there's all sorts of smaller places knocking around. One example is Affleck's Palace, which looks like an absolute dive - and is - but contains some unusual little shops selling stuff you won't find anywhere else. Affleck's Palace came highly recommended to me by Rhys, who accompanied me to gigs on Thursday and Friday night.

One of my purchases came in useful that very same evening. I had nipped into Burger King at around 7ish, just before I was due to meet Rhys, to grab some food. As I sat in the window looking out onto Piccadilly Gardens, a bloke outside on the pavement stood in front of my field of vision. He drew my attention, looked directly at me, and made a rubbing motion with his hand on his cheek. I checked my own cheek and, lo, there was a bit of sauce there. This seemed like a fairly random thing to happen involving a complete stranger but I gave him a thumbs up, he left, and I carried on eating.

A minute later, he came back, this time with a girl in tow. He acknowledged me as he went by, then they entered Burger King. I thought my time on this earth was up. Clearly I had given some kind of subtle mob signal that I wanted a fight or something, because here was this guy, with a mohican, entering a Burger King specifically due to my being in it. He sat down next to me. I gulped.

"We've come to talk to you because we thought you looked lonely."

I was just about to protest that I was getting up to leave, when the girl next to him chimed in.

"She's gay and she's waiting for a girl called Tom."

Well I never. I looked back, and the bloke was a girl! She was the most convincingly butch lesbian I have ever seen in my entire life (my mother's going to murder me for saying that). With the mohican, and a chest as flat as a squirrel under a juggernaut, she did not appear at all female. I could not believe it. I didn't really know what to say. Not being the most assertive of people even at the best of times, I made my excuses.

I can’t really be bothered to post on the May Day celebrations that took place in Oxford today. Needless to say, having been up since 4.40am, visiting (and walking to) the Law Bod, a 2hr rowing session and putting up with OJ (in a good way), I am rather knackered. It was an enjoyable early morning though – the rain held off, the atmosphere on Magdalen Bridge was very ‘Oxfordy’, the choir was very pleasant, champagne breakfasts are certainly the way forward and clothes shopping with Anthony is very amusing.

Moving swiftly on… What I really wanted to comment on is the fact that the Law Bod Photocopying Card Machine is racist. Let me clarify. I needed to do about 100 sheets of photocopying, so was planning to put about £8 onto my photocopying card. I had an array of pound coins with me and began feeding them into the machine. I always look at the pictures on the front of the coins – for some reason it amuses me. Anyway, I had put a few coins in and then it kept rejecting one. I tried a few times, wet the coin, forcefully fed the coin etc., but still it was rejected. I then carried on with a different coin and all was well. My last coin was then also rejected. I used another one and my £8 was complete – plus, I had £2 left. I had put into the machine 2 ‘British lion’ coins; 3 ‘Queens crests’ coins; 1 ‘Mulberry bush’; 1 ‘thistle’ and 1 ‘3 lion’ coins. I was left with 2 coins with the ‘leek’ on them. Thus, my deduction from this is that the machine is racist – it is anti-Welsh! Hehehe!

Oh, and yay to Man City!

In the post entitled 'Bikes', I concluded that bikes were a waste of space and should be banned. However today, I paid a visit to the College bike racks. These racks are located in a locked iron cage in our underground garage. I planned to find my trusty (and rusty) bike, and then cycle to the Law Bod. When I reached my bike I was shocked. It still had two wheels; a handle bar; seat and pedals... but someone had cut the brake wire and removed the basket! Sabotage! I shall be onto M15 immediately. But what is puzzling is who on earth wants an old basket? And why cut my brake wire? Should I be worried? Is a further attack imminent?

It just goes to show that shanks' pony is the only way forward.