Happily, I've finally tracked down an Anglo-Saxon map after many hours of searching, both online and off (as Amy knows only too well). It turns out that my tutor has a spare "battered" copy, which one can only hope will not emulate the last thing I had that was battered, namely the fish which almost killed me in November (unless you count Aaron, who is also regularly battered: he rang me at 2am last Saturday morning demanding, in a slurred voice, to be let into college, and then professed to be 'upset' that I had for some inexplicable reason sleepily rejected this request).

This will be a bit of a random update, and is intended merely as a news update, since plenty of things suddenly appear to be going on. Happily, my first practice essay for Oxford's "Disciplines of History" paper came back today with the only truly critical comment being that, at 2,000 words, it was not my tutor's idea of the 'brief' essay he had requested. Those essays are, however, as priorities go, not one. Instead most of the day has been taken up career planning, including a series of emails sent off in search of work experience at newspapers close to home, including the Bucks Free Press (only newspaper to reply thus far), Somerset County Gazette, Oxford Mail and even the Mid Devon Gazette (you can get from Minehead to Tiverton using the 398 bus so I could technically commute).

Meanwhile The Bridge, newsletter of the Careers Service at the university, continues to throw up jobs of note. In the latest edition there's a listing for Haymarket Publishing, who require a trainee editor. The post involves marshalling entries into a directory, overseeing its production, communicating with clients and in essence managing the process by which a directory comes together. This appears to appeal to just about every natural talent I possess, from an absurdly strict attitude towards spelling and presentation, to a flair for design and a knack for building big archives and repositories of information. Admittedly, as glamorous titles go, Trainee Directories Editor may not be high up the list, but it's a first job I'd happily take. A CV shall be despatched forthwith. If anyone from Haymarket, having read the bit about Dayorama on the CV, is wondering when the current affairs weblog that got shortlisted for a Guardian award three years ago turned into a quiet corner in which three students pick apart the minutiae of their day-to-day existence, it happened about a year ago and it was OJ's fault entirely.

Speakng of applications, I asked OJ yesterday how to obtain a transcript from Oxford. You can get them from your College Office, he told me. Cut to the Exeter College Office at around 3pm today, where I was politely informed that no such thing as a transcript exists at Oxford University. I am now in possession, instead, of a polite letter informing anyone "whom it may concern" that I'm a student of the university, and listing my Mods results among other things. They've gone up since the last time I checked. Don't ask me why or how, but they have. I'm saying no more in case anyone looks into it.

On the musical front, Idiotchild have still to finalise production of their debut EP, but progress has been made on the artwork front and we're nearing the stage where we can get the ball rolling again. To this end, I took the opportunity whilst in the College Office to acquire an Arts Grant form, and have duly requested £200 from the college to help with costs. The golden rule is that you get half of whatever you apply for - apparently, one applicant last year received £500 to go to Paris for a week, whilst an applicant who went to the university for funds instead got £190 for a year in South America. This from a supposedly poor college. The fact that our last JCR meeting actually gave serious consideration to purchasing a second Sky box on an entertainment licence - an additional £3,000 p.a. - is testament to the amount of funding actually sloshing around somewhere.

Finally, Linda Christmas, City University's journalism head honcho, is coming to Exeter College to talk about journalism on Wednesday. I really wish she'd done this just after the applications deadline rather than just before it (similarly, Cardiff University had an advert for its journalism courses in today's Media Guardian), but it should still be an enlightening evening. I have to interview 'someone interesting' as part of my application - I'm tempted to interview her on the sly and then submit the finished copy with my application, one of the more conniving pieces of flattery I've come up with in my time...

There's trouble in Lincoln tonight as the presence of David Starkey has turned the JCR stark raving mad. Well, perhaps not. Dr. Starkey is speaking in College at 8.15pm, which is really rather a coup, considering half of Oxford don't know that we exist. Alas, it is Sunday of 3rd Week, so this clashes with the JCR meeting at 8pm. To show just how important we consider ourselves in the face of the man who was once the highest paid on television...we've moved the meeting. But then it clashes with second hall, which means that those of us who go to Chapel will go hungry. Surely there's a moral in there somewhere...

I now have a keyboard that works :) (it also does lots of other fancy things!)

First "Jerry Springer the Opera" and now a musical based on David Blunkett's love life and resignation. What is the world coming to?

Following on from Amy's post, half my room has been in darkness (note spelling) for weeks now - college lights tend to blow bulbs with a monotonous regularity.

Not that it matters since I'm hardly ever in my room. I spend about ten minutes in it each day, apart from sleeping, which is a drastic change from previous living arrangements, and one that can probably be traced entirely to the absence of a working internet connection in the room. The builders forgot to install it, even though they were there a full term longer than expected. Thus I'm now a semi-permanent installation in the library, spending so long in here (more than 10 hours a day at current rate) that I've even taken to recommending the purchase of a book a day just to see what happens. Today, Markets In Medieval Europe, ed. Pestell & Ulmschneider, a real gem since you can only get hold of it from the stack or St Peter's. That would be a coup for the Exeter library, I feel.

Of course, even when I'm in my room to sleep, it seems that such activity is at a premium. At 3:25 last night the rotund, bumbling Mancunian gentleman inhabiting the room next door stumbled home and, in the drunken haze evident from the booming voice which woke me up, decided to play Stone Roses records at full volume. I, never the most aggressive neighbour and particularly not when half asleep and feeling unduly intimidated, elected not to hammer angrily on the wall, but instead retired, mattress and all, to the vast expanse of my bathroom. There, in a 4 square metre space left empty for reasons known only to those same incompetent builders, only the lofty hum and drip of distant plumbing could be heard, as opposed to Waterfalls in my bedroom. If this happens during finals, there will be trouble at t'mill.

College are replacing all our main light fittings in the Mitre. My ceiling-mounted bulb + lampshade has been replaced by what I can only describe as a large, squashed breast. Or, as OJ described it, by a UFO. I must admit, it is very bright.

I've been enjoying my photography lately, but I can't hope to aspire to the kind of artistic brilliance shown at LondonStation.com. The exhibition takes the form of photos of various London Underground stations - there's nothing new in finding beauty in the tube, but there is something new in taking the photos in black and white, then subsequently hand colouring them in Photoshop. It lends the photos a quality that I'm finding hard to put into words, other than that somehow, these places seem far more expressive in false colour than in reality.

Inspired by this post here about other academic libraries, and the idea of "them and us" in one of the links, I feel I should relate my morning's experience. I was working the Vere Harmsworth Library, which is in the Rothermere American Institute on South Parks Road. It's a little bit of humanity at the heart of Oxford's science park. This brings with it certain inconveniences - many biochemists think it's fun to work on the really big desks in the VHL because they have lectures nearby, despite having a really big, even newer building next door, with a cafe!

The VHL was opened in 2001 (by President Clinton, no less), and has numerous parallels with Firestone Library at Princeton, not least because the books are filed using the Library of Congress system, rather than the traditional Bod system. It's modern, futuristic (that is to say, it has lots of metal, glass, and lights). I'd say the interior has a sort of exo-skeleton theme, but you'd have to see it to understand what tha means. Of course, this being Oxford, three and a bit years later and the ethernet points don't work, but that's probably a good thing for my productivity. Still, despite the amount of time I spend there, I can't say that I have an particular feelings for it, and I don't tend to do my best work in it. This is why I'm researching the thesis in the VHL (because the Franklin Papers, along with everything else, are confined), but I'll be writing it in Lincoln College Library. Lincoln Library is a vertiable god of libraries, not just because it was previously a church. Its best feature is the large line of desks in the centre of the main floor, which allow you to spread all your work out over what is really a space for three people. I find that glowering at the freshers usually means they'll sit elsewhere. I learnt long ago that what I need to work well is space, in order to spread all my papers yet still see vast quantities of table. Lincoln provides this in the bucketload.

Back to the original point, though. I was working the VHL this morning, and was well into my 'zone' of solid work and acceptance of background noise. And then. Some girl, a second year I suspect, given her reading list, came and sat down three desks behind me. She couldn't have made more noise if she had been made of metal and ball bearings. From what I could hear, she had a packet of crisps, a canned drink, and bubblewrap. I'm quite liberal in my attitude to materials that can be brought into the library - I think that water should be permissible in the usual places, as long as it is kept on the floor on in a bag, rather than a desk. But this racket went on for ten minutes, and made me fume inside. Fortunately, I soon had to leave for a lecture, so I glared at her as I left. (I doubt that'll do anything, mind.) Don't these people understand? I'm a finalist, damnit, have 12,000 words due in just over 3 weeks, and another 13 volumes of papers to go through yet! And the library doesn't open this Saturday morning (the only weekend opening) because of the animal rights protest. Disgraceful.

So, it is supposed to be the most miserable day of the year today. I have conformed to society all my life – today I shall rebel and be happy! :)

And just in case you are feeling miserable, the weatherman on Radio2 made me smile earlier. The forecast was brief but to the point – “everywhere will be cold”.

One of the more entertaining aspects of being at Oxford is never quite knowing who you are going to meet as you walk down the street – an eminent Professor, a journalist, a film star, or author. Today, I went to my pilates class, only to find that Susan Greenfield was also in attendance. One for the memoirs perhaps.

(And yes, my spacebar is still dead: this post has been typed in word using a short-cut key for a space. Great.)

I was going to post about this yesterday, but ran out of time. I usually go to Rymans for my paper and pens, but having used their refill pads for the last few terms, I have found them curiously unsatisfactory. The thickness - and general quality - of the paper is good, but the sheets do not rip of the pad without tearing or general nuisance. I thus went back to WH Smith who, for all their problems, do make paper that rips off beautfiully. And lo, just with a simple change, my life is much easier and happier all around. Is this another sign of impending finals?

Myspacebarhasfinallydecidedtostopworking.Ithasbeenthreateningthisactionfor awhilenow,buthasfinallygivenup.Ihavecreatedashort- cutonword,buthatisn'tmuchgoodwhenposting.Bugger.

Ah, Mrs Wooding, and there you were thinking I was talking about you. In actuality, it's time to dust off the copyright law books, boys and girls. Take a looky see here.

There seems to have been a theme to the news this week – there is none. Consequently, “silly season-esque” stories have run such as the Carsile fish. Other stories to hit the front pages (of BBC online at least) have concerned “record breakers”. More specifically, records broken in relation to babies/young. First, the story about the 66yr old woman who gave birth – apparently she is the oldest woman on record to give birth, albeit not “naturally”. Secondly, we have the largest litter of puppies ever recorded. And thirdly, a woman in Brazil has given birth to a baby weighing 17lbs – the heaviest ever recorded in Brazil.

Finally, I have some time free, and I can give you a medium length review of one of the best films of all time – National Treasure. It is in my personal top 2, along with Top Gun. It is quite superb, and I urge everyone and anyone to see it (indeed, I just recommended it to my history tutor).

Naturally, there will be few others who will lavish praise on it as much as I am going to. Perhaps its target audience of American historians who are doing a thesis on Benjamin Franklin is a little narrow. Maybe some people couldn’t accept suspend disbelief for just long enough to enjoy the movie. But I’ll say this. When I first watched The Day After Tomorrow, I came out of it wishing I had read Earth Sciences and unhealthy interest in National Geographic. Re-watching on Saturday, having seen National Treasure, I still enjoyed it and its lupine goodness, but that was it. My inner climatologist was left asleep. Now, if you don’t come out of National Treasure wanting to be a historian, then you have no soul. This film does for historians what Indian Jones did for archaeology.

What makes it so good? First of all, you have to accept that the film, much like the best historians, doesn’t take itself seriously. This is a preposterous film in the very finest sense. So not only do you get lashings of history, but all within a humorous setting. The plot is that Benjamin Franklin Gates, rogue historian and scientist (gosh, how well named he is), played by Nic Cage, is part of a family that holds the secret to the location of the treasure of the Knight Templars, which has been passed down by Masons who buried it at the time of the American Revolution. He has spent the best part of his life, eschewing the academic community, trying to find the treasure from his one clue, “The secret lies with the Charlotte.” He finds the Charlotte in the Arctic (handily by using a metal detector and striking the name plate), which leads to another clue. This is the cue for the stealing of the Declaration of Independence, going to the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia and the Trinity Church in New York, where the treasure is ultimately buried far below. One of the clues are the Silence Dogood letters. Another involves multicoloured bifocals invented by Benjamin Franklin. This is, in short, an American historian’s wet dream. I mean, these are documents I used in my Further Subject last Hilary! These are quintessential locations that resonate with historical meaning, obvious to anyone who cares. Wow!

The plot itself was enough for me to love the film, but the way the film was made made me want to marry it. I love the cinematography, with its glorious colours and willingness to shoot alternative angles of classic locations. Riley, techno-sidekick to Gates provided some wonderful comedy lines. His “I know something you don’t” moment when he works out the importance of Daylight Savings Time (which Franklin first suggested) is a classic. So too his fear of being trapped underground, and his tears upon finding the stairs instead of the treasure. Or when Dr Chase, token beautiful women, is filled in awe at finding the lost scrolls of Alexandria - Riley instead finds an Egyptian sarcophagus and hugs it, saying “big green blue person thing with a long goatee, I love you.” Then there was the completely unsubtle romantic tensions, signified by the Dr Chase tapping her foot like a little girl whilst looking into Gates’s eyes, and the completely unnecessary kiss in a dark tunnel. And then there’s Sean Bean, playing Ian, the British criminal who had previously funded Gates’s exploration but now wants the treasure for himself. Where Gates uses historical skills, Ian uses brute force. And what about the product placement, for HP and Urban Outfitters. So unsubtle, and brilliant for being so. And of course, the respect for the Declaration of Independence, and the heavy handed repetition of the freedoms for which it stands? Can ever a document have been shown so much love as the worried looks that cross the faces of our heroes, prior to dabbing the back with lemon juice and a hairdryer? Just wonderful.

I have never enjoyed a film in the cinema as much as I enjoyed this one (I was too young to see Top Gun in the cinema, although here’s hoping the release a re-mastered version for the 20th anniversary next year). The big grin never left my face. A special edition, extended with extras DVD you say? Yes please.

Obviously Guardian feature writers have been using Dayorama as inspiration for their stories this week - in today’s G2, the first story discusses plans to shut 2,500 Post Offices and the rather amusing Pass Notes concerns Judy the Carlisle Fish.

I admit that it is amusing, but why has this story merited two front-page BBC online stories in the past week?

The January transfer window, it turns out, is not just for football teams to bring in fresh talent. This Saturday, my dog Toby, well known one-time comic strip star, will move from my Mum to my Dad.

This is a move that has been postulated several times before. My mum has been prone to fairly regular guilt trips over concerns such as whether the dog was getting walked enough and really enjoying his life, to the extent that contact had been made a good few years ago regarding moving Toby to Stokenchurch. However, my mum has always pulled out before such a move could go ahead, finding the idea of parting with the dog too unbearable.

Alas, the time now seems to have come. It had been speculated that Toby's advancing years - he's no longer a puppy, he's at least eight and probably almost nine now - might be a drawback, but this kind of experiences also brings its advantages to a household with small children and a mother who would now have to deal with both the children and a dog. Whilst a puppy would have few qualms about appropriating a new carpet as a toilet or clawing the face off a two-year-old (and let's be honest, even I could claw the face off the two-year-old at times), Toby has in the past shown commendable restraint. When Alice, now nine, visited him as a four year old, with Lucy two at the time, Toby treated them both like fine china and hardly dared exhale in their presence. The only potential for trouble is if the two-year-old, Harry, begins harassing the dog - however, Toby's warning growl is fairly unequivocal and leaves no room for doubt. Even Harry will appreciate the sentiment.

So, from this Saturday, Toby takes up residence in Stokenchurch. This means I should get to see him more often, and I'll be trying to get back home on Saturday to give him a familiar face and a bit of comfort. He really is a sweet individual - I know full well that if I take him home a fleece of mine that I've been wearing and put it down somewhere, he'll curl up on top of it safe in the presence of a smell that he knows (and presumably, God help him, loves). Who knows, he might even make it to Oxford before I leave for a quick look around. Time to lock up the college cat...

There’s something really mind-numbing about waiting in a queue, twenty-five deep, at the Oxford Post Office. I’ve always been supportive of rural P.O.s, but I am even more so in favour after today. Could you imagine even more people having to use the Oxford P.O.?

Initially I went to the P.O. about midday, stupidly forgetting that it was lunch-time and therefore it was going to busy. Instead of queuing I thought I’d return later. About 5pm I returned. The queue was just as long as it was at 12pm. Great.

I had gone to the P.O., clutching my parcel, straight from the gym and as I stood in the queue I could feel the sweat trickle down my back (apologies for the image, but it just made the visit unbearable). I appreciate that I am not the most patient person in the world, but I really was happy to wait in the queue – well, at least I thought I was - it wasn’t as though I had anything pressing to do and therefore I could spare the 23minutes wait.

I have since realised that the worst thing about the whole queuing thing wasn’t the wait, no it was:

a)The tramp that walked in halfway through asking for change – he then went and purchased a scratch card. Go figure.

b)The baby in the pushchair was fine…it was the three other children the Mother had – aged about 19? (the mother, not the children). They were running around, picking up every item in sight and generally being brattish. I appreciate they were bored but I am sure they could have been entertained some-how.

c)The meditation tapes for sale halfway around the queue. Meditation? £2.99. A bargain. Why didn’t the P.O. play it over their tannoy eh to calm the queue?

d)The typical conversations I overheard; “isn’t it terrible they are closing small post offices” – comment from a stereotypical old dear with one of those granny-bags that she didn’t quite know what to do with or how to manoeuvre around the queue-bends; “do you think my post will arrive on time? I don’t want to be queuing for nothing” – comment from old dear’s friend.

e)The two Swedish-looking women (clearly lesbians) canoodling in the corner. Nothing wrong with that in principle – but there is a time and a place.

f)The two Oxford grads (I think) in front of me discussing their work levels - “I’m really not sure whether X’s point on the X really has any substance for the X theory regarding the relativity of pigsties”. Or something.

g)Mr Chav No. 1 talking to Mr Chav No.2 (both in white sports attire) about where they were going for their next “slash”.

h)No more. I had sunk myself into zombie-land by now and was just staring, sour-faced, at the beeper waiting for it to announce “number four please”

I tell you, sit-com material!

A harsh way to treat your clientele - I was in the gym this afternoon, for the first time in a while, and what did the TV have on as I was cycling away? Ready Steady Cook.

It's been a week and a bit so it's time to mention the Kaiser Chiefs again.

The title to this post is their forthcoming album, but from experience I suspect that few of the mighty entourage surrounding the Chiefs can be fearing for their employment prospects. Either that or maybe they're rather fearful indeed and on their toes the whole time: I sent an email at 1am this morning to check that the Chiefs were playing Bristol, since whilst I have tickets for that gig, it wasn't listed on their site (unlike every other gig). I've just checked my email now and, twenty-five minutes into the working day, I've had two replies. One from their Live Manager reassuring me that he "can only imagine it is a typo", and one from another individual of entirely unknown origin (I wrote to the first guy - I think this one is a webmaster of some sort) thanking me for pointing it out and promising to correct it. That's not shabby service at all.

In other news, I'm as good as cooked if Exeter College goes up in flames in the near future. Leaving aside the minor matter that the fire alarm system actually broke down over Christmas, and the numbing inevitability with which a fire broke out during its down time (it wasn't serious), it seems that I cannot really hear the fire alarm in my room. Because I have a separate bedroom with a door that I close at night, the alarm in the main room is still bloody loud, but has to pass through a heavy door now. I woke up at 8:30 this morning because my dream had been infiltrated by an alarm noise, but I spent a good thirty seconds thinking it was a part of the dream; in previous years I was left in no doubt whatsoever and could barely hear myself think.

As a result I was not just practically the last, but the last person to turn up in the chapel for the traditional beginning-of-term fire drill spiel. This means that my goose is not just cooked but somewhat overdone in the case of a real fire. Let this be a lesson to all those with a view to an en-suite bedroom - you are taking your life into your own hands.

With regard to the delightfully titled post which preceded this - "Ollie is a Tyt" - I am happy to inform the public that following a brief and painless cannibalisation of the Alt Gr key for its component parts, both the T and Y keys on my laptop have been restored to their former glory.

On to more pressing matters. CD pressing, in fact. As you may or may not be aware, my band, Idiotchild, are in the process of producing our first proper CD. This involved a day's recording in a studio last week, and will involve a day's mixing to come this Wednesday. After that our problems begin, for I have no knowledge as to how to get the thing professionally produced (this paragraph is becoming a nightmare for anyone with a lisp). CD pressing - so named for the use of hydraulic presses to finish the process - is the best way to go about things, since it is the process used to create every music CD you will ever buy. You get printing on the CD itself, a glass master copy produced (from which all the other copies are gleaned), a jewel case with insert and perhaps booklet, and finally all those cases wrapped in cellophane for dispatch to their lucky recipients.

The problem, as you might have guessed by now, is cost. The studio time itself has already ensured that we are talking hundreds of pounds; any additional mastering to the CD itself before it enters production will cost hundreds more, and we don't even know if that will be needed yet. Mastering, by the way, is something of a black art: no one really knows what it involves. You send your finished and mixed recording to someone who messes around at a microscopic level with things like volume, and, lots of cash later, a 'mastered' product returns. I'm hoping we won't need any of that. Even if we don't, the costs of CD pressing would at least double our outlay on this project in one go.

The alternatives are all rather depressing by comparison. For example, we could just use lots of CD-Rs and spend our nights in front of a CD drive, handing them out with little or no identification information (other than "Idiotchild" scrawled in marker pen). We could get a professional CD duplication company to do the same thing, on CD-Rs which are slightly less obvious about their CD-R status. Less money is involved here, but the end product would not have that could-have-been-bought-on-the-High-Street prestige associated with CD pressing. I, being particularly sensitive about such things, would dearly love it to look as professional as possible. Alas, that will cost. A lot.

The solution could be to charge a small fee, perhaps a couple of pounds, per unit we shift. This would just about cover the initial costs, if we sold around 300. There's a rather large "if" in there. CD pressing usually requires a minimum run of 500 copies, of which a sizeable number would be distributed - with all the hopeless optimism in the world - to radio stations across the country. The remainder we could sell; however, not many people part with their cash for stuff they've never heard, nor know anything about. Only friends and family would be likely to stump up the cash, and then more out of pity than desire. I reckon there'd still be around 200 or 300 copies left after radio stations and acquaintances have all been satisfied. We would not be able to sell those, they'd have to be given away, which is really the whole point of the demo - so that people can get to hear us. The tracks will be available for free online anyway.

What I'm trying to say, and as much to myself as to anyone else, is that CD pressing is looking more and more like a pointless and costly extravagance. So don't be surprised if your copy of the Idiotchild CD arrives looking less like it came from Amazon and more like it came from the Neolithic.

Oh and finally, whether or not to go for CD pressing is not the eternal dilemma of the terrorist. The eternal dilemma of the terrorist is as follows: say you believe all cinema to be inherently depressing, in that it depicts either a universe where very bad things happen, or a universe where such good things happen that they could never happen to you, and rarely anything in between. Cinema, in short, is the very essence of capitalist doctrine ("everything will be so, so good, only not for you. Here's how you live: *cut to Trainspotting*.") You feel so strongly about this that you decide to rise up against the institutions of capitalism, starting with your local Odeon. You elect to burn down that Odeon. On your way to do the deed you realise, to your horror, that your intention to burn down the Odeon with a lighter has been thwarted by the lack of a lighter. You need to buy a lighter. In order to buy a lighter, you will have to fuel the very capitalist society which you intend to burn down with the lighter. Though the end, a burning cinema, may be more powerful and lasting than the means, 99 pence at the local off-licence, you will still be forever tainted with your participation in a system of exchange you despise to your very core.

I would imagine this is how members of Al Qaeda might feel every time they have to go and buy stuff like ammunition. Alternatively, they may just turn up and decide that spending money which might end up in the West is nothing compared to what will happen when the newly purchased explosives end up in the West. Who knows.

Picture the scene:

OJ, Ollie and I are looking through photos of their time at Taunton on OJ’s laptop. OJ and Ollie are commenting on various people including a young girl who, for several reasons, will remain anonymous. Ollie states that this girl had “Easy tattooed on her forehead”. OJ replies with “Tattooed on her pussy as well”. We all erupt into laughter. Ollie falls backwards in hysterics onto the bed and promptly falls off, stepping right onto his laptop which had been left open on the floor. Ollie is currently debating how he can write a thesis without using the letters ‘t’ and ‘y’ at the same time as trying hard to mend his laptop. Considering the damage Ollie could have done, he’s got off rather lightly, but the image I have in my mind of Ollie collapsing off the bed will remain with me for a very long time. I am sure Ollie will learn an important lesson from this too – never leave your laptop open on the floor.

There is something wrong with the search facility on the DTI website when it is impossible to find or search for a White Paper and Strategic Framework Document on the reform of Company law. After giving up using the navigation bar and its exceptionally useless search facility, I tapped the relevant words into google and the first hit was the document I wanted. The root was the DTI website. Google could find the document but the DTI couldn't. Really helpful.

The best film ever. Ever. In depth review later.

Mobile phones seem to have been in the National papers quite a bit this week. They also appear in this week's copy of the Oxford Student. Much to the surprise of many Lincolnites (but clearly not the Bursar), a mobile phone mask has been erected on our sports ground. Do not fear, it does not look like the standard mobile phone mast. Oh no, it is disguised as a tree. It looks like a gigantic version of a very cheap plastic Christmas tree. Apparently Lincoln will receive £6,000 per annum for this privilege.

And in other news. I am the only native English speaking student in my Company Law tutes/subject group this term. No comment.

Why is it on the day when the three of us should be working extremely hard e.g. two collections for me and a collection + extended essay for Ollie and OJ, we have already managed three posts (this being a fourth). I must state now that I (and I believe OJ is in a worse position than I am, so I guess Ollie will be too) am completely screwed for Friday's exams. Procrastination here we go...

Or preferably, not at all.

Good old BBC online ran an article earlier this week commenting on the strange phrases that had been entered into their search facility. The most popular searched items of 2004 included, unsurprisingly, Eastenders, CBBC, John Peel, Harry Potter and the Olympics. But they also had some strange enquiries such as what is a dog?, how do you say basketball? what is the biggest collection of naval fluff? And how to fold a serviette like an elf's boot?

Consequently I thought that it was about time we mentioned some of the strange search strings which direct people to Dayorama. Some of the more popular include:
Pringles tv adverts 2004
Qi club oxford
Sharon Davies nipples
Su doku
Kaiser chief lyrics
Shih tzu hairstyles
History of weathermen
Angelina Jolie live sex
Big as holes
And world’s largest Ollie

I do feel some of our readers may have been a little disappointed!

Following on from an earlier discussion, I see in the papers that Morrisons has released disappointing figures for the Christmas period, with like on like sales dropping. Anyone who has gone to a Safeway that is now a Morrisons can provide plenty of reasons as to why this is the case.

I want one of these. And one of these. Let's hope the dollar stays weak and I get to go to the US for a year...

Also, I beat Amy 378-305 at Scrabble this evening, with my first seven letter word ("rewrite"). And I've all but finished my essay. A good day all around.

There's something curiously satisfying about making an essay double spaced.

"It makes an ass out of u and an ass out of me". Ok, to save OJ beating me to a very humiliating post... whilst I have said the former expression for several years, only today did I realise that it was because the word "assume" is made up of an "ass", "u" and "me". Oh dear.

I should point out that it wasn't really my fault that the mould developed. I had emptied the fridge, and left it on over the vac only for someone else to turn it off and plug my heater in instead - probably a cold scout how wanted to clean my room. Hence the freezer bit at the top of the fridge began to defrost, and drip onto a plastic shelf, which is where the mould developed. It would have been fine if it had been on. But it is much more pleasant having been bleached (as is the rest of my room for being polished and dusted, even if it did mean it took me about four hours to unpack in a neat and orderly manner).

So. We're all back. Penultimate term. S**t. It’s a fantastic feeling in many ways though, - only 22 weeks to go and it will all be over. That’s rather exciting and I’m quite pumped about getting back to work. However, it is all rather daunting too and no doubt 2005 will be an important and eventful year for all of us. As usual, Ollie has already landed on his feet… his room will certainly become the venue for playing scrabble. It is a palace… three rooms, a bathroom big enough to swing two cats in and a lovely view of Exeter. I am bitter. OJ is having mixed fortunes… his fridge was turned off over the vacation and silly OJ forgot to clean it before he went down. He is paying the price now and has the really lovely job of removing the smelly green mould. I am all settled and with a Johnny Depp poster up and my hole-punch beside me, what could be better? In all of the trials and tribulations of the day, it is good to know some things don’t change though; Oxford is dull and it’s raining.

The number one link for "Ollie Williams" (with our without speech marks) on google.com now refers to me. Courtesy of a website I didn't even design. And there was OJ saying that GNet wouldn't pay off...

An interesting piece in The Guardian today on the rise and dominance of Tesco set me thinking - I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've shopped there in my whole life. My family is a Sainsbury's family, and nothing changed on coming up to Oxford - the city is dominated by "big Sainsbury's" in the Westgate. amd "little Sainsbury's" on Magdalen Street by Borders. (Incidentally, why on earth is it called Magdalen Street when it's yonks from Magdalen?) Granted, Tesco does serve Cowley, but that's it.

Of course, the supermarket, er, market, is curious. Nominally, each chain is competing with each other, but the reality is that there are stores that compete and stores that complement. One can go to Sainsbury and also to Waitrose or Marks and Spencer to pick up other things, but one wouldn't go to only Waitrose and Marks and Spencer. Interestingly, before embarking on my whole "professional student" career path , and about this time last year, I tried my hand at consulting internships, and one of the case studies I worked through at PWC presentation was based on the UK supermarket industry. I mean, no-one should have this much to say about it. Anyway, clearly there's a split in levels between poor quality, such as Morrisons and Asda, medium quality such as Tesco and Sainsbury's, and higher levels such as Waitrose and M&S. It's perfectly fine to have one supermarket from each, but rarely does one go to Morrisons and Asda. It probably says something for upper middle class pretensions that the split should be so strong between Sainsbury's and Tesco.

It appears that I will have to return to the Oxford Tube as my bus of choice. As reported by The Telegraph today:

Passengers on coaches between London and Oxford are being given the chance to read, write or listen to verse.

The first poetry coach was on the road yesterday. Others are scheduled for Feb 12, Feb 14 and March 17 and once a month thereafter.

On my birthday no less! These are buses to be avoided - clearly their target audience is Amy.

Well I know which newspaper I want to work for when I start work for real - The Guardian. This was the case anyway, fine upstanding newspaper that it is with the best website to boot, but their online cricket coverage is the stuff of legend.

Today it was the turn of Guardianista Rob Smyth to man the over-by-over update page for the fourth day of the third test between England and South Africa. This involves a Guardian sports journalist presumably sat in an office in deepest darkest London, watching the test coverage and relaying what happens in each over to those of us who can't get to a TV, a radio or anything else. Of course, writing an update of the events of each over could become immensely tedious for both author and readers, so the task of the journo in question is to liven up the coverage to make it worth reading as the day goes on.

Smyth accomplished this with a variety of techniques - we had discussion of last night's Roy Carroll howler and the number of times Manchester United have had decisions go their way at Old Trafford, a survey to find the world's least cynical celebrities (Screech, of Saved By The Bell fame, featured prominently), a running commentary on Smyth's own illness and, of course, a little cricket, punctuated by emails received from readers. After England lost their fifth wicket some three hundred and fifty runs behind their target total, Smyth cited an email from a reader who admitted, "Okay, we might not win now." Once play finally closed, Smyth signed off in celebratory mood, since he could now retire home to drink Lemsip.

This is precisely the job for me. I can spend the day watching the cricket and transforming it into lively, text-based entertainment for the masses cooped up in their offices with no radio or TV. I can handle a job where illness becomes a conversation topic as part of your duties rather than a hindrance. I can take on a task that involves me introducing football as a topic of discussion. The Guardian, I salute you! And I consequently apply for one of your internships.

According to the Guardian newspaper today, four rare Bengal kittens are to sold for up to £80,000 each. That is astonishing in itself, but what really annoys me is the article doesn't say why. If they are going to bother to print such an amazing fact, they may as well say why it is amazing.

Shameless Google plug or appreciation of modern music? If you're me, the former, and Ollie will no doubt be the latter. It turns out that the Kaiser Chiefs are one of the BBC's Sound of 2005 picks. Considering last year included Keane and Franz Ferdinand, that's not a bad record (as it were) to follow.

Rather than unduly glorify Andrew "swingometer hands" Marr any more than absolutely necessary (see OJ's earlier post), I feel a more pressing need to make his trade mine, and have duly requested an application form from City University (in London) for their Postgraduate Diploma in Journalism. I've got roughly a month to sort out referees and probably some work experience for the summer, etc. Should not be overly difficult with a bit of luck.

In the mean time, I met some people on Saturday who happen to know the gentleman who founded, and recently retired from running, the very course to which I am applying. I'm hoping to get in touch with him soon since he could be very helpful in clarifying a few things for me - particularly my quandary about whether I should go through with a PG Dip in journalism or just try to get a job at a local paper. There are pros and cons to each route: this is no media studies GCSE, it's at a cost of roughly £6,000 and virtually all its graduates, some 3,500, are now employed in the media, both regional and national. There will be plenty of competition just trying to get a place on it, so I am certainly not assuming that such a place is a given either.

It's impossible trying to think about this and the rest of my work. I'll probably end up creating a CV with an Oxford degree mentioned on it, then fail to actually get the degree in question.

In order to keep this roll ticking over, a brief mention of one of the books I bought today using various vouchers received at Christmas - My Trade by Andrew Marr. I read extracts in the Telegraph back in September and thought it would be worthwhile, and I could not refuse it on half price today. For Andrew Marr junkies the picture of the man himself on the jacket is one to treasure. Given Boris's fall from Grace, I propose we start the Andrew Marr fan club, and turn him - and Mr. Snuffles - into the next hero of overworked students. (Seriously - it's a 300+ page book; where did he get the time?)

I am never booking tickets via a well-known internet train-ticket seller ever again.

a) For my NY booking apparently two transactions occurred. I received two sets of tickets and was charged twice. They couldn't cancel the order, but instead I had to wait until both tickets arrived before I applied for a refund. It was a technical fault on their website that caused the problem.

b) Knowing that there are often timetable changes around bank holidays, before going to OJ’s I checked the times of the trains on their website against the times I had on my tickets. They were identical. Good thought I. Stupid I was. Should have telephoned National Rail Enquiries.

c) Arrive at Tiverton this morning at about 10.50 for a train at 11.09. Display shows only train departure to Ldn Paddington at 12.16. Hmm. Ask at the ticket desk and sure enough train times had been altered. It was a special service, not a bank holiday service. Luckily, I got on the 10.59 to Newcastle – luckily stopping at Taunton. I then waited till 11.42 to get a connecting service to Ldn. I arrived at 2.35, five minutes later than originally timetabled. Great. However, two points I have neglected to mention. First, if I had missed the 10.59, the next train through Tiverton going to Ldn was the 2.16. I learnt at Taunton that the 12.16 had been cancelled. Second, the train to Ldn was rather short… I spent my £30 ticket sitting in the aisle, smelling the sweet aroma of stale urine, having bags fall on me and getting cold from the window that didn’t shut. That was probably preferable to sitting in a full carriage of screaming children and cheese and onion crisps (trains always smell of crisps).

At least OJ is worth it.

Right. Here goes. The NY resolution to end all NY resolutions. As requested by OJ I shall endeavour to give up saying:

We’ll see
Probably
Maybe
Possibly
Perhaps
[just] not now
Sure

With the exception of the last word, all the others are [according to OJ] negative words. Instead of committing myself to a decision, I invariably just say “we’ll see” or “maybe”. It’s rare for me to commit myself to something, especially if OJ is saying something encouraging such as “It’ll all be alright” and instead of me looking chirpy and saying “yes, you’re right”, I just mumble “probably”. It is so true. So the NY shall see these words abandoned (in this context).

So:

Positivity… smiles… wearing colour… loving myself… not worrying about the things I cannot change until the time that I can change them… and being nice. For an evil she-devil (Ollie, quote, end quote), that’s going to be quite a challenge…

Again.