Which stands, of course, for the Queer Emergence of Dorset-folk. OJ has done his best below to sum up events, and I can do no better, since the sheer humour of the situation and the surreal nature of the conversation is beyond either of our literary capabilities.

It was easily the most bizarre experience I've had for a long time, if ever, and I can't quite believe that there was no hidden camera or QI Club invite at the end of it. The thing is that neither of us can really explain her demeanour - the conversation in itself is pretty odd, but it was her way of acting, her general character traits which made things that much stranger. Aside from the initial offer of a drink purely because I laughed (someone had to acknowledge her after that entrance), she constantly launched into questions about bushels, oil, coffee and history, almost at random. At one point she declared herself the "world's least known comedienne". As I said to OJ, she's going to remain notorious as far as I'm concerned for the rest of my life.

Thing is, she definitely had a brain or two about her. She made one or two quite funny remarks, was capable of sustaining relatively detailed conversation and came up with some quite interesting (there we go), if also slightly odd, topics to talk about. The whole bushel thing was absurd, especially when we got on to discussing the phrase "hiding my light in my bushel" or some such. She most definitely wasn't under the influence of anything, I can only surmise that she was either feeling exceptionally brash or is missing one or two sandwiches to go with the Habitatesque QI picnic tables. At one point she asked if we could guess what her husband did, and it was all I could do not to suggest "try to commit suicide?"

The waitress, as OJ remarked, was decidedly non-plussed, although it occurred to me that I might actually get a date when she showed an interest in Anglo-Saxon history (she's very good looking for a woman). Alas, she was called away to work, but I think the waiting staff were finding the situation as funny and surreal as we were, particularly when asked to serve two Diet Cokes for her "friends". To be honest, I'd be happy going to QI for a drink on a regular basis, if only because the waitress mentioned an outside chance of gaining admission to the QI Club if we just turned up so often that management decided we were a part of the furniture (as if we'd ever be that tacky). And let's face it, if we're going to have conversations like that each time, I'm sold on the idea. I'd love to meet that lady again. Perhaps not too often - I could sense OJ almost slipping into a coma whilst us two discussed Athelstan, Aethelred, the Saxon Shore and fortified burhs.

It was definitely a very, very funny afternoon. We'll return to QI for a third sitting some time in 0th or 1st week I guess, and I'd have no qualms with paying their extortionate Diet Coke prices every now and again if it gave us an inkling of a chance at club entry. After all, there has to be one club in Oxford worth going to...

I'm a bit late with all this, but just to say welcome to all those who are coming in from Crescat following my email defending Taunton from the evils of Wilmington. The referral logs say that at least some people have clicked through, and googling for Dayorama gives the CS post on the second page, showing quite how high up Crescat is and how far Dayorama has to go. I hope you'll visit back often, since we seem to be in a posting glut at the moment, which is always a good distraction to have as we enter our final years. Still, I'd like to think that Dayorama is one of Oxford's best undergraduate blogs (we still have a long way to go before we can be the biggest blog from Oxford...).

Where to start? Just where to start?

Following on from Ollie’s post below about QI, we headed back there today so that I could try my hand at restaurant critiquing, and to break the monotony of hours in the Bod reading about Long Haired Kings. So we go in, and I too am daunted by the doors. The bookshop itself is remarkably small. Literally, what you can see from Turl Street is what you get. The reference system is amusing, though, and a nice break from the usual bookshop. I saw for the first time Andrew Marr’s new book, which has a very disturbing picture of him on the cover where he looks less like Putin and more like Plug from The Beano. Perhaps the most interesting part of the shop was the little sign which explained that the members’ club above was by invitation only, which dampened our ambitions of joining.

By this time, it should be said, I had already commented on the fact that the situation was turning into a Frasier episode. This was confirmed by the restaurant part. After initially walking to the bar itself, it turned out we had to take a seat and wait to be served. So we made our way to a sort of upper class picnic table from Habitat that was surprisingly comfortable. The layer of dust that was all over the table and seats was less pleasant, and the appearance of random logs in an aesthetically pleasing stack by the non working fireplace was distinctly odd. The menu appeared, and having decided that 4pm was probably too late for the linguine, we settle on the “Rich and Dark Chocolate Cake”. Ollie risks the £1.69 Diet Coke, whilst I go for a coffee, which was not on the menu but turned out to cost £1.69 as well. The cake and drinks are delivered, and we dive in. My first impression was how thin and small the slice was. But I should have known better. The first bite was a miracle of engineering, as the cake was so thick, and the fork so inappropriate, that it was difficult to get a decent piece without the cake slipping off the plate, or just making a fool of oneself. The cake itself was, well, very rich, dark and chocolately. But where the ‘cake’ part was, one assumes it got lost. For what the slice seemed to be like was a sculpted piece of Bourneville (although tastier). Certainly no sponge to talk with. It was…quite interesting. As was the cream that was served with it, that I still think was crème fraiche. The coffee was mediocre, and was only one cupful, so no refills. Overall, for £12.69, including the 12.5% service charge, it wasn’t really worth it. QE indeed.

Thus Ollie and I were talking about history and the Post Office, as you do, when suddenly it all turned very surreal. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shock of pink come through the movable coat racks and stumble into the seating area. Quote “I feel like a skeleton that’s come out of a cupboard.” Ollie laughs sympathetically. “I’ll buy you a drink for that.” Looks exchanged between us, Ollie graciously accepts, and the lady (we never found out her name) sits down on the table next to us. And so it begins.

I’ll let Ollie describe the conversation in detail, as for most of it I was an amused bystander, especially after she started peppering him with questions on Anglo-Saxon history, especially related to Dorset (where she had a house; her accent showed as well). Highlights include her leading on a trail to guess which company her husband worked for, with clues such as “If the price of oil goes up, I have more money – it’s the bonus you see” and, my favourite, the fact that her husband studied Applied Maths at university, which in the context of the conversation, was meant to be a more specific answer than Petro-Chemical Engineering to the area where he worked. It was when she said the company was listed on the NASDAQ that the conversation turned from good natured to just plain weird. I’m not sure why it was that sentence, since there were plenty of other weird ones, such as the definition of bushels, and the various systems of measurement for different goods. But still, it was after the NASDAQ that Ollie and I exchanged glances of bemusement with each other. For those who are interested, her husband worked for Schlumberger. Alas, it didn’t roll of my tongue.

It was just surreal. I started to burst into laughter randomly, the more I thought about what was actually happening. I had to bite my tongue and hide my face a number of times. We both suspected that something was amiss, and checked the room out for hidden cameras. At best, we might have been invited to join the QI club, at worst it was some horrible Beadle setup. And then we both realised that this had to be posted on Dayorama. Eventually, having listened to Ollie effectively go through his collection revision, and argue about when the Romans left Britain, I asked for the bill. The poor waitress, having realised what was going on, was also nonplussed about what the hell was going. She was enlightening about the club though – apparently we should try to clean Stephen Fry’s house, as that was the best chance we had. After we pointed out how the conversation we had sat through for an hour was “quite interesting”, she did suggest that they might have microphones so that they could listen and decide if we were good enough. Somehow, given the situation, it seemed not quite as funny as it might have been. A part of me (wants to) think that the woman was wired up and that the invitations are merely on their way…

We left, an hour and a quarter after we came in, and fell about laughing. It is probably the most surreal experience of my life. I should be grateful, though, as I did get a Diet Coke from the lady, I think because she felt sorry for giving Ollie one but not me. As for QI, although incredibly expensive, I shall probably return to try to the linguine, given that Ollie has to pay me back. 4 out of 10, though, seems fair.

Which stands for Quite Expensive, as I'm sure you will find the QI Building once you venture inside it.

I'm sat in the ground floor cafe at the moment, supping a £1.50 tall, thin glass of Diet Coke, and pondering whether the wobbling wooden table on which it has been placed quite justifies the 200% mark-up on the price you'd be able to get one elsewhere. Obviously the QI Building is hardly the first place to hit upon the novel idea of ripping off its customers for drinks - it's just one of the first things I've noticed whilst sat here.

The second immediately apparent feature of the building is the smell, which is very much of new furniture as one might expect. The assault on the senses is completed by the buzz of the other people in here - there's more than you might expect because the cafe is very unconventionally designed, curling around a wall in an L-shape so that it's hard to tell precisely how large it is or how many people there are in it at any one time. The one thing I can discern is that the other occupants are all American. I feel like an extra on Sex & The City, such is the ratio of glamorous thirtysomething Americans discussing their lives and answering their mobiles to 19-year-old Brits with nothing better to do than sit on their laptop whilst they wait for the bus.

The actual bookshop is a tiny little hovel, but an immaculately designed and ingeniously laid out one. In a rough circle around a central enquiries desk (think a potted Rad Cam) lie five or six bookcases housing titles arranged by theme, rather than by subject, author or era. So, on the shelf closest to me (which again is actually around another corner owing to the number of walls, I'm doing this by memory) can be found Diaries, Great Lives and other biographical tomes. On the other side of the room are Beginnings and Endings, elsewhere Bohemian books, Botanical books and Barmy books, right down to the history of Viz, giving us a unique insight into what found its way into Stephen Fry's book collection in his spare time.

It's somewhat daunting being in here (and I asked for the bill about ten minutes ago so it seems I'll be here a while yet). The decor is very red and angry in the cafe, with the kind of chanting you'd be more accustomed to in Magdalen cloisters gently permeating the cosy atmosphere. Plus, because it's new, you feel almost voyeuristic in here, because you're patently not in here because you like it, but to find out if you like it. Even the doorway, with its QI logo and ominous-looking staircase behind it, gives one pause for thought.

The bill has now arrived. There is a 19 pence service charge included, bringing the total, for a small Diet Coke, to £1.69. It's quiet in here, it's comfortable-ish (there's a window pane poking into my back but it's my fault for sitting here), it's convenient and it's cool, but it's also relatively ordinary and expensive, and they don't serve food between 3pm and 6pm. So, in this, my debut as a critic of restaurants and cafes, I'm giving the QI Building an anticlimactic 4 out of 10. I shall return here with Amy and OJ and await an improvement.

Usually a phrase which brings horror to my ears. The Observer regularly gives away free CDs with the paper on a Sunday (NB: Difficult to do it any other day since it is a Sunday newspaper. Unless of course you count the Guardian and the Observer as one company… therefore one newspaper… anyway) Today it has a five-track CD from the Libertines. Actually very good. I put it in my hi-fi as I was about to start some reading for Commercial Law next term. I hoped that the music would either send me to sleep; make me boil in anger; or give me a heart attack – e.g. anything to stop me having to work. However, I sat back and listened and it was really commendable. I’d certainly go and buy an album. I know nothing of the band – I’ll leave Ollie to fill in a few gaps in the comments about them – and seeing as my musical taste is so varied, and so highly inaccurate when it comes to saying “they sound like…. “ I shan’t bother commenting, but I can say this: OJ will hate; Ollie should like; Anthony would cry. Go try.

Also, the Observer has an interesting article on ebay writen by Simon Garfield - like him a lot. Seeing as I have been ebaying this weekend (early Christmas presents... to myself...?) it seemed appropriate. Oh for broadband when my searches are quicker though... I just wish I had the time/patience to buy cheap antiques and sell them for mega bucks…

One of the things about blogging is that it's a very immediate thing - you write when you think, and if you leave it too long, then you tend to forget about what you were going to say or think it even more irrelevent than it actually was. Thus the loss of my network connection for 36 hours meant that I have forgotten and remembered a number of times what is basically a throwaway post of a few lines. (Also, I've noted it before and I'll say it again, without the internet I become increasingly lost. No googling to check on facts or find things out. No email. I don't spend my spare time watching TV - I spend it on the net. Scary).

Anyway, I was walking down Turl Street having left the library on Friday night, and it struck me how crisp the air was, and how actually it is nearly October so by every count but mine, it's autumn already. Somehow, Autumn for me never starts until term starts, so that's another week or so then. It made me want to buy a pair of brogues and a scarf - the vision I had in my head was of Michael Douglas in the one scene I've seen from The Wonder Boys. And that's why it's dangerous to spend too much time working.

Right. Well, first of all I am suffering from PMT. Thus, all men (so decide for yourself if that includes Ollie or not) are pigs. They could be wonderful, but today it is best I am left to my own devices. Other things are also contributing to my bad day:

I need to do some serious study. Today.

I got to bed around midnight last night and had to be up at 7.10 and out of the house by 7.20 to take receipt of fridge for Grandfather.

Grandfather moving South tomorrow. New beginnings and all. Thank goodness
I am moving away. If the North wind is blowing, that is why (I always run with the north wind - it's a throwback from watching "Chocolat" and other more complicated things)

My Mum saw lots of magpies this morning. Is that a bad sign?

I waited 3 hours for this fridge and washing machine. When we spoke to the delivery control people we asked whether the delivery men could just phone us when they were in the village and then someone would let them in ie. I stay at home (a minute walk from my G-father's new place) and then do directions etc and meet them there. They said oh no no no no no (aka the Vicar of Dibley) and therefore I waited in the cold flat (not at home).
Incidently, I did get the electric heater working this time (I noticed that a plug was needed, plugged it in to the wall and miraculously. voila) so I didn't die of pneumonia waiting for a fridge. That would be ironic. The thing was, the delivery men called me to ask for directions. sitting on the road outside my house. They actually said "we're outside some posh looking old building with a long driveway and opposite a road called 'Grovelands'".
That posh looking old building be where I live. Grr. The delivery man then proceeded to tell me that he had been burgled the night before and all ethnics should be sent back to where they came from. Good good. He also said that ebay was fraudulent - something about a 2p piece being sold in America for £15.

I had an argument with my Father this morning which I really wished I hadn'
t, just because I was tired and stroppy. It wasn't an argument, more I shouted when I didn't need to. And then sent him a too-cute text. Thing is. I worry about him. I don't like to admit it but he's driving up to Lancashire today in some hired van and he'll flap, be worried about things, won't hear people properly in service stations when they tell him how much his coffee costs, will get confused about where my Grandfather lives (amazing after 35yrs of marriage to my Mum) and I just wish I could be there in the van with him and just being protective for once. Well, despite my disrespect for him, I can be surprisingly protective. And instead, I need to be here to study etc and my Dad and I would argue anyway (ironic again) plus my Mum needs looking after here.

I didn't have breakfast and therefore my 10.30 had excruciating pains in my stomach. We have no food in the house so breakfast has turned into a yoghurt (2 days out of date) and a Sainsbury choc-ice. It was either that or gluten/wheat/everything-free muesli or nimble. Oh, and there's an old jar of capers at the back of the fridge. Mix that with tomato ketchup.
Mmm. Appetising.

Muesli is a stupidly-spelt word.

I have finished reading my second novel by Alan Titchmarsh. For this I am distressed. I really enjoyed it. This summer I have amused myself by reading trashy novels, usually written by middle-aged females. There are typically three friends, one of whom is gay, who seek love. Inevitably some things go right, some wrong and the stories usually involve sex, strippers and bad dates. Fun stuff. Titchmarsh's novels are light-hearted, have raunchy country sex scenes (I feel I should listen to John Denver or R2 whilst reading them - the country bit, not the sex), the plots are believable, characters well-formed and they're an easy and chuckling read.
It is weird though because after sitting through Gardner's World, knowing who this guy is, it is strange reading his books and knowing he sat in a shed somewhere, overlooking a border of petunias and wrote about Arabella losing her virginity to Greg, the stable hand, in front of a roaring fire in her parents' country retreat after consuming her father's best scotch. You get the picture. I must be British after all (the prudish bit).

I am going to buy that album of Ollie's because I a) think the lyrics are amusing and b) expect OJ will hate it.

Things are confusing me at the moment. Like Dayorama. Like lunch yesterday. I still don't get 'Andover's or the link between libraries and gates. Also, does the grammar of Ollie's last post indicate that if you listen to BBC Radio 6 or whatever it is, then you are boring? I doubt it does, because I never points score on Ollie, but I would smile if it did.
My brain is just a big confuzzled fuzz.

I am going to accept my training contract offer today. I'm quite scared
actually. S**t - adulthood beckons. The temptation to become a
long-distance lorry driver is still there.

I only have one session left with the psychologist. Yes, I am ready for them to end. But, it doesn't stop it being scary. And I know that transition into therapy-free weeks won't be easy, but I haven't cried for over 3 weeks now. That's a good thing. I have also learnt that if you apply mascara in the morning, and don't cry, then it stays there until you wash it off in the evening. Absolute miracle. I'm using less mascara!
But, it doesn't stop it being scary. OJ says I can't worry about things I can't change. Well, maybe not. But I can go some way to making sure I change these things for the better and I may not be able to worry, but it doesn't stop me being scared.

Right. That's me. I am off for a shower and feel much better for the rant.
The reason for the title "Only Dad" is it is the title of the Titchmarsh book I have just read and I feel guilty for stropping at my Dad. Also, my internet is being wank so I can't find a suitable lyric.

"Lord, give me the serenity to accept those things I can not change, the courage to change those things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference"

A few quick things.

Firstly, buy Devendra Banhart's latest single, Little Yellow Spider, because it is insane. Gentle rhythm, quietly strumming guitar, funny voice, absolutely ridiculous lyrics (of which the title of this post is one). Alternatively, if you can't afford the single or are a boring person, listen to BBC 6 Music, as it's on their 'B' playlist at the moment but most of the presenters are taking a shine to it. After all, who wouldn't?

Secondly, you may have already seen it but the BBC have launched what effectively amounts to their own Instant Messenger service. The only catch is you have to be somewhere on their website to use it - well at least I assume that's the plan. As things stand, you actually have to be on Radio 1's website to use it, but at the moment it's just an experiment. Dubbed BBC Connector, the plan is that it allows you to see and talk to people who are on the same page of the BBC website as you.

Alas, when I tried to go to the main BBC home page or the 6 Music home page, it decided I had done a Greg Dyke and 'left the BBC' and closed down. Only on Radio 1 pages would it acknowledge the presence of other people. However they are quick to point out it is an experimental product and we can expect it to expand in the near future (lots of exes in that sentence, which is nothing new for my posts).

Finally, with a little luck the Beastie Boys will suffer a pronounced tragedy in which all of their records and larynxes are burned.

In order to increase my thesis reading productivity, I went to Lincoln's own library (quite frankly, the nicest of all the colleges) instead of the AI, to read a couple of books that I had from the Hist Fac. The morning was blighted by a group of workmen fiddling with the security system that controls the inner doors into the library. As I was about to curse them for causing untold nuisance, they left and went to work on the gate that allows one to access the library from Turl Street using the security card. For numerous reasons, including but not limited to a concern over homeless people stealing books from the library, the gate has been chained up for the last term and a bit, causing misery for those who would rather not have to walk into College to get to the library. But as of this afternoon, it is fixed. Granted, there is a large amount of metal against metal screeching for no clear reason, but the upside is that I could now quite literally roll out of my bed and, though painful, roll myself down into the library. Honest.

The rise of relatively average, if not dire, pop records from complete nobodies to the number one slot in the charts has always mystified me.

After all, who buys these records? Busted I can understand, and anything similar in appeal like Westlife, the 411 etc (young girls are a powerful consumer body). But you occasionally get something that shouldn't necessarily appeal that much to that age bracket, and shouldn't necessarily really appeal to anyone with any sense, like for example Lola's Theme, which was at the top a few weeks back.

Well today I worked out how this happens. It's the Germans. Now, I shan't mention the war, but clearly something in the German psyche appreciates the mindless banality doled out by Shapeshifters, whoever they may be. I was on the bus back from Oxford today and a group of young German tourists (well, around my age anyway), were sat next to me. They were all nattering away in fluent German, as you might expect, when I noticed one of them clutching a copy of said summer anthem. Now, multiply this single, supposedly harmless act of mindless brutality to the British chart by the number of foreign tourists Oxford gets every year. Now multiply it by the number of places in the UK that attract a similar or greater number of tourists than Oxford. We're beginning to see how musical travesties of justice occur. We fought them on the beaches, but clearly we can't fight them on the dance floor Sophie Ellis-Bextor style. It really is bling time for Hitler.

I have a training contract!!!!!!!

Thank you for the support!

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!

That being the American Institute, as Amy well knows, rather than the film starring Jude Law. Since Ollie is going on about libraries, I feel it only fair that I should add my own thoughts. Doing a thesis on an American topic means that I am currently living in the Rothemere American Institute which, unusually for a humanities building, is actually found in South Parks Road, effectively in the Science Area. Now, I don't find the 10 minute walk there and back twice a day, but what I do resent is science students who use the AI for their own work.

Now, I understand that the AI is part of the Bod and therefore anyone with a Bod card can enter and use as they wish. However, because the AI was opened but three years go (by President Clinton, no less), it is one of the most modern and generally nice places to do work. The architecture sometimes feels a bit stark and souless, but it's clean and dust free. For biologists, chemists and physicists, it's a great place for them to nip in between lectures to do some reading and problem sets.

Now, I object to this. It annoys me - and plenty of others too - because the scientists come in and use the individual study cubicles, which are designed for historians with lots of books needing to do cross referencing and generally living there all day. So when you come in to find them all taken up with people reading one book entitled Astrophysics or the like, it is particularly frustrating. I suppose if they say on the long desks then I wouldn't mind, or the smaller cubicles on the top floor, but taking prime historical research space for the purposes of writing 'boobies' on your calculator is just not cricket. Especially if you're a chemist - you've just had a matching, multi-million pound building made out of steel and glass and with bespoke work cubicles cosntructed but 20 metres away! And you even have a receptionist in there, not just someone who is checking books and Bod cards! Shoo, lest you annoy the historians too much...

It should be noted, however, that the AI is by no means perfect. The electric windows are very loud when opened. The opening memorial plaque has sharp corners and whilst going downstairs to the toilets I managed to scrape my upper right arm on it (painful, but not dissimilar from the bit in the great film Red Scorpion where Dolph Lundgren is tattooed by the semi naked bushman). And most annoying is the fact that three years after the opening of the building, the ethernet points are still not hooked up to the network, and neither is there a wireless network. On the other hand, this does mean I get a lot more work done.

Think back to the time when you last watched a really crap film for a couple of hours and when it had finished thought “I’ve just wasted two hours of my life”. I suppose it’s a bit like sitting in a traffic jam (although, I’m not too bothered about that to be honest). Today, I experienced the former feeling. However, I was not watching a film and I wasted four hours of my life, not two. As you will probably be aware, my Grandfather (affectionately known as “Grumps” rather than “Gramps”, or “Spam-feeder”) is moving to within 300m of my family. The 300m is an important fact. It means he is so close. He currently lives about 300miles away. Big difference. Anyway, I was given the task of going to his flat this morning and taking delivery of a washing machine and a fridge. Fine. It was due to be delivered between 9.15 and 1.15 so I thought I’d take some work over, a book and sit there quite happily for as long as necessary. I arrived on time and found that I had pitiful mobile phone reception. My phone flicked between one bar and no signal (unless I held it very high in front of the window). Needless to say, this was a little annoying but I didn’t think much of it. I then curled myself up on the carpet (the flat is bare at the moment) and read my novel. I would have been great for a sociological experiment of “what someone does when left in a bare room for 4 hours”. I read for a bit, then fell asleep (I had about 8hours over the weekend) for an hour and a half. I was absolutely freezing cold (no heating turned on at the moment) despite two fleeces and two pairs of socks on top of normal clothing. I then awoke (about 12) and decided to fiddle with the landline phone. I took it out of its box, set it up, and then found that the line wasn’t connected. At 12.32 I moved around until I got reception on the mobile to find I had an answer phone message – time of 12.28. The delivery men. They couldn’t find the flat (?), they tried to call but just got my answer phone and therefore they were buggering off and had rearranged the delivery for a week’s time. Great. Fan-blody-tastic. There are several things I can say about this. 1. They only called once. I know this because if people call and don’t leave a message then I get a text to say that x has called but left no message (if the phone goes straight to answer phone). 2. They gave me no number to call them – what if I had been on the phone at the time but free 30secs later? 3. I don’t know whether they were unable to read a map but the small cul-de-sac my grandfather will be living in is just off the main square in the centre of our village. All maps have it marked. it isn’t rocked science to just drive in and find no. 4. Alternatively, they could have asked anyone in the village – laziness. They were clearly lazy, couldn’t be bothered and if they couldn’t call someone to find out, then as far as they were concerned, that was that. 5. It just goes to show the dependency we have on mobile phone culture. Just the other weekend I left my phone at home (rare) and after being put for a few hours without contacting my Mother she phoned the police to check my car wasn’t in an accident. Ok, so at least they care. I can’t say anything against that. But, it illustrates the dependency we all have on mobiles. A few years ago these delivery men would probably have got out, asked someone or popped to the local post office for directions and managed to deliver the items. 6. What a waste of their money and my time. Especially considering I shall be wasting a further 4 hours this Friday now (re-scheduled delivery time after a 12 minute telephone conversation where I was on hold for ages, listened to repeated versions of “I will survive” and pressed so many options, hash keys and entered many numbers I was totally lost. It’s a miracle I ever got through. So there. That’s my rant. I then got back and made myself a cup of tea as I was freezing. it took ages as we don’t have an electric kettle at home, just one of these whistling things you put on the hob. Slow, silly and noisy. But I’ll save that annoyance for another time. Ciao.

Welcome to another week, ladies and gentlemen, and here I am back in the History Faculty library. I regret to inform you that there was no writing of any interest - not even the merest graffito - adorning the walls of the Fac toilets. It was most disappointing.

On to less pressing matters, and without wishing to descend into Woodingesque self-aggrandisement, the old website business is starting to tick over once again. In half an hour I'll be meeting a couple of people from one Oxford society to discuss plans for their new website, I'm already in on a project to design the launch website for another small society and I even have a brand new website all of my own cooking away nicely, set for a relatively understated launch some time in October or November, since I have to do a lot of writing and preparatory work before it is ready to unleash on the public. With a little luck it might turn into a valuable resource. Finally, I'm in early discussions with a friend about establishing a small design company of our own, since he also has an interest in such things and has more time to learn PHP than I do (oh, how I crave PHP).

Rob, it turns out, isn't the only one who can get into the news with relative ease.

http://www.thisissouthampton.co.uk/

The BBC and others have also been in touch...

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/wales/3642094.stm

Ah yes, Toilets Of Oxford University, it would be one of the highest-rated documentary series for years.

A couple of days ago I had lunch with Amy and OJ, and during the course of the meal discussed my trips to the toilets in the Radcliffe Camera (a history, English and theology library in the centre of Oxford). In years gone by, these toilets have been decorated with all manner of graffiti, ranging from the commonplace "meet me somewhere for sex or ring this number" requests to upmarket Oxford-style jokes. A lick of lime green paint has done for all of that, but a new generation of humour is emerging on top and is as putrid as the decor itself. For example...

"Q: What's black and blue and hates sex?"
"A: The little boy in my basement."

Well, today I continued my tour, ending up in the toilets of the Sackler Archaeology library. The most striking thing is the shift in intellectual standards. Because you have to be doing something relatively unusual to even be in the Sackler in the first place, the toilets inside the main building seem to attract a clientele with a more subtle and amusing sense of humour (with the occasional exception). Of particular note is that here, unlike in the Rad Cam, graffiti is scrawled in several languages, most of which I suspect are ancient. But we can go one better than that. Someone had written something in what looked like some kind of ancient Aramaic script, only for some clever clogs to amend it at a later date with grammar corrections! And having corrected the grammar, this gentleman left with the succinct rejoinder of "check your dictionary for c*nt". It's such a privilege to be here.

So, one of the great things about being a student is that if you feel a bit dozy, you can always write a morning off. Like this one. Alas, that means no going home early this evening.

Since I have been harangued into posting, I will do an OJ and post a link and have done with it. This will be of particular interest to Amy.

Oh all right then, I'll yap for a while seeing as I don't want to go to bed but I don't want to do any work. I downloaded Yahoo! Messenger yesterday because my mum prefers it to AOL or MSN and wants to use it to talk to me, and being the good son that I am, I obeyed. It's actually quite good (of course, the many millions who already use it probably won't need telling that). Swish design, responsive, one or two teething issues but other than that, fine. And it didn't even attempt to take over my PC with toolbars and changing defaults of everything - well it did but I nabbed it before it could do any lasting damage.

The best part is the avatars. For those who think an avatar is where cows go to die, they are online representations of the user - Yahoo! is not the first to use them by any means, but they offer a handy little page where you can design your own avatar using lots of graphics, starting with the face and hair and progressing to top, trousers, accessories and background scenery. This avatar then becomes the equivalent of an MSN display pic (indeed it is similar to MSN's WeeMee tool, only less cartoony and far more accessible from within the Messenger interface).

My avatar is fantastic. I will admit that I had trouble with the avatar design system initially, because I fancied every creation I came up with, but I've finally ended up with a rough approximation of me - brown "wavy" (their description not mine) hair, blue eyes, angry look (well why not, it's alluring), grey/white top and ripped dark jeans. Perfect. My accessory is a rucksack, since one travels everywhere with me, and my pet (you're allowed a pet) is a monkey, which represents my other half. Don't ask why it does, but it does. And given that he is known as "Monkey", definitely don't ask what my pet name is in the relationship.

Of all the choices I made when designing my avatar, I am most proud of the background. I chose a bedroom, lavishly decorated in shades of pink with a nice little dressing table etc. It was clearly meant for 12-year-old girls to choose but frankly it looked nice and I was feeling very gay so I went for it, and I then spent the next day or two pining for it, because it looked so nice that I wished it were real. This is, of course, a dream I will probably never see realised, but I managed to go some way towards consoling myself today. I bought a pair of pink earphones. So, next time you see me in the Rad Cam, I will undoubtedly be sporting them and making my own little statement.

And yes, I do openly flout Bodleian regulations on earphones inside libraries, although it could be contested that the sign on the Rad Cam door prohibits only mobile phones and personal steroes - not sound from a laptop. But then I use my mobile phone too. And I chew gum. And I fill out the pink slips in such a hurry that they are all illegible. And I hog one of just eight desk spaces within reach of a power outlet checking my emails and forums all day long. So the Rad Cam staff will probably be glad that I'm in the Sackler library (committing the same infringements) all day Thursday.

Hmm. I have just spent about 20mins staring out of my bedroom window looking at the garden and watching two grey squirrels bury nuts, run up and down the trees, frolic etc. Really incredible anaimals to watch. Maybe not the most productive use of time however. Beats looking for "birdage" on behalf of Anthony in the Rad Cam though or staring onto the less gleaming Oxford rooftops.

NB: Revising for two collections + new term work is dull. Finals is going to be hell. Will we see the light of day? Best get used to eating cereal.

And onwards...

Ok, so today two unbelievable (in different ways) things happened to me.

First, I went to the chemist this morning to buy some cold sore cream and some mouth ulcer ointment. You have to be 16 to buy this products. The shop assistant said to me "I'm sorry love, but can you tell me your age". I stuttered a very unconvincing "20", because I was in shock, to which she replied "do you have proof of that". I produced, in a state of anger/shock my driving license, pointing out that I was born in 1984 and my Bod Card. Ok, the latter was unnecessary but proved to her that I was intelligent and likely to have a starting salary of double her wages. At least. She then went all weepy and said "Oh sorry dear. I do apologise ma'am". "You'll be flattered when you're thirty". Ok, so I walked out of there feeling 15 going on 50.

The second event concerned OJ. He knows I am coming up to Oxford tomorrow. Jeez, we have all had email banter about it for the last 24hrs. However, after a 10min phone call where we discussed it, he then said "so honey, what are you doing tomorrow". Clutz! He has also lost his stapler, broken a cup and a plate and quite frankly needs his brain testing. And this is the guy I am going to marry and trust with my money and life. Maybe I need 'my' brain testing...! :p

Batman Visits the Queen is almost like the title for some children's book such as "Spot's hospital visit". In the rather humerous events of this afternoon, Batman scaled the balconies of Buckingham Palace. Certainly a large breach of security but at least, as one commentator on Radio4 pointed out, at least the Met can be safe in the knowledge that they can guard the Palace from everybody... except superheroes and how Ken should be pleased to be able to charge a Bat-mobile with the congestion charge.

What I think is remarkable, in light of slack security etc is this comment from Sir John, the Met Police Commissioner. "Sir John said police made a split-second judgement that Mr Hatch was not a security risk because of the way he was behaving and the clothes he was wearing - and for this reason they did not open fire". Great. Calling all terrorists... "wear fancy dress and the police won't shoot". What a fantastic statement. Just goes to show, the police do discriminate. Clearly all coloured shop lifters should start wearing chicken costumes.

Hello darlings. I thought I?d fill you in on a bit of OJ-esque Amy witter. All is well with me.

You know the term is going to be interesting when one of your book titles has the phrase "Long Haired Kings" in it, and when nearly a whole page of the faculty bibliography is dedicated to one man.

Great song, also relevent to my room this year. I'm off for the weekend to the delightful Ms Kennedy, for various meals, contract reviews and hugs. 1 set of revision all done - thesis work starts Monday :D

Ok, so the last post was me at the bottom of the rollercoaster. Apparently the top is meant to be most scary, so OJ says I have the emotional fortitude of cottage cheese on an inverse rollercoaster. Go figure. Anyway, I have been telephoned by a rather large English law firm and told I now have a job. Big relief! So there, end of worry and stress. (for now, anyway). I am still waiting on the American... but... well, this is good. Very good. But aghhhh.... now I need a 2:1. Best get to work as from tomorrow.

As an aside, thanks to everyone who has stood by me. That goes for OJ, Ollie & Co.

I had my last job interview today. It's wierd. I have this really strange sinking feeling. It's not depression as such, because I know what that's like. And I don't feel s**t about myself, fat or worthless. It's just the feeling of being in no-man's land. I have done all I can. A job is down to fate. What does failure feel like? I don't really know. Well, my Grade 4 piano exam was failed the first time around, but since then, nothing. It's really scary. Rock bottom s**t scary. OJ says that I shouldn't be scared about things I can't change. He's right. However, it may be stupid to be scared but nevertheless I am. I guess I'll report by the end of the week on either what success feels like... or failing that, failure. Hmm. What's my plan B?

Indeed, with the ending of eras, let me address one of my pet subjects, the ever wonderful Radio 2. Today has seen the introduction of the new Saturday schedule. Dale Winton and his Pick of the Pops has gone, replaced with Dermot O’Leary’s Saturday Club. A brave move indeed – I think there is more to lose than gain for the station as a whole – but it was a game first effort by Dermot. This means so much because my Saturdays since the age of 13, school permitting, have been dedicated to Radio 2. To accommodate Dermot, Richard Allinson has lost an hour, and Bob Harris has lost half an hour. Paul Gambacinni starts half an hour earlier, and the wonderful chats he had with Richard have, as he pointed out today, gone. Watching schedule changes is interesting as it gives an insight into changing tastes and demand. For instance, although Bob has lost half an hour on Saturday nights, he has gained a new three hour show on Saturday mornings (a very weird working day), suggesting that he is well received by many listeners – something that I have been promoting for years now.

Richard is a different kettle of fish. He lost his weekday evening shows to Mark Radcliffe (who has grown on me substantially now he has lost all his ties to Radio 1 and suddenly shifted into middle age) and now another hour has gone on his Saturday show. As it is, he’s spent the last few weeks filling in for Terry Wogan, Ken Bruce, Steve Wright and next week, Sarah Kennedy. Smart money says that one of those will be going in the near future. Sarah Kennedy, who I used to listen to religiously when I was at school as she was on as I got up, has become increasingly difficult to listen to, especially with her predilections for irrelevant and ineffective personal stories and an intonation that is unbearable. But she would be better replaced by Alex Lester, a highly talented broadcaster who is cruelly underused on the 3am to 6am shift. I cannot see Wogan leaving in the near future, and Allinson, although the best substitute in that slot I’ve heard so far, currently lacks the intimacy and gravitas to lock down the early morning slot. I’ve heard a few rumours surrounding Ken Bruce leaving, but that would be a real shame. Allinson has ably filled the show before, but Bruce is a natural for that time slot.

So that leaves Steve Wright. His show on weekday afternoons is most like Richard’s Saturday show, and I have to say that Richard’s is the better. Wrighty is a broadcaster who cannot just be put on in the background – either you listen to him or he is too irritating a distraction and must go off. His show seems to be decreasing in quality as the years go by – and I remain particularly annoyed at his dedication to the playlist and his inability to do the oldies on time – and I have to say that it would be no great loss for him to be replaced by Richard. Moving on from there, if Johnnie Walker is forced to leave the Drivetime slot due to health issues, then Stuart Maconie has come on in leaps and bounds as a broadcaster, though I hope that Johnnie will not go yet, as he remains a joy to listen to.

Richard Allinson is a highly talented DJ, has a most pleasant and engaging voice, and would be a great loss to Radio 2. I only hope that the powers that be appreciate this as well. I think my plan above is the fairest and best option that would keep Radio 2 as the most listened to station in the country. Where was that link to BBC traineeships…?

Oh, where to start. Where to start. True, I have neglected this purple love child that is Dayorama, but it has always been there in the back of my mind. As Amy has so kindly pointed out, I have returned to Oxford. I am in my room for this year, which is outstandingly better than last years. Even the fact that it overlooks the High, and has a street lamp right outside the window, thus meaning everything is bathed in a curious orange glow each night, has not meant that I have struggled to get to sleep. Yes, the moving the furniture incident was a pain in the ass, but everything is now arranged to my satisfaction. Including the temperature of the fridge.

Ostensibly, I’m here to do (lots) of work, including but not limited to thesis research, revision of last term’s work, reading for next term and various graduate and job applications. I’m also going to attempt to get a little back in shape, and also do stuff. For example, tomorrow I’m heading to Westminster to catch the final stage of the Tour of Britain. It’ll be like the Tour de France, just without any famous cyclists in it, and with less French. Excellent.

I will now comment on the summer job. I spent 6 times as a “part-time” activity leader at a summer camp for European kids aged 10-16 to improve their English. No, it was not as bad as the cake factory, although it paid less. At the end of the day, I enjoyed playing basketball and being outside and things. I cannot think of anything I enjoyed about the cake factory. However, there was still plenty wrong with the job. I’ll start with the incompetence of the management, both on site and at head office. The first two weeks – each batch of kids came for a fortnight – were just chaos. Our induction consisted of a two hour lecture which said nearly everything that we had heard at the interview. We were then told to report at 4 a.m. the next day for the first airport run. No one knew who was in charge, and those who thought they were weren’t very good. I was “hired” on a 30 hour working week; the first two weeks I pulled an average of 65 instead. Of course, I had no recourse to complain according to my contract, because I had not been given a contract. And despite numerous requests by myself and other leaders, we did not get one at all, despite it being promised. The nadir came at the end of the first batch of the kids, when a manager came from head office to discuss the results of an unannounced spot check that had taken part early that week. The results were surprisingly good, given the conditions. Nevertheless, we took the chance to put forward what exactly was wrong with the Camp. It took two hours, was incredibly satisfying, and ended with me writing the 15 points down. God knows what happened to them, but in fairness a new head leader was appointed, and organisationally the whole system improved thereafter. Nevertheless, even she struggled with some of the difficulties posed by the system.

After that showdown, most of the problems were caused by the kids – the spoilt, petulant young Russians, or the “couldn’t give a fuck” older Spanish and Germans. But they sorted out the hours, and they paid me on time and the right amount (although even that wasn’t simple). Being stuck at Heathrow for hours in August due to cancelled flights wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault either. Nonetheless, it was with great relief that I left at the end of the six weeks. I was asked if I would be working there next year, to which I replied that it was highly unlikely. It later turned out that all the staff – teachers and leaders – had said the same. Which is all you need to know.
One of the frustrations of the numerous hours worked in the first two weeks is that they denied me the ability to watch the Tour de France. Eurosport’s live coverage was exemplary, but ITV2’s one hour highlight show each evening was, if you’ll excuse the pun, a tour de force. Hosted by Gary Imlach, a champion of minority sports and a man I have respected ever since the now defunct Blitz on Channel 4 (a review of the NFL on Saturday Mornings), it was a delight to watch – informative, well edited with excellent commentary and a cracking credits sequence. Of course, this summer was an Olympic Summer, and I think Amy now appreciates what my mother and I call the “Olympic Spirit”. This consists of watching every and each sport that is shown no matter how boring or what else is on other channels, because the Olympics only come every four years. This year I only missed synchronised swimming, fencing, wrestling and water polo, but managed to catch a bit of everything else, thanks to Eurosport (again) and the BBC’s fabulous interactive scheme. Even the sight of Sharon Davies’ nipples, or the air where Suzi Perry’s brain should be, was not enough to turn me off. Watching sport at its highest, and most competitive level, is always exhilarating. My only regrets are that it is too late to join the Erki Nool Fan Club (he’s retired), and that the 100m and 200m world records stayed intact. Based on the semi finals, both seemed destined to fall. The Olympics are a feast for the armchair athlete – forget not that I spent a good three hours of my eighteenth birthday watching the Four Man Bobsleigh competition from Salt Lake City – and I utterly hope that London wins the games in 2012.

What else to report? I will begin filling in various forms for graduate applications in the coming weeks. I have already been frustrated by Oxford’s refusal to release application materials until mid September, whilst KCL and UCL are way ahead. But still, it looks like fun. I shall try to keep the blog updated as it goes along with various thoughts about graduate life. The fact that I am now a finalist (it sunk in as I had to sign in to Lincoln as a third year…) is increasingly terrifying, despite me telling others that it’s fine. It brings with it numerous milestones – 21sts, job interviews – that once seemed so far away. It is like the end of the era.

What is it about Oxford? Self motivation or something. I set myself a work target for this week. Due to interviews and things I haven't done any. Thus, it falls on today and tomorrow to do it so I can get on track for next week. I therefore spend what is probably the hottest day by far for several weeks cooped up in my room, like a chicken, doing work. Bonkers. And then I go and run 5k. I am an idiot at times.

However... not so bad as a certain person... "Had a bit of an issue with the cottage cheese. The fridge was too cold, so it froze, so have jut defrosted it. Fridge is surprisingly good at chilling things even when it doesn't really feel cold.
Things you learn, eh?"

A fridge being good at chilling things? Never. That does surprise me. Next you'll be telling me that the rain is wet.

Really guys, this lack of posting is pathetic. Maybe this will fuel you...

What has happened to OJ?

a) He never delighted us with tales of his 'oh so awful, worse than the cake-factory, scared for life' job.

b) He arrived in Oxford today. To work. Full Stop. Nickname... the BHG... the Big History Gimp. (not me, a fellow Lincolnite)

c) On arrival, he spent an hour + moving furniture in his room... and then moving it all back again. Career with Pickfords is clearly out of the question.

d) He forgot to take his laptop. Duh! Well, actually he left it in his Mum's car. That'll be a hefty courier bill then.

e) He has bought a tea-pot for his room. It is purple. Last week he drank a J2O. Is he turning gay?

f) I still love him.