... one day you go to sleep having a plan of the day ahead and a list of things you want to do. And then a phone call when you wake up changes things completely. It really makes you think about life, death, religion, love, and general values - amongst other things. It also makes you realise how quickly you can get home if you need to, and how easy it is to "drop" everything when necessary. Also, it makes you realise how "sod's law" ensures that the train you are on has to stop in the middle of a field for 20mins due to "signal failure". It also makes you realise how lucky you are to have amazing people around you - OJ for example, and some friends from the LPC, who are willing to do anything for you. And finally, it makes you appreciate how amazing fish and chips can taste!

How exciting - my first proper bit of journalism, out reporting on a protest against airport expansion taking place on Tower Bridge.

My friend Rachel and I got there a bit ahead of time and found ourselves the sole occupants of the 'media pen' which had been set aside for us to interview protesters. People on the opposite side of the road were taking photos of us (who knows if they thought we were journalists or campaigners), protesters in daft outfits were waving and the enormous police presence was around us at all times. They even had their own press officer out on the scene looking after us (although he didn't go and fetch me a drink and a sarnie when I asked, even when I offered him a quid).

It was bitter cold out on the bridge, so much so that I wore my recording headphones not to listen to what was coming through the microphone, but to keep my ears warm. As we waited for more protesters to turn up, I took some time to pop a quick audio report here on Dayorama...

Frogger (verb): To cross a very busy road (usually the High) away from the pedestrian crossing, because said crossing is annoyingly slightly out of the way. Crossing a such a road typically involves slaloming between buses, taxis and bikes. One aims not to be froggered.

What is an EHIC I hear you cry! Quite simply it is an European Health Insurance Card. This replaces the E111 form, and is a flimsy plastic credit-card sized blue card. The writing on it is tiny! I can just imagine pushing this under the nose of some European Doctor and them thinking that I was suffering from some deranged illness rather than a broken leg.

So, it's flimsy and crap. In addition, it was also issued by the "Prescription Pricing Authority". Who? Why? And despite being called a EH INSURANCE Card, there is a disclaimer that the protection it offers is not a substitute for health insurance. Now if that isn't going to confuse people, I don't know what is.

I think I can agree with Ollie, on his journey to Helen And Back. It would have been really nice to see my flat sometime during the last week. It would have also been nice to have the opportunity to do some food shopping – I did this in desperation on Friday: otherwise it would have been a concoction made from chopped tomatoes, cup-a-soup and a carrot. I’d have liked to do washing and cleaning too. I’d also have liked to be able to look at my accounts (and know how much money had not been spent on Xmas presents and therefore how everyone is looking at getting a penny sweet at this rate). And finally to regain some blood in my alcohol stream. And they say it gets worse at Christmas? Help. Actually, it was a very enjoyable week – however I shall be pleased to have today to go to the gym/clean/wash/iron/sort my week ahead out. Ollie beats me on travel though. I only had to return from Kent on Sunday and make it to Oxford on Wednesday. I did go to Colliers Wood though (see Northern line post…). Ollie will have to make it over to me at least once this week (I am considering some form of mince pie/mulled wine gathering next Saturday), seeing as I still have his bloody cursed birthday present.

So that’s that. BT are still trying to fix my “broadband synchronisation problem” – huh? It’s all bound to get spectacularly worse when Mr Sky comes on Thursday to install Sky. Yes, I’m a student and I can afford Sky. Budgeting!! Gordon Brown, eat your heart out. Actually, there was a great piece in the Guardian yesterday (which I insisted on reading out to OJ over the phone).

Extract from “The Hard Sell” by Sam Delaney…

“Morrisons: They should calculate the amount of council tax each household pays on the basis of its nearest supermarket. If you can afford to live near a Waitrose then you can afford to contribute that little bit extra; if you do your shopping at Iceland, you probably can’t… But what of the growing band of unfortunates who find themselves living within strolling distance of a Morrisons? These hugs, soulless, probably-don’t-sell-pitta-bread emporiums of misery used exist only in the bitterest wilds of the North Country. For years they were happy selling pease pudding, dripping and pigeon feed too soot-faced coalminers on cobbled street-corners…”

And so it goes on. I found it amusing (thanks for the suggestion, Mum).

Also I’ve found out why people are finding that Xmas shopping via the internet is all the rage. For me, it’s not about avoiding the crowds – I enjoy that. It’s also not about getting angry at slow shoppers and tinny Xmas music – that’s not so bad either. No, it’s the fact that when you order a couple of books from Amazon, it is such a good excuse to throw something else in the basket, for yourself!! Well, that’s what seems to happen to me anyway. Actually, I tell a lie. I wanted a CD (because my damn mother found out I had stolen her Rod Steward, so I had to buy another one for myself) but couldn’t justify it. So I bought a present via Amazon and magically “made up the £ for the free postage” with my CD…!

On that note, I’d best get back to the washing up…

London on Thursday, Oxford on Friday, London on Saturday, Oxford on Sunday, London on Monday. It's a weekend for travelling, and I've barely sat still in one place for more than an hour since Thursday morning.

Observe, for example, my sleeping pattern. On Thursday night it was my course friend Helen's birthday party, and I ended up on a sofa bed on her floor in Westminster. That meant crawling back home via Victoria the next morning in the same clothes I'd worn the night before, reeking of smoke and freezing to death.

After an hour's bath to clean up and warm up, it was off to the newsroom and on to Oxford for a band practice. I spent the night on a camp bed in Helen's room, except this was Oxford Helen, not London Helen. Alas, London Helen had a second party going on in Paddington tonight, so back I came on the Oxford Tube this afternoon, before nipping up the London Tube to central London again. Do keep up at the back.

I've just got home (London, not Minehead, Stokenchurch or anywhere else in between) after running the gauntlet of the fifteen minute late night walk from the station, and am slowly defrosting once more. Except tomorrow morning I'll need to be up and away again, back to Oxford to soundcheck for a gig the band are playing at the Wheatsheaf pub (doors, for anyone close enough with nothing else to do, are at 6pm, and entrance is free). And then I'll be on Oxford Helen's camp bed again, ready to scurry back to London early the next morning in time for my shorthand lesson. Meanwhile, my to-do list is getting so big it's pouring out of my head, ranging from paying the rent to reading local newspapers in order to generate story ideas for the coming week's news bulletin training days. Roll on Christmas, when I can start worrying about things like work experience, driving lessons and media law exams, for a change of mental scenery...

I went out last night, which is not something I do particularly often. It was a friend’s birthday (or more accurately, it’s her birthday on Monday) and some people came back from out of Oxford for a meal out and then a trip to a club. Much discussion was spent on the distinction Oxford life and this thing called “the real world” where weeks aren’t numbered, and weekends are free. I didn’t get back until quite late, since I spent some time busting some moves in what was really a quiet club, given that there were free tickets. OK, I didn’t so much bust moves as move around with music in the background, but it was nice to see that I wasn’t the worst dancer there. We were all bemused by the DJ, who should have come with a label saying “trainee” on him, because it looked and sounded like he had only seen some decks for the first time. Still, it was a fun night out. And it led me to consider a thought I had back at the last bop. The track that got the most people dancing was Michael Jackson’s ‘Black or White’. It’s a fantastic tune, and really, whatever your thoughts of the man now, he really was peerlessly talented back in the day. Extraordinary.

Travelling South on the Northern Line really does feel like you are travelling slowly into the unknown. It is an incredibly slow, crowded and depressing journey. Sorry, Ollie!

Right. Dayorama has been really boring this week. Ollie and I are leading mad lives at the moment (but not fainting :p) and OJ is… well, a very busty historian…?!

I thought about some of the things in this post on the way to Oxford yesterday, so it is rather rambling.

1. Oxford is a really cold city compared to London. Why? I;ve asked this before, but I shall ask again!
2. Reading is an awful place. However, why did the town planners make it worse by erecting flats with blue roofs on the approach to the station? They look like big lumps of lego. I would change Betjeman’s, “come friendly bombs and drop on Slough” to Reading, but some how it doesn’t seem too appropriate.
3. Why do cab drivers always insist on talking about the most random things? Last night I was told all about my driver’s Christmas shopping and his love for thunderbirds.
4. There are some very interesting pots with plastic plants in at Oxford station. They look like something out of the Amazonian rainforest.
5. There was an east Asian/oriental young woman sitting on the train next to me yesterday. In the course of the London-Oxford journey she consumed nearly a whole packet of Fox’s chocolate digestives. Either she is bulimic, or just hungry. But why, when you could gorge yourself on anything, would you chose such crap?
6. I still have Ollie’s b/day pressie.
7. I am currently consuming too much alcohol. Well, I’ve counted my units for this week, and they’re not too bad (OK, OK Mum, I started counting on Sunday evening, so Saturday evening doesn’t count!!)
8. My hospital check-up yesterday was really good.
9. This crap about the NHS refusing treatment to people with a BMI of 30+ is rubbish. BMI is not indicative of being overweight.
10. The Hammersmith and City line takes forever.
11. I’m not sure I have anything else to say. I’m travelling to the depths of the Northern line tonight (which, incidentally has the longest tunnel out of the tubes – or so the pub quiz I went to on Tuesday evening revealed!) for a friend’s thing. I’m not really sure what it is. Something to do with Belize. I’m meeting Anthony later.
12. Bye for now.

Nothing much happening, so here's a bad joke:

Where does a cat go when it loses its tail?

...

A retail store.

I thank you.

[Exits stage left]

I have a really really busy week. I am working so many days ahead, I am forgetting whether I am coming or going. And also, I should have titled this post "sleet" or "snow", not rain (despite the fact that it would ruin the expression). It is meant to snow/sleet on Thurs or Fri. What happened there? The beginning of the month had 20+ degree temperatures, and now we are lucky if we get 8 degrees. Our weather is going mad. Run as mad as you like... just don't faint!

We've had two posts entitled 'Harry Potter' before - this one being Amy's brief review of the last film almost a year and a half ago - so I've gone with the title of the fourth film for this one.

It's excellent. Most noticeably, it's darker than its predecessors and offers comparatively few moments of light relief. In previous films scenes in lessons or involving Quidditch have been used to give the audience a breather from the heavy stuff and inject a little comedy into proceedings; this time round there's barely any of that, so much so that when Quidditch does appear, it's suffixed by more misery.

The acting's getting better too. Harry's performance is genuinely captivating when it needs to be during the action sequences, even if the romance scenes (and there's far less of this than you might have expected from some reviews) feel unrealistic for the 21st century in their coy schoolboy quality. Only the final few moments of the film, once all the important stuff has been resolved, are truly dreadful, which was a shame as they left a slightly sour taste just after the fabulous execution of the grandest plot development to date in the films. There's even a nod to Star Wars, although for it to be accurate it'd mean Harry had joined the dark side. Meanwhile, expect to have the heartstrings tugged at more than once, although some will react differently to the more depressing events than others. My friend Clare was wiping away tears at one point, but her friend Vicky was wiping away tears of laughter on seeing Clare crying. My eyes stayed dry but I could understand both sentiments.

Meanwhile, back in reality, I deserve a cut of Boots' profits for the forthcoming financial year. This much has been said before, but I've gone one better than my own hefty patronage - now I'm dragging a whole horde of journalists to their sandwich counter. I introduced my friend Andy to the concept of the Boots meal deal a couple of week sago, and he was so taken with it that he went round this lunchtime drumming up support for a group outing to our local store. Off we went, about ten of us, descending on the sandwiches and leaving barely anything for those unlucky few who found themselves behind us.

But that wasn't all. I produced my Boots Advantage card when I paid, to ooohs and ahhhs from those assembled behind me - indeed, I now have enough points for a free lunch tomorrow. Within minutes, four or five of the group were returning to the newsroom with Advantage card application forms tucked under their arms. I've seen few things funnier than Andy and Ray sat in the corner of the newsroom quietly filling out their online applications forms for the card, checking out the 3 for 2 deals on mens' cosmetics and even browsing the insurance policies available on the site in search of more points. I got a text during Harry Potter from Andy: "Just earned myself 32 Boots points. YES!" A man converted.

My landline rings. It is the BT Engineer. He asked me a question: Am I in? Well, let me think. I'm answering my landline, it would be rather strange if I wasn't in!

Having plugged I'm A Celeb - bless the poor dear who got carried off because she kept fainting, and bless David Dickinson for his paternal concern, "let these gentlemen take a look ... she can't go on, she's not in a good way" - it's only fair that I cast my lazy eye over Chris Evans' new show, OFI Sunday, which follows it.

And it's crap.

TFI Friday, the show which Evans masterminded in the late 90s and early 00s, was something of a minor success story for the man. OFI Sunday is a tired attempt at rehashing that concept into something worthwhile a second time round, and it fails miserably.

Essentially, the format is a whole selection of gimmicks soldered together with Evans' personality. There's a 'comedy' sidekick who must be shaking with shame right now, Evans' ex Billie Piper for a little intrigue, and one or two other sideshows in the form of some navy lark and a few unfortunate injured people.

What grates more than anything is Evans' belief that things pertaining to his life are what the audience want. Here's the woman I'm divorcing for some banter with me and her; here's some of my stuff, let's have the audience and callers identify which stuff is mine and which isn't; here's a photo I took; here's me chasing a pair of inflatable breasts down a hill; here's a clip from TFI Friday back when I made good telly.

It doesn't help that the absolute lack of a format, aside from the 'look, it's Chris Evans!' approach, is matched by technical ineptitude. The sidekick's microphone malfunctioned during the guess-which-item-belongs-to-Chris game, leading to the most amusing moment of the (live) show so far, when a technician tried to subtly open the set door behind the sidekick to give him a new microphone. Subtlety wasn't really achievable in the circumstances. Meanwhile the cameras are struggling, other technicians (boom operators, runners etc) are visible on many occasions, and the whole thing feels disjointed. Not a success. The show title may well come to sum up the feelings of ITV executives when the ratings get released after a few weeks of this.

And so it begins, with the War of the Worlds theme tune over the introduction, something guaranteed to put the wind up me. I never could stand that. I avoided that film like the plague.

Anyway, it's a new series of I'm A Celeb, and even though I usually steadfastly refuse to watch this kind of thing (e.g. X Factor, not seen any of the new series, Big Brother, ditto since the second series) I find myself irresistibly drawn to this. For a start I love David Dickinson and want to see the cheeky chappy exposed, though not literally, to find out what he's like underneath that permatan exterior. Secondly it's only two short weeks of celeb hell, and it'd be nice to read The Sun and understand what they're talking about on pages 2, 3, 4, 5, 12, 13, 18, 27, 28 and 32 each day. Finally, I enjoyed the last series and I have a lot of time for that old chestnut, the Ant and Dec presenting partnership. Family television gold, those two.

Right, on to less trivial matters. I sat opposite a man on the train home today with a pretty special facial tic. He could not control his eyebrows. Up they went in mock-surprise fashion once every two or three seconds. Whilst he was looking at me. That was initially quite disturbing, but it did become clear after a time that it was entirely beyond his control, as he listened to his voicemail in what looked like a state of perpetual concerned wonder. What a hindrance that must be to ordinary life. Imagine trying to sneak a sly look at some attractive woman with that going on, or trying to work as a salesman in any capacity ("How about this car, sir... please, ignore my eyebrows"). What about saying the simplest of things? A woman on a different train dropped her hat, which I picked up and returned to her. Imagine doing that with your eyebrows racing! She'd have you down as a slobbering pervert before you could say "it's Tourette's, honest".

Finally, my dad and I worked something out today. That does sometimes happen if we both work hard as a team. We realised that out of the 14 matches (in league and cup) Manchester City have played this season, I have seen eight. City have either drawn or lost all eight. I have missed six. City have won all six. It is quite some achievement, in 14 matches, for a football club to win whenever I do not turn up, and only when I do not turn up. I imagine I am, this season so far, one of the top bad luck charms for any club in the country. Watch closely for the result of the City v Liverpool match this coming Saturday, which I can't attend. If City win, the dismal run continues. Any other result and the curse is broken.

There's something really quite crap about having a lovely week back. Monday morning beckons. And between now and then I need to sort out my accounts....aghh

For the past few days, Kent has been in a wonderful anti-cyclone (I think, if my GCSE Geography serves me well). Crisp clear skies, sunshine, frost, ice etc. The sky today was beautiful. A piercing blue, with a wintery sunshine and strong outlines to the trees. Driving home earlier today there were about five or six visible vapour trails in the sky. According to my Dad, vapour trails are the result of aeroplane engines passing hot exhaust water vapour into the cold troposphere. If the conditions are right, ice crystals develop - the thing we see as the vapour trail. Eventually (wind, temperature etc both being factors) the trail spreads apart and evaporates. Anyway, that's the science lesson for the day. What I am trying to say that they really looked amazing earlier. The angle of the trails indicated that the planes would be travelling to Heathrow. It's incredible how they can come from many different angles in the sky, and yet you can tell (even at such a distance) that their vortex (? word?) will be in the same place. One of nature/maths/science's little wonders.

The ballet of Madame Butterfly is also wonderful btw. And it was -2'C on the way home. OJ is not posting as he is in Devon, collapsing.

How my Mum and I Christmas Shop...?!

Leave home at 9.00am
Get to Bluewater 9.35ish.
Window shop (for rings, earrings etc) until stores open at 10.00am.
Begin in John Lewis clothes department.
Purchase a mop (not in clothes dept) for my laminate floor. It is some static cleaning cloth thing.
Decide to purchase knee high boots - well, I've always wanted some!
Manage to buy some Christmas cards (religious - really annoyed with non-Charity secular crap) and purple decorations for the orange Christmas tree - I kid you not. Paperchase has a lot to answer for.
Have lunch: £50. Italian. Red wine. Pudding.
Leave lunch feeling in mood to spend money do not have.
Purchase short skirt.
Mum manages to buy cousin's baby a present. Complain about the packaging of baby presents in the Early Learning Centre. A wood block thing with holes to push the shapes into - you know the ones? On the box it reads (like some food nutrition analysis): stimulating, aids hand-eye coordination, improves confidence, and some other skills. It is designed for a baby aged 6-12mths. Give them the box and some wrapping paper and they'd still have bloody hand-eye coordination and stimpulation. Stupid.
Get really angry with the recently changed and now stupid layout of M+S
Decide it's about time to have a coffee. Assess respective "present lists". We have each bought one present. Not good for the whole "today we will buy all Xmas presents, shop".
Have a wander and pick up a few more things.
Get home at 6.40pm.
Collapse.

Bloody good day all in all! Now skint. With capital S. And still have to buy Xmas presents!!

I'm back in Oxford briefly for a band practice, but I also took the opportunity to say hi to my friend Helen, a History & German student who took a year out to live in Berlin last year. So she's now in her final year at Exeter College, living in the room I occupied for just one term in autumn 2004 (the one, OJ, with the biggest desk the world has ever seen - oh how I pine for it, so to speak).

And what a mess it is. I used to get the third degree at regular intervals from my mum for leaving my room in a mess when I was living in Taunton, and I still get a fair amount of abuse at my dad's for my propensity to build up a collection of empty Diet Coke cans neatly stacked on the window sill. But I've always contested that by most standards I'm positively tidy, and Helen's treatment of my old room must bear this out. There is a thin strip of exposed carpet leading from the bathroom door to the 'front' door, but aside from that the place is littered with things Helen claims are awaiting 'recycling'. For example, there are six empty milk cartons in one corner, next to a pile of used envelopes and cardboard, below a couple of unwashed plates and opposite a pile of books on the Holocaust (I don't miss my history degree, can you even begin to imagine the depression of writing essays on that). Under a wardrobe in the corner of the room there's a small pile of sugar that Helen says she's 'waiting for the scout (cleaner in real world parlance) to hoover'.

Disgrace! When I lived in Oxford, my rooms barely appeared lived in, as I'm sure anyone who visited them will know. One entire half of my last room was left unoccupied, simply because I had too few necessary possessions to fill the place. I don't do very well at keeping clutter, and whilst it may appear otherwise at my parents' homes, that's because things tend to get unloaded there when I move back, only to rot there when I deem them surplus to requirements on leaving again. If I only had the one house, as will soon happen when I buy somewhere of my own, that ruthless attitude will mean things getting binned or sold instead of things accumulating ad infinitum. Leaving stuff in an untidy mess does happen, but it begins to adversely affect me (my work ethic, weak at the best times, disappears entirely when in a cluttered environment) to the extent that it has to be cleaned. Empty milk cartons on the floor has certainly never happened!

I've delivered her a stern rebuke and promised I'll be back to conduct regular inspections. And not just because I want to borrow all the DVDs in her collection. That has nothing to do with it. At least they were arranged neatly, mind...

Stuart Pearce has only been in football management for just over half a year, but he's taken all his character and determination with him into the job.

I went to meet the Manchester City boss at the club's Carrington training ground in below-freezing conditions, and was confronted by the man they call "Psycho" wearing a t-shirt and shorts.

Listen to Stuart defend his choice of clothing - and the rest of the interview - using the audio panel below. Alternatively, scroll down to read what he had to say.

Ollie: It's minus three outside this morning - you've turned up in a t-shirt. Is that why you're called 'Psycho'?

Stuart: No, 'cause I had a hat, coat, scarf and gloves on when I came through the door.

Ollie: So it's all a show for the press?

Stuart: Of course it is.

Ollie: You've been manager at City for 9 or 10 months now. Is it what you expected?

Stuart: That and a bit more, I think. It's a very difficult job - football management's very tough. You have to keep a level head on everything you're trying to achieve and have a long-term goal, and also win your short-term battles. I've been very fortunate, I've had good support from everyone at the club.

Ollie: You say in your autobiography that the game's changed but you haven't. Has that changed since you became a manager?

Stuart: Not really. I think as in life you have to be honest, reliable and dependable and serve a football club to the best of your ability - look people in the eye at supporters' club meetings and give them an honest answer. Whether they like that or not is irrelevant if you can be honest and people look at you and say "hang on a minute, what this fella says is probably the truth".

Ollie: You're gaining a reputation for being quite active on the touchline. Do you ever worry you'll get too involved and make a tackle? Take a throw-in?

Stuart: I think [assistant manager] Steve Wigley has got a bet that it'll happen this season. Someone'll just have to skate a bit close to me when we're winning 1-0, last minute, it could be worth taking a booking.

Ollie: Has Bryan Robson forgiven you for the slide tackle you dished out to him earlier this season?

Stuart: Just wait til we go to The Hawthorns. When he wants the ball back and we're beating them, he won't get it.

Ollie: Your MBE isn't often mentioned. Did you ever think about it before you received it?

Stuart: No, obviously not. I view myself as a very humble working man, fortunate to stay in football for a length of time. You always thought MBEs and OBEs were maybe for people who'd done charity work or deserved it, not someone like me who does a job for a living that I love doing.

Ollie: Presumably you'd trade it in for a World Cup winners' medal?

Stuart: I don't know. I respect the Queen greatly and it was very pleasant of her to do so. It'd be nice to have both.

Ollie: That brings us on to penalties. Everyone will know your case history with penalties, but when Robbie Fowler missed the one that could have taken City into Europe, what was going through your head?

Stuart: We were one kick away from getting into a European place and it was a good achievement. It's strange - we talked during a team-building thing afterwards and Robbie brought that up. I'd never even thought about it from the day it happened til now, it's such an irrelevance. All I reflect on is we failed to beat Middlesbrough, not Robbie missing the penalty. That's what cost us getting into Europe.

Ollie: Do you ever think you'll enjoy management as much as you enjoyed playing?

Stuart: No. Never.

Ollie: Not even if you lead an England team to World Cup glory as manager?

Stuart: No. For me football's about playing football. The big thing about football is playing in a team, the camaraderie in that dressing room before, during and after the game. Yes, management gives you a second place to that, but make no mistake - when your team win and you enjoy it for your little bit that you put towards the team, you can never actually be one of those players again. That's the most important thing.

I just flicked on lunchtime TV as I enjoyed a warming cup a soup! Channel 5. Brainteaser. The "competition" to win £250. An anagram. SS PO PA RT and the question "something you take when you go on holiday". There I was rearranging the letters. I didn't realise they were already paired together, so it was a case of re-arranging the four pairs and coming up with Passport. I know it was Ch5, and I know they have to make it easy for the phone calls/money etc, but please. Surely we can make it a bit more of a challenge?

In other news, Ollie has his present. Well, no. He's received his present, but I have it!

From BBC News Online:

A South American parrot which was thought to have brought a deadly strain of bird flu into the UK may be in the clear, says a government report.

The probe said it was more likely the virus was brought to a quarantine centre by 50 finches from Taiwan. [source]

The South Americans must be getting a bit brassed off by this. Bombs go off in central London, so our police force chases and subsequently kills a South American man who turns out to be innocent. Bird flu threatens to come into the country, so we terminate a South American parrot the moment it so much as sneezes, only for it to be posthumously declared fit and well.

If I was Brazilian, I'd be feeling sick as a- well actually no. The parrot wasn't bloody sick, was it!

Earlier, Ollie and I met for a diet coke (it had to be a diet/light coke and it had to be in a can, not a bottle) off Chancery Lane. We were wittering (or I was wittering, and he was talking in moderately coherent sentences) about a variety of issues, including the research/news article thingy he has yet to do on an “issue affecting local government in Sutton”. What could this be? Recycling, fly tipping, road safety, environmental issues, and bypasses were all things that we came up with. But a bypass? How would Sutton have a bypass? Surely the M25 is the ultimate bypass. But does the M25 need a bypass? Perhaps it does. Perhaps there could be a road to bypass Heathrow. What a good idea. It could be the M25 ¾’s – just like Harry Potter. Even better, what about a train. You could come off the M25 at junction 9 ¾’s, board a euro-tunnel-esque train in your car, get transported around Heathrow, and then get placed back on the M25, somewhere before the M4 turn off. Amazing. Is this what the planners have in mind when they aim to extend the Eurostar link from Waterloo into the North of England. “It will never work”, says Amy, the lawyer and therefore natural cynic. “Journalists are always optimistic”, cries Ollie; “of course it will work”. And so the discussion progressed.

Oh and also Ollie has spent a stupid amount of money (although I can't really talk after my cushion) on a diary. And do you know the worst thing about it? It has maps of the world and information about the water quality in Israel (contains high levels of chlorine and may lead to stomach upsets, or something), but does it have a tube map? No. So could we argue where Colliers Green was? Well, yes we could argue, but did we have the evidence? No. Stupid bloody diary.

Cool - the Red Lion pub in Westminster has been mentioned on BBC Online, for its failure to gain extended opening hours. It is an irregular haunt of mine; an illicit drink with friends while visiting London on a sixth form trip, and a drop in with others whenever I'm in the area. I had no idea about its history, though...

In other news, I've just finished wrapping Ollie's birthday present. What's that I hear you say - his birthday was two weeks ago?! Oh. Could've fooled me. Anyway, a rendezvous at Paddington has been arranged for tomorrow morning when the present, having been manhandled on the train, will be exchanged. And in further news, I have a cold and it's really miserable. And a lecture on feminism to go to. Bleurgh all round, really.

**Edit by Amy**: Following the above meeting with Ollie, I have managed to utterly puzzle him about the nature of his pressie. We settled on the fact that it was something which was somewhere between a cow, a book and gay porn. Unfortunately Ollie travelling to the LCC and then straight to Manchester tomorrow. It appears that I may be given his present back againn - so after waiting two weeks for it, he will only have the pleasure of it for about two minutes. Poor thing.

Listening to the commentary on this morning's cricket between England and Pakistan, the slightly grotesque English attitude towards food was in evidence. Our supermarket culture appears to have left us bereft of the concept that food actually has to be grown under certain conditions at certain times.

The match is being played in Pakistan. Cue the English commentator and his Pakistani counterpart:

English: [TV screen showing a shot of a player drinking some form of juice] That's mango juice, plenty of mangos grown around here.

Pakistani: Yes, this is a big area of mango production for Pakistan.

English: It's a shame really, I've not seen any mangos in the two weeks I've been here. I wonder where they all are.

Pakistani: [beat] Well, it's not mango season.

English: Oh.

Pakistani: If you'd come maybe a couple of months ago, the mangos would be everywhere.

English: [sounding disappointed and not a little stupid] Right.

Pakistani: You can always come back. It's 74 for 1. [cut to adverts]

I've just enjoyed a very interesting exploration of the network of British websites that document everything your local MP does, from voting on anti-terror legislation to picking their nose in the cab on the way to the Commons.

My local MP is Siobhain McDonagh (Mitcham & Morden, since I'm half a road away from the Streatham constituency). She's rebelled against the Labour vote a few times but nothing spectacular and is largely a happy Labour bunny. The website TheyWorkForYou, truly one of the most useful sites I've seen in a long time, documents her voting and speech history here.

Take a look at the filed expenses (further down that page) though. Keith Hill, Lab, of nearby Streatham, has never rebelled and has attended 98% of parliamentary votes, so could reasonably be said to be a staunch Labour representative. His expenses for the last financial year on record, 2003/4, were just under £100,000, placing him 602nd out of the 658 MPs. Not bad at all. £2,933 of this came under 'Stationery: Associated Postage Costs'. I guess if you're sending out envelopes etc as an MP, you can expect to spend around three grand a year.

Siobhain McDonagh, however, spent almost £32,000 on associated postage costs in the same period! This places her a whopping first out of all MPs for postage expenditure. What has she been doing?! Shipping endangered pandas to constituents? Outrage! I've signed up to be emailed whenever she speaks in Parliament and whenever she issues any information on local concerns to see where this money might be going.

Signing up for that latter update, I noticed that the 'example postcode' provided on the form was OX1 3DR. That's the postcode for Lincoln College, Oxford! Does this mean someone from Lincoln was intimately involved with creating the site? Doesn't surprise me. From what I can tell, the college is a breeding ground for political hacks. I bet most of them are doing absurdly geeky political things like acting as unpaid researchers for Tory MPs in their spare time or something... OJ...

Finally, a quick quiz. Can you name the Minister Without Portfolio? (The three previous occupants of the post were, most recent first, John Reid, Charles Clarke and of course Peter Mandelson.)

Yes, I got asked the above question yesterday... whilst buying a scratch card. A scratch card? Alcohol is OK (especially with the over 21 policy). But a scratch card? I had to produce my driving license. And I didn't win anyway, so the shame was in vain anyway.

Go to Google. Put in the word failure, and then click “I’m Feeling Lucky”. Ha.

Anyway. My day at the ICSL yesterday was split between work and the pub. My lectures/classes lasted from 9am-2.30pm. The pub lasted from 2.35pm-9.00pm. I confess that I haven’t drunk so much for a long while. Having said that, it wasn’t really just the volume of drink – it was just that it lasted for such a long period of time, I only ate lunch at 6.00pm and I was really really tired. It was a really enjoyable evening though. The people on my course are a lovely bunch of people and we had a lot of laughs. I’m not one to stay out late voluntarily, but I wanted to because it was actually rather good fun. I managed to get myself home in one piece (if I had been in any doubt I would have got a taxi), and also call my Mum to tell her that I was home. The best bit? Whilst I felt considerably rough at 3am this morning, when I woke up at 7.30am there was nothing wrong with me. No hangover, no nothing. I owe a lot to my Father’s genes!

Whilst reading the papers before lunch with some friends, I was asked if I knew what it meant to be tonsured. Why yes, I replied, thinking back to this time last year, and my (not so) happy times spent with Gregory of Tours. Medieaval history really isn't my thing, but at least I learnt something useful. And as it happens, today is rather special. Not only is it Armistice Day, but it is also the St. Martin's day! Ollie will surely be pleased. Maybe the cat shit was actually a relic?

Yesterday was not a good day.

First, Terry Pratchett was really quite unkind. I was going to not mention this in case some day in the far distant future, he read it and decided to sue me, but sod it. I'm still pretty brassed off.

Basically, I emailed him asking if I could interview him on Wednesday (i.e. the Wednesday just gone), an interview that I'd give to Oxford student radio and one I'd also use to satisfy part of the criteria for my course (interview a celebrity). I apologised for it being such short notice, this email being sent on Tuesday morning, but I'd only just found the contact details for his agent, since they're suitably hidden away. I got quite a polite email back saying no, sorry, not possible etc.

That was fine, but I'd got a good plan for the interview involving a sound effect of his new book, 'Thud!' (guess the sound effect in mind), some good questions about his earlier career in journalism that would've made good listening for my friends on the course, and a bit of an exploration of how he came to create the universe called Discworld in which the majority of the events about which he writes take place. So I emailed him back, offering to travel to meet him if he had 10 minutes spare anywhere in the south of England over the next ten days. It would take no longer, I said, and I'd really like to talk to him.

Alas it wasn't to be - the email I got back was obnoxious in the extreme. I shall have to paraphrase since I deleted the email almost immediately to stop myself from being unduly wound up by it, but the reply ran a little like this:

Sorry but no, it's not my fault, the onus is not on me to make time for you because of your cock-up.

Fault? Cock-up? Bloody hell. I might have not given him much notice for the Wednesday, and that was understandable, I'd even apologised for it in advance and was fine with him not being able to change his schedule. But I'd just said that if he had ten spare minutes, anywhere in the south of England, at any time in the next ten days, I'd be happy to travel to him! How the hell is that placing any onus on him?

This annoys me and I'm sure Terry Pratchett is not the only celebrity to get a little carried away. He should know, or at least having been a student journalist he should faintly remember, how it is to be a normal person. At some point, I bet he thought how very fun it might be to be interviewed by someone. Now, the man seems not to appreciate that it's actually quite nice for someone to want to talk to you. I genuinely wanted to interview him and he threw it in my face. Had he truly been too busy over the next ten days, and had he even been mightily irritated by me (which is a little excessive after two polite emails), he could have just said "I'm really sorry, I can't do it, but thanks for showing an interest in talking to me and best of luck for the future". That would beat the little slice of vitriol I got instead.

Anyway, I wrote back with "No problem Terry, thanks anyway". No point sinking to his level. Not when I can just bitch about him here instead, eh.

So I was on a bit of a downer that afternoon when I came home, because the ego had taken a bit of bruising with that curt response. I opened the door to my house and a slight smell hit the nostrils - "must sort that bathroom out, it stinks", I thought to myself as I went upstairs. But, bizarrely, the bathroom was nothing like as pungent as my bedroom. After five or ten minutes of checking emails I sat on my bed, reached across for the remote control, and noticed the steaming, sludgy pile of cat shit smeared across my duvet.

Oh yes.

That'll be where the smell was coming from then. God knows what the cat had been eating, but I think we can safely say that cat and food had had something of a major disagreement. Whatever verbal diarrhoea Terry Pratchett can muster up is nothing compared to the real thing ejected by the cat all over my bed. A little piece of me quietly died on the sight of it.

First things first: I had a look round the room for the cat, swearing to shoot the bastard if it so much as breathed in my direction in the next month. There are two cats, so I don't actually know which cat opted for my bed as a suitable platform for colonic irrigation, but by unleashing a tidal wave of hatred on both I can at least cover the bases. Leopard is my prime suspect, and he was sat outside the bathroom later that night. He miaowed at me. "Miaow your f***ing self," I replied. We exchanged looks of mutual understanding.

So down to Homebase for a new duvet cover and duvet we went. I would have rescued the duvet but the poo was so remarkably fluid that it had found its way into the deepest of depths across the widest of areas - it was a write-off. The sheet and mattress underneath had only just escaped, and even they whiffed a bit until they got a good cleansing treatment. Into the bin went the old duvet, cover and all. Off in the distance a cat has just wailed in distress, and I do hope it's one of ours getting the shit kicked out of it by a neighbouring tom cat. That way there'll be none left next time it feels the urge.

Wow. Just fantastic. It was one of the most enjoyable times I’ve ever been to the theatre. I say theatre, but the Burton Taylor is really just a very small room with some seats in, but with all the technical stuff you need to run a production. The room was full with an audience of around 60. Anyway: the play. The adaptation was really just a slimmer version of the script, word for word. For those of us who know the film (too) well – and that meant most of the audience, who were overwhelmingly male – that meant knowing laughs at imminent punchlines, and the spotting of what was left out. But it was a very comprehensive production – they covered every scene in the film, including ones such as Maverick’s ride on his bike into Miramir, where the only action is his pumping his fist to a plane that lands. It was not comprehensive, however, in its sets or actors. In fact, there were eight people who did all the roles, which led to the delights of seeing two girls doing the Hollywood/Wolfman lines of “I’ve got a hardon/Don’t tease me”. And the planes. Yes, they actually ran around with their arms out going “wooooooooooosh”. Actors off stage made sound effects, such as radar lock and gun fire. The enemy MiGs were portrayed as people with their arms out and red caps with a hammer and sickle on them. Oh, and I can’t forget the volleyball scene, which saw 4 rather untoned guys playing in slow motion, with an off stage actor going “donk” every time the ball was hit. Bless ‘em. The actors were all magnificent, with Maverick and Iceman looking both uncannily accurate, and Goose having a moustache. And Stinger had as bald a head as you can want. Fun for all the family – I can only hope that it makes it to Broadway, some day.

Remember we took the BBC History Quiz the other week? Well tonight I tried the Biology. 2/12. Now I know why I only got an A at GCSE. Useless.

Depending on which college you're at, and which clubs you are involved with, Oxford is either a very active student city, or an apathetic one. There's room for all of us here, which is good because - despite an increasing participation with University societies - Lincoln is a particularly unactive college. Lazy, one might say (which is certainly attractive to some of us). And I had always thought that Exeter was similarly quiet. Indeed, this was the gist of a column in last week's OxStu that asked "What's the point of Turl Street Colleges?" So it was with some surprise that I walked out of my lodge a couple of hours ago and found a group of spectators watching a protest happening outside of Exeter. I mosied up to take a look; it was a protest about Socially Ethical Investment. Nothing like a catchy slogan, fellas. There were only 40 or so people, which made the spectacle more amusing - it was almost as if they were waiting for more of them to turn up. Still, one of them had a megaphone, which is when we stopped watching and walked away, fearing that we were next to be talked at. I just want to know what Exeter have done to deserve the protest. Ollie?

I've just found out that if I untangle a few leads, my laptop can reach my sofa, complete with internet connection. Here I am, curled up and posting. I feel like Ollie.

The BBC says it is revamping its news operation, including a higher profile for News 24 but, more importantly, a 'merged pool of staff' for its three major news bulletins at 1pm, 6pm and 10pm, including one editor overseeing each of the first two, instead of separate editors as before.

That probably doesn't sound like much but it might mean a lot to the people working on the programmes. When I've spoken to BBC staff in the past, one thing that's been obvious is the level of rivalry within the corporation. One Beeb journalist told me that the 10 O'Clock bulletin had a reputation within the organisation for withholding exclusive reports from the 1pm and 6pm shows, so as to have unique material with which to raise its profile. Streamlining the news teams so that they work on all three bulletins should theoretically help to wipe out that competitive culture and introduce more sharing of stories.

It's easy to see where that culture came from. Last week I was in one team of five creating a bulletin to run in the same studio fifteen minutes after an identical bulletin from another group of five. I know and love all the people in that other group of five, but my god I wanted something extra that they didn't have to set our bulletin apart. That's not necessarily the healthiest of attitudes (and the BBC has issued diktats ordering staff to prioritise accuracy ahead of speed, effectively rapping the knuckles of employees who wanted to be first with news at any cost) but I'm clearly not alone given the 10 O'Clock's antics. Merging our two teams under one editor would have brought us closer together - doing the same at the BBC can only be a positive thing.

Today was the day that our first choices for official work placements - three weeks long in April/May next year - were decided. We submitted three choices in order of preference and, after a morning of sorting out all the clashes, everyone comes away with a first choice radio station to go forward to the BJTC (Broadcast Journalism Training Council), who then attempt to sort out placements. At least that's how it works for commercial placements, which is what I and fourteen others wanted.

My first choice was Manchester's Key 103, the only station in the country that will take two LCC students at once. A dead cert then, you might think, but three of us had it as our first choice. No one was prepared to give way (having spent time choosing these stations, nobody wants to have to back down), so into the hat our three names went. Out of the hat came the names of the other two. Poor Ollie joined around nine or ten others in the 'reject' camp.

But this is why we had second and third choices, and my second choice was Oxford's very own Fox FM. Miraculously no one else had chosen Fox, so it's looking likely that my official placement will take place at Fox. To be honest, that's as good as getting my first choice - Manchester would have been fun but it's a long way and would have meant staying with someone I don't know particularly well, an inconvenience to them and potentially awkward for me given the stupid hours I'll most likely be working. Oxford is easy for me to get to from home, and if that's not good enough (i.e. if I still can't drive by then) I'll probably be able to sleep on someone's floor in the city centre itself. It's not definite, only 70% of these applications go through successfully, but even if I don't go to Fox I'll wind up somewhere lovely I'm sure (Wycombe's Mix 107 is third choice and seems a great little station).

So if, like a few of our esteemed readers, you'll be in Oxford next April, tune in to 102.6 or 97.4 FM...

Actually, I don't know where he works, but I think it's the office next to the Bear Lane. I see him regularly on Alfred Street, where he puffes away on a fag. And he is an exact replica of Graeme Souness. It's uncanny.

(With apologies to Kirsty MacColl.)

According to a report in the Metro this morning (sorry, no link), a woman has called her child "Ikea". I mean, come on. It brings a new meaning to the phrase "Ikea virgin".

According to my Father, in Hungary if they want a "new name" it has to be approved by the lunguistics* board. This is to prevent the inflx of "non-hungarian" words. I doubt that would be particularly apprpriate for the UK (unless you are a member of the BNP), but the idea has its merits if it prevents names silly names.

*It's genetic!! I cut this phrase from an email my Dad sent me earlier. See, he can't spell/correct typos either!

A new series on the BBC began this evening: Shakespeare Retold. This is where Shakespeare classics are set in a modern day environment, in modern English. In essence, the plot is the same as the Shakespeare, but everything else has been changed.

Tonight was an interpretation of Much Ado About Nothing. This has to be one of my favourite Shakespeare plays: studied at school, and I’ve watched the Kenneth Branagh adaptation far too many times. For this attempt to impress, it would have to be good.

I have to say that the adaptation of Much Ado was very enjoyable. It did impress. Set in a regional newsroom, it followed the relationship between an engaged couple (Hero, played by Billy Piper and Claude, played by Tom Ellis – the weathergirl and sports presenter) and two warring news presenters (Beatrice and Benedick – the witty couple whose mutual hate for each other ultimately ends in love). If you don’t get it, go read the play – or the Lamb’s abridged version at least. It’s worth it. Tom Ellis was pretty cute too. Anyway, the adaptation was funny, it was close in plot to the original play and I’d say that the BBC have hit the mark, for once.

It was far more thrilling than the BBC’s incredibly dull interpretation of Bleak House at the moment. If you didn’t like Dickens before, you won’t like it any better after watching this program. Bleak? You bet.

I look forward to Macbeth next week: set in a restaurant kitchen, I have a feeling some knives will be involved!

Poor Barney.

You might remember him. About a week ago I popped a photo on here which showed him larking about with a microphone outside Fabric during our big uni bash there. He joined our course two weeks into the term after someone else dropped out (well, never turned up) and he was just starting to fit in - lovely guy.

And now he's gone again, because Guernsey LEA won't pay his course fees. I'm not privy to the debacle that must have been rolling on for the past couple of weeks between Barney and the LEA, but the upshot is that the LCC have had no money and Barney has departed, marking a grand total of exactly two weeks on the course. You can't really blame the LCC - it needs the funds and if it doesn't get them, it can't justify keeping someone on a course. After all, it would hardly be fair on the rest of us if they let someone get away without paying on time. But equally, of course you feel for Barney. It's not his fault and now he's in limbo again having just quit at the Royal Bank of Scotland to go on this course as a last-minute call-up to it.

The worst part was his goodbye this morning. None of us had any idea until Martin, our course director, told us all he had 'bad news' with Barney stood next to him. We got a lengthier version of what I've just said above, and then Barney said a brief goodbye and, well, left! It was not a nice moment at all and it's a real shame, especially considering one or two people on the course who take such liberties that their places are in jeopardy through their own sloth, not financial difficulties.

Still, let's not dwell, and I'm sure I'll bump into Barney again. By unhappy coincidence one of the stories we dealt with during a newswriting session this afternoon involved Barney the lobster, freed by the chef who intended to cook him after the chef decided he was 'too beautiful to cook'. This story originally appeared in 2001, but we had to rewrite a slightly different version of it - the BBC News Online article about it is here.

Speaking of BBC News Online, interesting to read Amy's praise of the site below. The site is indeed a great resource, far superior to anything any commercial rivals can offer (for obvious reasons). Not so the BBC's broadcast news bulletins. I love Five Live and I'm increasingly drawn to podcasts of Radio 4's From Our Own Correspondent, but I'm learning that commercial news bulletins are often far more crisp, concise and punchy than their BBC equivalents. For example, the Beeb like to linger over their audio clips during bulletins, which normally last from 20 to 25 seconds. On commercial you get 10 to 15 seconds max. BBC stations will take a few longwinded sentences to pack in all the information they can; commercial want the important stuff up front and stripped of any loquacious tendency. For someone who's spent the last three years learning how to string a pile of long words and impenetrable logic into as many thousand words as is necessary, it's quite a culture shock.

Take my 'top lines', the opening sentences of each story in a bulletin. We wrote two versions of one story this afternoon (the MI6 building attack a year or two ago) and handed them in before our break. At the end of the break, Martin had chosen six top lines to put on the board for discussion. Two of the six, out of fifty-eight submitted, were mine. This doesn't mean I'm crap, but it does mean I consistently write top lines that warrant some dissection. Watching one's bulletin script getting knocked about by 28 other mightily relieved bastards plus Martin is not something I'm used to (one tutor privately demolishing my ego at Oxford was a different kettle of lobsters), but it's really helpful in the end.

The point is, I'm growing to love commercial bulletins. Yes, the whole reason for being so snappy is that they want as much advertising and chart music on the air as possible. But that doesn't mean there's no skill involved - in fact, I'm told the BBC look favourably on commercial broadcast journalists because they've had to work under pressure with few resources to deliver material that is often sharper and easier on the ear than the BBC itself churns out. That's why I'm applying to do my work placement at a commercial station this coming April.

On Wednesday evening, I'm off to see a theatre production. That's pretty rare; usually I only go if a friend is involved. But, really, how could I turn down the chance to see a student production of one of my favourite films? Yes, I shall be going to see Top Gun - The Play.

Words can't quite describe how excited I am about seeing this. It shall be, I'm sure, excruciatingly cringe worthy. Rather like watching a car crash. But that's what makes the film so watchable. I mean, how are they adapting the location. I can understand that the dogfights might be replicated by men going around with their arms stuck out making "Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeoooooooow" noises. But which poor sucker is going to be the aircraft carrier? That's got to be harder than being told to "be a tree", which I'm sure is a universal experience of school drama lessons.

Alternatively, if they're English students (as most thesps are), they could be focussing on the various subtexts of the film. As to how that will be performed... well, at least the play is on before the watershed. I shall report back with interest (and hopefully a recommendation).

After reading this title for a BBC news story - "Cruiser Docks After Pirate Escape" - I was expecting some meeting between Tom Cruise and Johnny Depp. Sadly not: a cruise liner was attacked by pirates off the coast of Somalia. I had never really thought about the waters around such a country being dangerous, but when you look down the links provided by the BBC under "see also", there have been at least seven articles which have reported similar events this year. It's amazing how much you can miss when just scanning the papers/news websites, and how easy it is to read stories in isolation. One pirate attack doesn't seem particularly worrying, but read the entirety of the articles and you realise that Somalia has quite a problem on its hands.

And this is why reading the BBC, with all its links, is much better than just reading a newspaper in isolation.

There. Done. I was worried that I hadn't praised the beeb for a while!

I'm turning into my Mother. My Father has, for years, complained that she keeps far too many S-bury's bags. They are very useful. I was at home last night and this morning brought back to London a dozen or so of these carrier bags. I am just not doing enough shopping to make up for the number of carrier bags I use for other purposes. What is happening to me?!

I've just seen an advert on TV for the new DVD of Titanic. It includes, and I quote, an 'all-new alternative ending'. How fantastic is that going to be!

I can just imagine what might happen. The only major thing that could change (aside from the woman not being a bitch and letting her rescuer slip into the depths of the Atlantic at the end) i