Three hostages have been taken in Afghanistan and video footage of them has been released. However, I have the utmost confidence that they'll escape. Take a look at the video still BBC News have adopted - right-click here and select "Open In New Window". It looks somewhat similar to Bond flanked by two menacing Bond beauties (particularly the one on the left). They've also all got that look of "this is a promo shot for the next film".

I think I'll stop now before I get accused of being a tad insensitive. On the subject of BBC News, stay tuned for a big discussion - of the dangers its website presents to objective journalism - in the near future (i.e. when I get time to write it).

It means that:

- you will no longer have to endure my habit of dropping the fact that I was put up a year into the conversation at every possible opportunity. Previously I delighted in finding sneaky ways to bring up the topic of how I was actually only so-and-such an age, and would then wait patiently for someone else to ask if that made me a child genius, to which I would respond with a coy grin but no confirmation or denial. I will not enjoy saying "I'm only 20" anything like as much as I enjoyed saying "I'm only 17", "I'm only 18" and "I'm only 19". However, be warned that I am likely to replace this with a new "I'll have a degree at the age of 20" theme, which is far more acceptable in my view.

- this is your last chance for a decade to buy me a themed age-related card in somewhere like Clintons, unless they do very tacky "21 today" ones. Don't get me one of those. I'm likely to cry once I get to 21.

- nothing whatsoever becomes legal that wasn't before (at least not in this country). This is a major let-down. I almost feel like supporting the raising of the age of consent to 20 just to make it worthwhile. It's a similar emotion to the one I felt when I was 18: previously I'd been able to get into clubs using my university card at the age of 17, because everyone assumed I was 18 (notice how easily I work this whole year-ahead-of-myself thing into everything I do). Once I actually was 18, I never went clubbing because there seemed no point now that I was allowed.

In all honesty, it's relatively easy to establish that my birthday doesn't really mean all that much. In fact, it's depressing that I'm now more than a quarter of the way through my life (if I'm lucky), and about a third of the way through it if I'm marginally less lucky. It makes Aaron's theories of reincarnation - he's convinced he was once a Red Indian shaman - seem very tempting indeed. Of course, I'd have to go one better and be a shaman who was put up a year, thereby skipping Young Shaman Workbooks six through nine.

...it's who your peers are. It has been announced that the ex-Labour leader Neil Kinnock and the former Hong Kong governor Chris Patten (and Chancellor of our dear University) are to be made life peers. Currently Patten and Kinnock are European Commissions, although when the new EU Commission is in place they will step down and are to be replaced by the one and only Peter Mandelson.

Thought for the day: Does this mean that if Labour win another term and Mandelson has a successful reign as Commissioner that in a few years time he too will be made a life peer?

When we came up for the first time, there wasn't much made of rustication (being suspended from the university for a set period). It was all rather hushed up, not even wheeled out as a threat during Freshers' Week so as to make us work harder. But, since I've been at Lincoln, three people have been rusticated and now there is a fourth. I don't know Roger that well, but from what I've seen of the evidence, and from what I've spoken with him, rustication does seem a bit harsh. That he is suspended until January does not, I think, make it any less of a punishment than a whole year - surely coming back having missed a term's worth of work but being expected to carry on as normal would be more difficult than missing a whole year. For details of the original story in the OxStu, see here. Kudos to whoever managed to get the details to the BBC so quickly though - there's some serious journalistic networking going on.

For anyone who missed it, for a few fleeting minutes Amy had a post here where she pointed out the "security concerns" that led George W Bush to close his official site to foreign access. She then illustrated that georgewbush.org works, thereby allegedly demonstrating how crap that security actually is. I suggest you go there and draw your own conclusions about security. Or sanity.

On a separate note, I become more convinced, day by day, that Bush will win this election. It is practically unfathomable when you, say, read NME's interviews with American artists or look at Vote For Change or listen to the overwhelming majority of media opinion (something like forty US newspapers are backing Kerry). But somehow - somehow - I have the feeling that it may not be enough. There's also the problem that whoever wins, it is almost certain to take months in courts across America for the final verdict to emerge. America is no longer the world's finest democracy. I wonder if the UN sends election observers? I'd be fascinated to see their post-election reports.

Another classic from my oh so favourite travel guide.

Oxford

Arguably the world's most famous university town, Oxford is graced by superb college architecture and oozes questing youthfulness, scholarship and bizarre high jinks. The views across the meadows to the city's golden spires are guaranteed to appear in 30% of English period dramas, but they manage to remain one of the most beautiful and inspiring of sights. Back in the real world, Oxford is not just the turf of toffs and boffs: it was a major car-manufacturing centre until the terminal decline of the British car industry and is now a thriving centre of service industries. The pick of the colleges are Christ Church, Merton and Magdalen, but nearly all them are drenched in atmosphere, history, privilege and tradition. Don't kid yourself, you wouldn't have studied any harder in such august surroundings.

What's the guessing OJ has made a note of where "not" to take me.

What can I say? OJ has met his match. 285:261. I was abused throughout the game with shouts such as "You b**ch, you b**ch, you f***ing b**ch, grrr", and yet I still won. It wasn't really the fact that I won, it was the fact that OJ lost! Not that we are competitive or anything.

There is something utterly indulgent, delicious and satisfying about a slab of chocolate cake. Thanks Ollie, I needed it! And I can now truly recommend the QI chocolate cake!

Occasionally, fate is wont to conspire against a man.

At around 7:10pm last night (Monday), I left my room and delivered a book to OJ's pigeonhole. Then I wandered down to the Carfax chip shop to get my favourite, sausage and chips, as Amy well knows - I am, to certain people, the "Cowley Chip Man" owing to my liking for a good sausage. With chips. Anyhow, I placed my order and waited patiently. Alas, the gentleman behind the counter misheard my order and duly presented me with fish and chips, with not a sausage in sight. Being British as I am, I was not about to bring this to his attention or make any kind of scene whatsoever, so I meekly took my fish, paid the obscene total of £4.50 and scuttled off into the night.

I got back to college and my friend Laura was in the quad, so we chatted for a bit and then wandered back to my room together. I plonked the fish and chips down on my desk and began to unwrap it, then hacked off a piece of fish with my woefully inadequate wooden fork and swallowed it. Lo and behold, within seconds I could feel a foreign object in my throat. Panic kind of set in, then drifted off again, once I realised that I wasn't in any great danger of choking. So I tried drinking lots of liquid to clear it, tried some chips to maybe dislodge it, and even rang my mum in search of suggestions. This culminated in me ramming my fingers down my throat in the bathroom (causing myself to vomit several times), with Laura sat on my bed biding her time all the while. I could feel the object, and almost got a purchase on it at one point, but couldn't remove it, try as I might. Eventually, I conceded defeat and decided I'd have to go to hospital.

Catching the bus to an A&E department is probably quite a paradoxical thing to do, but half an hour later it trundled into the John Radcliffe Hospital in Headington and I made for Emergency Reception. I checked myself in, and was quickly diagnosed (not difficult - fish bone in throat) then told to take a seat.

Two hours later (by which time my dad had arrived on the scene of his own accord), I was seen by a doctor. We had a brief yet engaging conversation about retching, during which we agreed that if his tongue depressor strayed too far, I was to turn to the left and dispose of anything of a projectile nature. Thankfully this didn't come to pass - alas, the doctor couldn't find the offending object either, so I was referred for an x-ray. Ten minutes later I duly had the x-ray (which involved stripping down in front of a young Geordie nurse), but it was a full hour before one of the doctors deigned to get in touch with me again. This time, I was told, they'd have to refer me to the Ear, Nose & Throat department at the Radcliffe Infirmary (a separate institution in the centre of Oxford) because the x-ray was inconclusive. It looked like something might well be inside my throat, but they couldn't pinpoint it. So off we went.

The Radcliffe Infirmary was deserted - we saw not one other patient on the long and winding journey to the ENT department, no other patient during our stay in the department and no other patient on the return trip. The doctor on duty, a young man who reminded me a little of Tony Slattery (if anyone else ever watched Whose Line Is It Anyway?), was one of those doctors who slightly scares you with a lot of bluster for very little gain. For example, he flounced into the room and inquired if I was Mr Wiggins. No, I wasn't. Ah, who was I then? I was Ollie Williams. Ah, he said, he had heard the name wrong down the phone. This is the kind of start which always unnerves me with doctors. He then proceeded to establish with the duty nurse that the ENT department had effectively no proper lighting equipment, and the one suitable lamp they could find flickered on and off intermittently whenever it was raised to a decent height. Eventually they got it to work, but after ten more minutes of tongue depression, by which time my tongue was not the only sufferer, he concluded that he couldn't find anything either. The x-ray, he said, didn't show anything, but that apparently was nothing new for x-rays, which frequently missed important stuff. So it was either a scratch (scratch my arse... so to speak), or it was so deeply buried that they couldn't do anything and hopefully it would go away.

And so, on the back of that convincing and highly terminological medical summary of the situation, I was discharged, with an emergency appointment booked for any time on Tuesday morning if I still felt the same. I got home absolutely famished, and despite the presence of the fish bone, elected to polish off a bakewell tart (the softest food I had in my room).

Well, and I do fear this goes without saying, after one swallow it had taken the bone with it. I keep swallowing again and again now just to check, expecting the bleeder to re-emerge, but I can't feel it at all. After five hours in two separate hospitals, a lowly item of confectionery has come up trumps. Mr Kipling would make an exceedingly good doctor.

I'm not having much luck with buses. I am currently in the middle of writing a letter to the Oxford Bus Company requesting a refund for my ticket on Sunday night - I was returning from Kent and the Oxford Express Coach got a flat tyre. As I was feeling a bit rotten and just wanted to get back, I cut my losses and paid £5 for the Oxford Tube (the next bus that came along). I am attempting to get some form of refund from the Oxford Bus Company. It's unlikely that it will result in anything, but I may as well try.

Anyway, I was looking for their address and they provided me with a link to "enthusiasts", their page dedicated to websites about other bus companys, the Oxford fleet etc. Amongst the web links are the "Bus Station", a useful portal to bus-related websites around the world, "PSV Circle", a UK wide enthusiast organisation specialising in bus operators and their vehicles, "Omnibus Society", a UK wide enthusiast organisation specialising in bus and coach services, and my personal favourite, "Buses magazine", a monthly magazine with mix of enthusiast and professional articles. Fantastic! It's a variation on train spotting at least!

I just took the BBC News Online Water Quiz and successfully achieved a score of 0 out of 10 for the first time ever.

For the past few weeks, one record has been played regularly on airwaves across the country. It isn’t a single by a latest boy-band, nor is it some teenage cheesey track, instead it is called “Open Arms” and is the latest release from someone who has been described as the “queen of rock and roll”… the one and only Tina Turner! I know everyone is probably more than aware that I hold Tina in high esteem – not only for her music but for her personality as well. Her latest single is no exception. It has her legendry rhythm, vitality and the her powerful voice. Her new album, “All the Best” will be released on 1 November 2004. Not bad for someone who is 65yrs of age! The album will feature some of the songs which made her famous in the 60s, her solo recordings in the 80s and through to her three newly-recorded songs. It will certainly be on my Christmas wish-list.

In my opinion her music is great, but even if she doesn’t appeal in that department, it would be difficult to deny that the “life story” on her website doesn’t make for interesting and inspirational reading. The film, “what’s love got to do with it”, is even more poignant. Maybe when times get tough, one of her Buddhist chants is worth remembering - ...the locus is a flower that grows in the mud, the deeper and thicker the mud, the more beautiful the flower blooms...

Two relatively out-of-the-norm things (for Oxford) happened in the last half and hour. The people who live in the room above me had sex like rampant rabbits. I could hear every vibration. Great. Secondly, two busses (no. 5 and no. 13 – both Ox bus Co.) just crashed on the High below OJ’s room. It looked as though bus A pulled away from the traffic lights and bus B didn't notice that bus A had stopped a little way past the lights. Bus B then went into the back of bus A. The rear window of bus A was smashed and the front window of Bus B – un-driveable for any distance. It must have ploughed in with quite a force. All the people on the buses pilled out into the rain and cars started to pile up along the High. Eventually bus A drove off and bus B followed (they stopped outside the library/St Mary's). Bus B burst a tyre pulling because there was so much glass (and still is) over the High. So there we are. Both incidents made me think of the poem below, written by Wendy Cope.

Bloody men are like bloody buses -
You wait for about a year -
And as soon as one approaches your stop
Two or three others appear.

You look at them flashing their indicators,
Offering you a ride.
Your trying to read the destinations,
You havent much time to decide.

If you make a mistake,there is no turning back.
Jump off,and youll stand there and gaze
While the cars and taxis and lorries go by
And the minutes,the hours,the days.

Wendy Cope.

A fact from BBC online’s “10 things we didn’t know this time last week” is that “the prize-winning Gherkin office block has 24,000 square metres of external glass, equivalent to five football pitches”. That’s actually quite an incredible statistic when you consider the total area is 76, 400m and the height is 179.8m. I actually find it quite hard to comprehend. I suppose there are many amazing statistics like that in architecture (we could even create another list) such as the biome structures at the Eden Project, the bubbles of which are made out of inflated hexagonal transparent “plastic” windows with a life span of 25yrs+ and each hexagon tough enough to take the weight of a rugby team. Career as an engineer or architect anyone? And it’s not all modern inventions either, there’s the Duomo (Cathedral) in Florence where Brunelleschi designed the staggering dome-shaped roof for the building back in the 1400s. Even aqueducts, long bridges, buildings such as the Rad Cam, St Paul’s, Eiffel Tower or those designed to withstand earth tremors really are quite incredible when you think about it.

Incidentally, the title “10 things we didn’t know this time last week” is an ambiguous title and thus it annoys me. What does the BBC mean by “we didn’t know”. Do they mean “we as in the general public”, in which case the statement is quite valid. But, if they mean “we” as in civilisation in general, then the title is meaningless. I bet the architect who designed the Gherkin knew before last week that the total area of the external glass was equal to 5 football pitches, in fact he probably knows that it is equal to 5.34578 football pitches. Other statistics e.g. those released this week e.g. that the average MP receives £175,000 a year, made up of £57,000 salary and an average £118,000 allowances wasn’t known in the general public last week, but someone must have known; someone will have had that statistic before the report was published. The only things that we really didn’t know last week would be things such as a death, a birth, result of a court case, a cure for a medicine or other such new discovery. Its likely that the majority of the “ten things we didn’t know” were actually known by someone in the world, somewhere.

Just thought mention that the reason for the UN flag flying on Carfax Tower is that it is United Nations Day tomorrow.

The Oxford Student newspaper, in its edition dated yesterday, carries a competition to win an iPod, now running into its second week (that is, they give away a separate iPod each week). In order to win the iPod, all you have to do is answer a simple question about a news story found elsewhere in the paper. This week's question:

From which college did a student have their iPod stolen this week?

The OxStu should know, it probably nicked it in order to run the competition! I wonder if the poor kid who lost theirs will enter...

Time to share the product of some highly amusing MSN conversations between us all this week. They were funny at the time. Apologies for the rudeness and the lack of rhyme.

There once was a lawyer called Amy
Who went off to firms and said “pay-me”
Her boyfriend (not funny)
Wanted some money
“If so” quoth she, “you’ll have to lay me”

The classic “What rhymes with Ollie moment” –

There once was a boy called Ollie
Who really should-a been called Polly
He wanted a man
But only got spam
And he ended up looking like a wally

There once was a man called Oliver John
Who wanted to be a magnificent don
He was arrogant and brash
Stubborn and rash
And suffered as his hair was to lon(g)

There once was a boy called Wooding
Who really liked his pudding
He was arrogant and brash
Stubborn and rash
And often lost his footing.

They don’t all work, but they were amusing… there were more…but someone else can add those if they wish…

The product of our absolutely blistering legal culture.

One of the most comprehensive tutorial tools I've ever seen the BBC use.

I've been meaning to write this for ages and it's going to end up as a long article, so I'll use the extended entry function for it. Basically, in the following miniature essay I am going to argue that the current Oxford university method of examining its students - at least the history ones - is antiquated, patently unfair to the majority and does very little to actually evaluate the historical skills of the student.

Context: Last year, OJ and I went out for dinner and he wouldn’t let me have a glass of diet coke as he said it would cost too much (I was probably paying the bill anyway, but nevermind). Instead of d/c, I was to have water. Not bottled water, but tap water. Lovely. Cheapskate. Ollie and I have tortured OJ about this for months. I thought he was cured; on Friday night we all managed a bottle of still water each at dinner. That was about £6 worth of water. *shock*

At 4pm today, we all met in Q.I. for a coffee and chat prior to OJ and Ollie’s class. This happened last week as well and I suspect it will be a regular occurrence throughout the term. I arrived later than the men (boys?) as I came from the gym. I knew that I’d be late and thus asked OJ to get me a water. Now, I wanted water because I am cutting down on d/c – in fact, I’ve never had more than one can per day this term.

Today, I arrived in Q.I and there was a glass of water, with lime and ice waiting for me. Great. When we came to discussing whether anyone wanted another drink, or who was going to pay the bill, it was revealed to me that my glass of water was tap water. Apparently my face was a picture. OJ had the option to buy me a bottle, and opted for tap. Fantastic. That’s all I’m worth. I am worth a glass of free tap water.

I must say, OJ suffered for the rest of the chat. I suppose I should be grateful - at least he doesn’t waste his money. But that’s it, he does waste his money at times on random CDs or a spending spree in Borders. Oh well. I think he has learnt his lesson this time though – he will either have to buy me bottled water, or give his money to Ollie as a form of bribery – now which is worse?

[I am not going to admit that I couldn’t actually tell that the water was from the tap and not bottled. Luckily no one quizzed me on that fact either. It isn’t about the taste anyway, it’s the principle that counts. Not that I am stubborn or anything… ]

Interesting piece in The Observer last week that I've only just seen on QI. Given that we're about to decamp there in an hour for an overly expensive pre class coffee, I am a tad disturbed by the penultimate graf:

Whether all these Oxford luminaries will join the new club may never be known. 'One of the rules is that nobody is allowed to talk about what goes on in there or who the members are,' explained Lloyd, who has launched the club with John Mitchinson, the former boss of Harvill Press and a director of the Hay Literary Festival, using money from a large number of small investors. 'It is not sinister, it is just private.'

I didn't realise Fight Club had set up a local chapter. I'm not sure if I'd be able to take Rory McGrath though. He's a big guy.

It's in all the papers today, and now on the BBC - a study that is meant to give dates when words became popular but, given the one word one year policy, reads more like a list of popular culture. Of interest - sex starts in 1929, allegedly; hypermarket in 1970 (I thought that was an 80's word); Google in 1999 (I think that it's a little early, I'd say it only came into widespread use in 2002 onwards. I certainly remember telling people to Google things back then and receiving blank looks in exchange); and mobile phone in 1945 which leaves me wondering what mobile meant in 1986.

Now, I have a lot of time for the Oxford Careers Serivce - they're a good bunch, and I find most of their stuff useful. However, this week's copy of The Bridge summarises neatly some of the problems that Oxford has. Main title, front page: "Money makes the world go round." OK, so it's for careers in finance, but still...

The Bodlien Law Library was 40 years old today. There were balloons around the admin desk and students got free sweets on arrival. :D Will it have increased working today - that little lighthearted gesture on arrival, making everyone smile; or will it have decreased working - how many people walked in and out of the library every 15mins to get another sweet? Happy times.

I know Ollie was only mocking me in his comment to “Christmas” but the comment actually revived one of my “issues” with magazine culture in the UK. Let’s suppose I want to settle down with a magazine one afternoon. I am looking to read something which is interesting, not too in-depth and relaxing. What are my choices? (here comes a “list”).

1. Cat Lover’s World, Trains-are-us, Fishing Weekly, Runner’s World etc. Now, these are all specialist, which for me, means too specific. I may be interested in aspects of these magazines, particularly the latter, but even in that magazine the articles are all too dedicated. It’s ok to have a few tips for running, but I don’t want to know how to prepare for my 66th Marathon, or how to fuel myself before my run from Land’s End to John-o-Groats. Anyway, the latter article seems to appear in every fitness magazine on a three monthly cycle, the advice changing each time.
2. Spectator, Prospect (OJ’s choice on Saturday), Private Eye etc. I enjoy these magazines, but for a gentle Saturday afternoon they are a bit “heavy” (and lets face it, the first two would go totally over my head). Minor articles encompassed in another magazine would be great, but not the whole magazine.
3. Hello!, OK, Heat etc. Well, quite frankly I don’t care, not enough to spend the best part of £3 anyway. Who cares if Kate Winslett has lost/gained weight, if Gerri has cellulite or if Robbie has got another tattoo. And I don’t want to know the latest celebrity diet thanks.
4. Cosmopolitan, Red, B, Company etc. These magazines are good for a laugh but they get really really tedious and brain-numbing. I don’t want to know what the solution to “my best friend’s wife sister’s is really attractive and last week I slept with her. She’s now told me a lesbian, my greatest fantasy. I feel so let down and haven’t been acting very strange around my best friend. I can tell him everything but he is anti homosexuals, what should I do?” Neither do I want to know how to become an anorexic, or what to do if you spot your friend being one, or how everyone should lose weight and join the “Cosmo Summer-Slim” or something. No thanks. I also don’t want to stare at attractive, thin female models at the time I am convincing myself it is ok to be a size 12 or to look at clothes which, quite frankly, despite not being able to fit into, I wouldn’t make my worst enemy wear (ok, maybe I would). Thus, I don’t have much choice. The magazines which are geared for me (twenty, female, relatively intelligent, wide category of interests) – the latter category (maybe?) – I can’t read, unless I want to be depressed for the rest of the day. Ok, this will change but right now, avoidance is the best technique. This leaves me with the first three categories – no thanks. I am then left with the usual magazines which fall out of the weekend papers – I like these, good balance, mix of everything etc, but on Saturday I wanted something extra. What then? Well, there’s National Geographic, or there are magazines usually with the title of Country Life/Living etc. Ok, so these may be geared for middle-aged jam-making women who live in the Peak District, but as a magazine they are well balanced. They relay interesting information from sport, nature, travel, cooking, local history, music etc and therefore I do find them relatively interesting, relaxing and easy to read and flick through. I might not admit that to many people, but tough. It’s a magazine I am comfortable with and I won’t stop reading it, just because I should be “cooler” and reading “Cosmo” or going clubbing. I’ve spent too long trying to conform, failed and therefore decided it’s much easier not to bother and do what I want.

... So I'm going to start using it.

The list for the coming week (add your own contributions in the comments):

Songs sung by men about or to men

I will start you off with:

Eminem - Stan
The Killers - Andy You're A Star

Over to you...

I am a bit confused. This is by no means a new phenomenon for me, but nevertheless I am confused. I am confused because I am unsure what to think about the fact there are Christmas decorations up in Boots (especially on the upper floor where all the lights twinkle). Now, my gut reaction is to say “urgh, it’s only October, Christmas doesn’t begin until December, the end of term at the earliest”. However, walking in the store today, with all the lights twinkling and everything looking rather bright, gave me a warm, smiley feeling inside. Ironic really as it is likely my Christmas will be pretty stressful with work and family issues. In addition, I do think that the commercialisation of Christmas is inflated, and for many Christmas can be a sad period, for example, relatives at war, poverty, letdowns, relationship difficulties etc but at the same time it almost seems necessary to start Christmas “early” these days. I for one have started Christmas shopping – not the little trinkets that I shall in the few days before Christmas, probably in Canterbury where the Sally Army are playing Carols and I am wrapped up in gloves, scarf and hat - but the larger presents, cards etc. How else am I expected to spread the cost? Michaelmas term is long, for me it is certainly going to be tough, and somehow the hope, or distraction of Christmas is as welcome relief. I was in the gym earlier and suddenly it began to get dark. I was quite happy to return to my warm room and curl up with OJ and a “Country” magazine, providing ideas for Christmas wreaths and warming soups. Maybe Christmas has changed its purpose in many years, and as a Christian I am not sure I am particularly happy about this. At the same time, thinking about it now and gently warming up the Christmas spirit, can’t do much harm can it? As I said, I am confused.

Poll: How many times will we mention Christmas between now and the middle of January?

I'm currently having to endure a particularly bad cold, and despite a rather nice Indian meal with our other two esteemed correspondents last night, I still felt just as awful by 11pm last night, so I decided to retire to bed early. Having tidied up the room and swallowed some medication, I turned off all the lights and even covered up the LEDs on devices like my printer to ensure that not a single crack of light would penetrate the darkness (I can get very meticulous like that in the vain pursuit of something to cure an illness). Once satisfied that I could come no closer to achieving a state of pitch blackness, I gingerly tiptoed my way back to my bed, being careful to avoid my mobile and my bottle of water, each placed next to it. I felt my way up to where the duvet began, pulled it back, slid a leg cautiously under it, swung my body onto the bed, and then... bang.

As Amy and OJ are well aware, there is a bookshelf above my bed. For reasons entirely unknown to me, its two sides protrude far beneath the actual bookshelf, so that a particularly sharp plank of wood hovers threateningly about three feet from my pillow. And as you can probably guess, in the state of total darkness which I had created for myself, I had forgotten to take the presence of this stationary assailant into account - my forehead and it collided, and it was just about the last thing I needed considering how ill I felt. I collapsed onto the pillow and curled up in a ball of self-pity. I could see the blood on my hand from my initial reaction to reach up to my head, but was in no state to be bothered to do anything about it.

Well, I woke up this morning, and there is a rather large scab and an area of inflammation where the bookshelf struck. Now not only do I feel like death warmed up, I look like it too.

I just went on a really long walk. It wasn’t planned – I wanted a break from my 5hrs in the Law Bod this morning but didn’t quite fancy going to the gym. I thought I nice jaunt around University Parks would be a good idea, especially as there are new commemorative gates at the Keble entrance (see Cherwell this week). Anthony, in his usual procrastination mood said he would join me, so long as we could have tea after. So, off we went. Now, you must be aware that when one does something with Anthony, it is never straightforward and it rarely goes to plan. All was going well. We had reached the Parks and admired the gates – they are very smart although when one of the gates is open it looks rather like the year “53 03”, only when the gates are shut do you get the other numbers making “1853 – 2003” (150 years of the Parks, hence the gate). We meandered round, kicking conkers, watching the squirrels, discussing whether the fact that there are lots of berries on the trees means that it will be a harsh winter, aka the old wives tale etc. Very pleasant indeed. We reached the ducks, admired them for a while and then continued along the banks of the Cherwell. Instead of continuing around the Park, we left at the bottom entrance to Parks, the other side of St Cats sports field/behind the fields beyond the Law Bod. From there we continued to the bridge near the “rollers” (if you have been punting, you know this landmark) and onwards. Soon our path became a cycle track and then we realised we were heading for New Marston. Undeterred, we continued into New Marston and our sense of direction led us South along a housing estate (we had emerged from the cycle path by this time). We walked and walked, and eventually reached the Marston Road. Hoping that our “right” turn was correct, we ambled down Marston Road, past sports fields and the new Islamic Studies building. Finally, we came out just short of Headington Hill, opposite Morrel Avenue. From there we walked to St Clements, across Magdalen bridge and onwards to the Mitre (our destination for tea). By now we had been walking for over an hour. As we passed All Souls, we noticed it was open to visitors, so decided to have a nosy. It has a wonderful second quad (the one you can see from the windows of the Upper Rad Cam) and it really is exceptionally tranquil. It’s Chapel is less impressive – above the altar are what looked like men, bishops, biblical figures etc carved in Marble. This image fills the East wall, giving the impression of many ghosts looming over the Chapel. Rather disconcerting. We didn’t spend long, just enough time to imagine ourselves intelligent enough to be a Fellow and for Anthony to wish he was either a porter, scout (preferably, so he could empty bed pans) or head butler of the College, and then we left. Finally, re reached out destination and had a well earned cup of tea. How frightfully British, but an enjoyable two hours all in all! Now, work beckons!

**Edit** The walk was actually just under 3 3/4 miles. I also neglected to include the incident where Anthony nearly pushed me in the Cherwell. Bastard.

Last night, before I went out, I decided that I would probably end my involvement with my fantasy football league. I posted a small article on our forum explaining the problems. The reaction was really heartwarming - I don't think I will ever be able to shut it down, I just can't do it. So it'll carry on with less complexity to it (we introduced loads of stuff this season that just can't be maintained without it effectively becoming my full-time occupation).

To read my post to the forum, and the subsequent responses, go here:
http://jaxx.qc1.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=2003

I'm about to head off to a launch party for an Oxford play. I'm quite impressed by this little dalliance with the Oxford thesp community but shall try not to get too sucked in. If I come out screaming "fags, sweetie darling, fags," you'll know it's too late.

Alternatively, I might just be referring to the clientele at the location of the launch party, or to the play itself. The play in question is My Night With Reg. It's by Kevin Elyot, a British playwright, and was first performed some time in the early 90s, I think, from what I've gathered so far. The storyline revolves around the Reg in question, although he never appears. He's gay (as are the majority of, if not all the other characters, I think), and from what I can tell, all the characters we do see are affected by him in a distinctly harmful way, i.e. HIV. There's a spoiler for the play freely available if you just type the title into Google, but since I will actually be going to see it being performed, I don't want to read it and spoil it for myself.

The reason I've got the invite to the launch party is my friend Colin, also gay, who is playing the role of Guy (I think, again I'm trying to remember stuff I probably heard whilst drunk). It's one of the lead roles and so he's getting steadily more nervous, but the sheer range of different accents he's able to produce on command when in a bar or any social situation - aside from his usual slightly anglicised American - is enough to give anyone confidence in his ability to hold down a starring role. He's not being helped by a pretty serious sore throat he's contracted from somewhere (he looked pretty rough yesterday), and he might even die before his stage persona does because I think I've caught the sore throat off him, the sod.

The launch party is being held at the Castle Tavern. Depending on your knowledge of Oxford, you might know that this is one of two gay pubs the city has to offer - the Castle and the nearby Jolly Farmer have previously remained strictly off-limits to me, particularly the latter, since I have never had any desire to get remotely jolly with a farmer (and his hoes). Colin swears to having once seen an elderly gentleman with a toupee run his umbrella up someone else's leg by way of a come-on in the Castle before, so I shall be keeping myself very much to myself. I suspect it is no Ku Bar. If anything hilarious occurs, you, dear reader (and you're probably either OJ, OJ's mother, OJ's prospective employer or OJ's girlfriend), shall hear about it first.

Finally, if anyone wants to come with me to see the play, you're more than welcome. Tickets are £5 apiece and I am told that despite the relatively obvious macabre aspects of the plot, there is some comedy involved. I'll arrange tickets for any who show an interest.

Not the process whereby hunt members, eager to comply with the law as ever, refrain from hunting their prey but simply observe it from distance, safe in the knowledge that they could brutally murder it if they felt like it.

No, this is FireFox. OJ will know far more about this than me. Something from the internet that is a little techy and a little off the wall, and OJ is your man. I traditionally fight for the mainstream corporations under the basis that the reason for them being mainstream corporations is that they are, by and large, very good at what they do. For example, Microsoft are a world leader in operating systems and office software because their operating system and their office software do lots of very, very clever things, in a simple way, with a fair amount of support and the promise of new and better things to come. Coca-Cola are a world leader in drinks because their drinks taste very nice. McDonalds are a world leader in getting you obscenely obese because their products are relatively fast and relatively food. I could go on.

However, I'm writing this entry using FireFox, the Mozilla web browser. I downloaded it purely on the back of a BBC News Online article which happened to mention it in a relatively favourable light (other browsers are available). I've been using it for about half an hour now, twenty minutes of which I spent chatting to someone else in my room, so that's no basis on which to write a review of it, but so far I'm happy. My only complaints are that FireFox doesn't know how to do jazzy scrollbars using CSS, and FireFox has 'lost' the italics, bold, underline and hyperlink options on this Dayorama 'New Entry' page. Which is a little inconvenient but I'll struggle on.

The rest of FireFox is pretty good. It's imported all my favourites from IE and even helpfully stuck them in alphabetical order. There's a Google search box (which I was able to change easily to Google UK) in the top right hand corner, and you can choose from a vast number of search engines so you don't just have to rely on Google. The URL entry field remembers your history and does an IE-like 'suggested places you've been before' trick when you start typing a URL, except it just does it in a nicer kind of way. The browser seems a lot less cluttered and, in terms of its behind-the-scenes operations, is apparently touted as being far preferable to IE (the life of which Microsoft has not guaranteed to prolong much longer).

Google is rumoured to be creating its own browser (it has registered gbrowser.com, to the chagrin of some guy with an Apple image app by the same name), so if that does happen then, returning to my sense of brand loyalty, you'll probably find me using that. For now though, I'm about to delete my IE quick launch link and replace it with FireFox. Call me Mr Daring.

PS Yes, this means that anything with "FireFox" in it on our web stats is bound to be me.

Wow. Really, really boring news cycle at the moment.

Finally! Now, excuse me for a moment whilst I go all OJ and drool for no apparent reason over a website with which I have no personal attachment at all but make it sound like I own the thing - however, Google has opened its Froogle shopping wing to UK customers.

This is not just your usual crappy website news. It's bloody useful. For example, you can shop by store (set it to John Lewis and there's just under seven thousand items available), and you can sort by price. I typed in "Rio Karma" (my birthday present) and it came up with prices ranging from £179 to £265. It doesn't take someone with my mathematical ability (it takes someone better) to work out that that's a saving of £86. Froogle indeed. Kelkoo, eat your heart out.

I can see the development of a new Google-based webgame on the horizon. We had Googlewhacking and such, but now Frooglegapping should be the Next Big Thing. Go into Froogle, and try to find the product with the largest gap between the lowest and highest price for which it is on offer. Hours of fun. I'm off to find me some bargains.

*drum roll please* Oh yes ... that's the latest comment to be added to "floundering","wrong on a micro and macro scale" and "are you dyslexic". And people wonder why I have low self esteem. The report incidently describes my Collection. For the record, I got a 2:1.

Now, this is just silly. What would happen to people who lived on the Borders? Continual jet-lag?

Also, I really dislike this article on BBC Online about What girls really think of sport. Now, forgive me if I am wrong but this article is categorised by the BBC under their “Viewpoints”. The article aims to defeat a report by the Nestle Social Research Programme found which finds that girls are too embarrassed to play sport and exercise. Fair enough. However, the article is ridiculously one-sided. All the girls featured appear to enjoy sport and whilst they admit that A levels may reduce the amount of time they would like to spend doing sport, they all generally like to compete in sport at school. When “BBC News Online visited Croydon High School in south London to talk to a group of sixth formers and their teachers about what sport girls play and what motivates them to exercise” why did they also not find out about those who hate exercise or sport at school? Is it that they are too embarrassed? Is it that they fear being ridiculed in front of their class mates and being mocked for not being able to compete well? Is it because the sports teacher only ever supports those who do well and condescends the rest? Is it because the changing rooms are cold? Is it because the girl is ashamed by her figure? Surely finding whether some of those questions were true would have led to a much more informed and interesting “view point”? Only when we know the reasons why people dislike something, can society make changes and enable more girls to enjoy sport, rather than seeing it as the weekly hour of torture.
Incidentally, all of the latter reasons reflect my reasons for vehemently hating sport at school.

Since when could you trade in blogs? And since when did we float?!

... I've never been this far away from home. So goes the Kaiser Chiefs lyric. Why am I quoting Kaiser Chiefs lyrics, you ask? Well, read the title of this post again, then continue:

... I've never got quite such a bargain on Ebay (eBay? Does it matter?). Last week, my copy of the Kaiser Chiefs' debut single, Oh My God, arrived. Some guy with the extremely suspicious name J. Doe (turned out to be James, not John) sold it to me for just under £6 including postage and packaging. It's in full working order and I've now copied it to my PC and I love all three tracks on it. It's the Chiefs' debut single and I think it didn't get any higher than the mid-60s in the charts - depending on who you believe, there were only 500 or 1,500 imprints of the single made. I now own one.

Well, if you thought £6 was a bit steep for a CD single, try to find one cheaper now, just a week and a bit later. The Chiefs are supporting the Ordinary Boys on tour at the moment (and I'm damned if I can get a ticket to their dual gig at the Zodiac, grr), so maybe that's doing wonders for their popularity, but you can't get hold of a copy on Amazon for less than £18.99. For a single. On Ebay, and remembering I paid £6 after three days of bidding just two weeks back, starting prices for this CD are now £12 or more. I shall no longer treat tales of online bargains with the contempt I had previously reserved.

In a short while it will be 1st week of Michalmas Term, 2004. We are all in our 3rd and final year of out undergraduate degree. I think the past few days have finally made me appreciate what life as a third year is like. First, the first year seem oh so young! I remember in the first year, the third year being seemingly quiet, locked away in their rooms or the library. I never imagined that would be me but, alas, it is. Social time is reduced to civilised evenings out, ensuring lights out at 11pm and extended “coffee is no longer”. Second, we all have lots of work. It may be Saturday of 0th week, but I have only just stopped working; I know that Ollie is burning the midnight oil frantically reading Gregory of Tors; OJ is completing application forms – so ok, not work but it illustrates how tight the work schedule is when forms have to be completed on a Saturday night; and Anthony has an essay for tomorrow – yes, Sunday of 0th, and another for Monday. Third year indeed. If someone had predicted my future three years ago, would I have stayed? The thing is, yes I certainly would have. So, anguish aside, I must admit I am looking forward to this year. Maybe the work will make relaxation all the more enjoyable? More free puddings to come? And at the end of the day, there are less than eighty days till Christmas!

Which joker gave me the 2002 paper then? Hilarious.

It is a widely held opinion that studying at Oxford is a privileged existence. Indeed in many ways it is; we have access to some of the finest library collections in the world, we are surrounded by architectural masterpieces and our tutors are some of the finest academics of our time. However, this latter point brings alongside it several problems. For starters I at least feel a certain need to do well for these people. My College law tutor in particular (Mr Micro-Macro-Dyslexic for those in the know) is a very highly respected academic and thus I want to do well for him in Collections. This puts added pressure on. Secondly, it means that exams are often marked by people who have written the text book. Thus, when exam desperation hits and there is the temptation to a) make a theorist up or b) invent or plagiarise your tutor it is highly unlikely that any such remarks will go unnoticed. I would be unable to write “X states that **anything to support my essay argument**” if the key textbook has been written by my tutor, who is setting and marking the exam. Do you think the students of Thames Valley Poly/Uni have this problem? Has anyone guessed yet that I don’t like the idea of having two Collections tomorrow and I am trying very hard to procrastinate!

Only a short one - I'm just pleased that I managed to write an essay with the phrase "and Vikings and Vikings and Vikings" in it, looking through last term's work in preparation for my collection (Oxford type of exam) tomorrow. The sentence in question:

"On the other hand, it is clear that for much of the century Northumbria was a reluctant participant, disturbed by power struggles between both Englishmen and Vikings and Vikings and Vikings."

Just seen this report in The Guardian on comments by Beloff about Oxford going it alone. This is good news, and something I've advocated for a long time. The sooner we go private and can get rid of government funding, the better for students, academics and Britain in general. It would be nice for Oxford to be challenging Harvard again...

The Union Termcard awaited me in my pidge this morning. Although a member, I failed to step into the Union even once last year. In fact, I don't think I've been since Hilary of my first year - mainly a reflection of there being few speakers I wanted to see. But the line up this term is really impressive. It starts with Boris, takes in John McCain, Nick Robinson (political geek alert), Andrew Gilligan and Greg Dyke. I'm really impressed, which is a sign of not only how far my expectations have dropped, but that this term's officers seem to have put a lot of effort into it. And coming up next term, Tom Clancy and Angus Deayton. Excellent.

Twice, now, Anthony and I have crossed paths at the junction between Turl Street and Ship Street. Indeed, on one occasion he passed within about three feet of Aaron, although I suspect he didn't know as much. Both times we have exchanged hurried salutations, since we've been going in opposite directions.

Anyway, tonight I learnt that drumming really does take it out of you. I spent two hours with the band tonight rehearsing, as I have done every other night this week. This is leaving me with little or no time for work, what with other commitments, and both my limbs and fingers are tingling with a mixture of exhaustion and excitement. I have never ached so much as at the end of these practice sessions, because in some of our new songs the drumming is decidedly more frenetic than in the past. Those of you who turn up on Friday night will, of course, witness this for yourselves.

Ha. Clearly sheep and mountains are not worth the EU's time. Maybe UKIP should move camp and reside in Aberystwyth.

Last night OJ, Ollie and I had our first meal out of the term. It wasn’t planned but OJ and I trotted over to see Ollie’s new room (and very nice it is too) and from there we went for dinner. I was the subject of most of their jokes, especially when I said the immortal line [in context, I was referring to the second Bridget Jones film] “I’ll pay if you two come”. Enough said. I also managed to step in a large puddle which Ollie had avoided, not splash myself but soak Ollie’s trousers. However, there were many occasions when I was just left to admire OJ and Ollie’s banter. They work off each other well and it’s highly amusing to listen. The product of last night’s conversation (which was rather like the original history of dayorama stated here) started by talking about Anthony’s summer job where he worked for a company who review restaurants. After their experience at QI, Ollie suggested he could be a restaurant critic. Our names on Dayorama should duly be changed: Food critic, Food eater and In food therapy. Dayorama could then be changed to Gastroama. I am not sure quite how this next bit progressed, but the end result was a discussion about Dayoschama and then how that rhymed with Llama and therefore Dayoschamallama. OJ would have to be the Schama – Simon Schama, historian, writes at length - and Ollie could be the Llama. It could also be Dayoschamallama in pyjamas, evidently with good Karma. Discussion followed regarding whether the web address would already in use and how a website dedicated to reporting both Schama and Llamas in the news would be highly amusing. The website could be divided in two, with counts for the respective categories. On returning to my room, we all agreed to split the £20 for two years rental for the web address and www.dayoschamallama.com was born.

And now on BBC1, the current series of weird things that happen to OJ's life continues, with a trip to London...

Seriously, it feels a bit like being in the Truman Show. I went to London yesterday afternoon to meet with some friends from Princeton who were over here for a week, and who kindly offered to take me out for a drink and a meal. Now, my knowledge of London has vastly improved over the last year, following multiple visits and property research. Before this year, central London was just a big mess to me. I didn't really know my tube stations, and mixed my City with my Westminster. However, despite the improvements, yesterday was the first time I had ventured into Chelsea, which was an experience. We ended up in a very nice pub called The Phoenix, just off the King's Road. After buying drinks and settling down outside, we were having a good chat when suddenly my cousin Sarah appears from inside the pub. Utterly random. Turns out she used to work near the pub, and considered it her local and was meeting up with friends. It was just surreal (in a lovely way, it should be added, unlike the Dorset experience). And then there was the issue with the bus. And then there was the random guy who asked me for directions to the Ashmolean at 11.30 on a Friday night on the High Street in Oxford - don't worry, I still have my wallet. And then 20 metres on from random guy, there was a bunch of my friends, most of them drunk, hanging outside the Mitre. Much manly back slapping ensued, and I now have a friend's gown in my room which I agreed to babysit whilst he went to the PT.

Honestly, it feels that someone somewhere is having a really amusing at my expense.