Gail Porter's on BBC1 at the moment as part of the channel's "One Life" series of documentaries. You might remember that Gail recently lost her hair to stress-induced alopecia.

Back when her naked figure was infamously projected onto Parliament she looked as she does on the left - now she's more Sinead O'Connor, as on the right. The documentary charts her attempts to come to terms with what is a staggering loss for someone used to seeing themselves amply follicled, both on television and even on Britain's finest architecture. We follow her as she searches for ways to restore both her hair and, in many ways, herself.

Strangely we're only now, half an hour into the programme, touching on the subject of wigs. I'm sure if this had been - or ever is - me then that would be my first thought. If I lost a limb I'd immediately want a prosthetic, it's human nature to demand a replacement if we ever lose anything. Hell, it even happens when we lose a pet (click here to read Andrew Collins' account of trying, and failing, to introduce a new kitten when an older cat has recently died).

And Gail looks great in a wig. As a blonde she was absolutely stunning so, essentially, she's now an equally stunning blank slate with the opportunity to try thousands of looks. For every really, really terrible thing life throws at you there should be a silver lining, something positive, I'm a real believer in that.

Don't pretend losing your hair's a trivial issue either. Granted she's not in danger of dying but it must feel as though a very real part of you has died and isn't coming back. My hair may well be daftly spiky in the eyes of most, or just plain dull in the eyes of an enlightened, stylish few, but it's mine. When I wake up in the morning I want it to be there and I want it to do what I want it to do. If it doesn't quite sit right, that's bloody annoying, and I like to think I'm not the most image-conscious individual in the world.

Imagine waking up every morning with nothing. It's a whole chunk of your ability to express yourself lost almost overnight. It's going to take real effort to wake up each morning and see a canvas on which to paint a new you, be that with a wig or with a shedload of bravery and self-esteem. I think Gail's an absolute hero for looking her problems in the eye and seeing something beautiful.

This is the video to be watching today - Peter Crouch "doing the robot" following his goal against Hungary last night.

Message to my fellow LCC students doing their TV packages for assessment: if you can build this footage into it, many bonus points in your favour.

...and you might remember me from past posts such as... well, I'm sure I've posted something somewhere.

Some days you win, some days you lose. And some days you win big.

Most of my last eight days have been spent furiously typing my thesis. It's invovled very little sleep, a lot of grouching, and about 20000 words. It's been enjoyable and frustrating, as these things usually are, but with the deadline fast approaching, I'm getting a little sick of it. Today I finished the second draft, and have about a day's worth editing left to do. At last! Immediately after rewriting the conclusion at 5pm today, I threw my cricket gear on and rushed to take my place in Lincoln's 2 XI. It was time for something rewarding, given that I haven't done anything but work and sleep for eight days. Literally. There have been cricket related posts on Dayorama in the past, which conclude (see, still writing in thesis speak) that the College 2nds league is dangerous (see Oliver C. Williams, Ow, I can't see (2005)), and that I'm not a very good cricketer. But suddenly I've hit a purple patch. In my debut game this season, not only did I take a catch (rare), I also ran someone out (rarer), and bowled well (extremely rare), and had two dropped catches at slip off my bowling. That was pretty good. Today, I took my first ever wicket as a bowler. It was a beauty, swinging in (have no idea what I'm doing to make that work) and destroying the off stump. The batsman even congratulated me on it. Even as I write, a tear is forming in my eye, so beautiful was that ball. A once in a lifetime delivery. I also had a catch dropped by the wicket keeper off the very next delivery. Where did I manage to become a good bowler? (Or, when did standards drop so?) Beats me.

And then. We were playing the Keble MCR team, who were very good. They posted 147 off 25 overs (our extras rate was appaling, myself included), and then after a good opening partnership, our batsman started dropping. I batted at 6, and came in on 47 for 4, and had to face four very tense balls from their best delivery. I was nerve wracked - in the last match, I was out for a golden duck. Somehow, I managed to make my way through those deliveries, defending each one and taking deep breaths between balls. And then it clicked. I hit a massive straight drive off him the next over, and broke his spirit. He soon bowled his allotted overs, and suddenly we were into my territory. With solid support from my partner (Wortho, for those in the know), we tried to rebuild our innings. Time was against us, but I ended up carrying my bat, scoring 47 not out, my highest ever score, beating a 36 I scored for the U11 against Sherborne. I had the eye, was hitting long and smooth, and forcing field changes. I even varied my shots, picking up quick singles, punch twos, a few fours, and suprisingly (for me), no sixes. It was, quite simply, glorious.

We lost, though. Our run rate was too low, and we lost by some 40 runs. And I still have my ultimate weakness, the inability to play on the off side and concrete feet. Keble eventually worked this out, and despite having only nine men, stacked five on the on side, and only two on the off. Oh well. I also dropped a chance, a hard one but a chance nonetheless, beacuse I tangled my feet up.

I feel on a high. I also got another job interview for next Monday, so things are finally happening again. I can see light at the end of the tunnel. I'm even posting again (though I'm going to disappear to finish this thesis). But wow. Some days you win, and some days you win big.

Have you spoken to Anna yet? You really should - that's her up there. She's the IKEA chatbot, which means she's not an actual human being but she's been programmed by real humans to deal with all things IKEA you can throw at her.

My good friend Andy's trying to get a new bed from IKEA to his flat, so we've been asking many testing bed-related questions of Anna - titter ye not. But it's when you move the conversation on to other topics that she and her programmers shine. For example:

Ollie: Can you tell us a joke? Anna: I'm an IKEA Online Assistant, not a comedian. If you need information about IKEA I can help you, but I'm afraid I don't know any jokes.

Ollie: Where's the nearest Homebase?
Anna: I can't really say, to be honest. Maybe you should consult a map.

She's also come up with by far the best response I've ever had from any woman:

Anna: As an IKEA Online Assistant I don't know the meaning of 'no'.

Wahey!

I'm an avid user of my Nectar bonus points card. Any fellow user will know that periodically S/bury provide you with vouchers to get extra points on shopping e.g "spend £50 before X and receive 500 extra Nectar points". IN my eagerness to gain Nectar points I often persuade my Mother to let me have the odd "big shop" that she does - so I can get Nectar points on a shop somewhere between £100-150. This is the equivalent of perhaps five or more of my usual shops. I too also do a "big shop" from time to time and can easily reach £100. Great you'd think? Well, actually this urge to get points has screwed me over. My vouchers arrived in the post yesterday and I have five vouchers for consecutive weeks in June. They are only offering me bonus points when I spend £70 or more. I doubt I shall manage that in June - they'll all be £20-30 shops. Or my standard £2.05 for a sandwich and coke at lunch. It's not fair! I've lost my points!

A spoof notice from the DVLA is currently doing the rounds:

In order to assist other motorists in identifying potentially dangerous drivers, it is now compulsory for anyone with a lower than average IQ and driving ability to display a warning flag.

The flag (comprising of a red cross on a white background) will be attached to the top of at least one door of their vehicle.

For drivers of exceptionally low ability, additional flags are required.

Sorry for the awful title. I'm tired, driven for hours and have much washing to cope with. Anyway, Devon was wonderfully good fun. That's all really.

Remember Courts, the furniture shops which slipped into administration fairly recently? They're alive and well, it would seem, in Barbados.

Which I wouldn't know if it weren't for BBC Berkshire's photo gallery of Speightstown, the Barbados town twinned with Reading. We're a veritable lucky dip of cultural insight, I tell you. Click here to visit the rest of the gallery.

People collect odd things. Right now I'm at a football programme fair near Manchester where quite a few people will probably part with three or four figures in cash for what remain, essentially, pieces of paper.

But that's not odd by collecting standards - it's positively mainstream. Earlier this month I had an email from a friend of mine which read as follows:

Dear all,

For a long time now I have had a small affair with something. This has recently moved from a small affair to a beautiful, loving relationship, and now to full-on obsession.

I have a thing for matches. The free matches one gets in pubs, clubs and other trendy spots. I can't stop thinking about them. I base where I go of an eve depending on where I can get new matches. Yesterday I even picked up a packet of matches from the floor and was bitterly disappointed to find them empty.

So I'm asking you, trusted friends and loved ones, to help continue this. If you are out somewhere and you see a pack of matches, why not take two? One for me and one for you.

Travelling people - could you maybe get some cool ethnic ones to make my collection more eclectic (and, thus, politically correct)? Those residing in England: yours are of equal importance, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Point of note - my flatmate would like to add she does not share this obsession, and is getting a bit freaked out to be honest.

Alright, so that's starting to verge on the obscure, and if she starts constructing elaborate models of the Sistine Chapel from her collection then I'll be notifying the authorities. But now we head to one of England's very own vineyards - Boze Down, near Reading - for this little plea to the collecting masses:

Special Note for Label Collectors

You would be amazed just how many requests we get for Boze Down labels from collectors all over the world. At first I thought this was because we had such an original distinctive label design, but now I realise that there are just a lot of enthusiastic label collectors out there (mind you, it is still a great label design).

Well that's great - good to see such interest in wine. But I do have a little problem here, since you all ask for just the labels and nobody ever wants the wine! I happen to think that collecting wine labels is fine, but only if you have tasted the wine.

So here is the deal. You let me know where you are and what Boze Down wine(s) you want. I'll let you know the cost to post it to you, and on receipt of payment we will send whatever you want - yes, even one bottle - complete with spare Boze Down labels so you won't have annoy the wife soaking all those bottles in the sink to get the labels off.

This way you can enjoy delicious wines from Boze Down, impress all your friends with your extensive wine knowledge and add to your label collection. What a deal!

Closer to home (or further away, actually) this collecting lark only crossed my mind when I was in my hotel room up here last night. I went to switch the telly on with the remote control, but it wouldn't work. On closer inspection the lid which should enclose the batteries had disappeared from the back of it.

What I want to know is who the hell 'collects' - i.e. steals - those things? From the sheer number of lidless wonders I've come across, someone somewhere must be sending frantic emails to their friends imploring them to indulge in petty acts of plastic-pinching. It takes all sorts.

This little cardboard figure - front on the left, reverse on the right - dropped through my letter box this weekend, dwarved by the humongous envelope in which it came. As you can see it's a little promotional device for the new Keane single "Is It Any Wonder?", due out on Monday. Top marks to their marketing crew. Perhaps it may be a little daft but I think it has a certain unconventional charm.

And dropping into my inbox a moment ago, a link to a new BBC News 24 remix. This one's a bit special because it's done by a gentleman whom OJ and I used to go to school with, called Adam. Click here to listen to it (or right-click that link and select 'Save Target As' to permanently download it). I've dubbed it the "Emergency Services" mix owing to the signature tinkly-keyboard siren which runs through it, also faintly reminiscent of winter. It wouldn't sound out of place on BBC News 24, that's for sure, so that has to be good.

Finally, congratulations to Cheltenham Town (and number one Cheltenham fan Amy J) on promotion from League Two to the giddy heights of League One today.

Imagine the consternation in the Post Office. At least turtles have a long enough average lifespan - they might live to see the Royal Mail deliver their mail to its destination.

(In actuality no turtles were involved. Return addresses just happen to be amusing if your first initial is A and your surname is Turtle.)

The Rest of the World may be 2-0 down to Robbie Williams' England XI in ITV's much-hyped Soccer Aid game as we speak, but it's good to see Peter Schmeichel still dominating every match in which he appears. England could have had five or six by now (and may well do in the second half when Patrick Kielty takes over between the sticks) but Schmeichel's made a series of staggering stops to keep the English at bay.

Things were a little more seriously contested at the Millennium Stadium earlier on, where Barnsley snuck past Swansea on penalties to claim their place in the Championship via the play-offs. We join Sky's commentary team around three minutes after the Barnsley keeper has made the promotion-clinching penalty save:

Commentator 1: "They are the pride of Yorkshire right now. They... are Barnsley." Commentator 2: "They certainly are."

[A short period elapses.]

Commentator 1: "The winners here today... are Barnsley."
Commentator 2: "They certainly are."

It is this sort of revelatory stuff that makes me wonder why the BBC gets all the flak for its main commentary team. They all need work.

So does the main stand at Ascot, although it's almost finished. The racecourse held a pre-opening meeting today to iron out a few problems with crowd management and check everything functions as planned in time for next month's Royal Ascot showpiece (which, of course, took place in York last year while Ascot was a building site).

I went to the meeting to take photos of Ascot's brand new look, which you can see on the BBC Berkshire site by clicking here. I especially liked the observation of one photographer that the new royal box resembles "the bridge of the Enterprise".

Have you heard of Google Idol?

Didn't think so. It's a website - nothing to do with Google, I might add - giving a little added value to the current glut of 'viral' videos doing the rounds. The idea is that entrants submit forms of music video showing themselves miming to a famous song. These are then pitted against each other in a form of knockout competition, open to public vote, until a winner emerges.

I found out about this because Ed, a 15-year-old student from Windsor, emailed BBC Berkshire trying to drum up support. He and his friend Dan have created a video of themselves lip-synching to "Baggy Trousers", the Madness hit, and it's actually not at all bad. According to the voting figures they've just about seen off a Dutch act performing to Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up", which means they'll likely face some people from New Zealand - covering Leo Sayer's "You Make Me Feel Like Dancing" - in the final. It's like Eurovision gone crazy. Oh wait... I forgot Lordi. It's like Eurovision gone slightly less crazy.

Click here to check out Google Idol and watch some of the other entries (there's more than one type of competition going on, do have an explore). It's a nice way of bringing some order to the chaos wreaked on the internet by all these amateur videos doing the rounds.

Oh and check out Ed and Dan's own site too, if only for their version of Sting's "Englishman In New York". What fine taste they have...

You may have seen the following website elsewhere, but if not, prepare to while away time finding out who's made more television appearances: Newsnight's Emily Maitlis or BBC Points West's Clinton Rogers?

Find out for yourself at the BBC Programme Catalogue. Type in a name and it'll present you with every transmitted BBC programme to which they contributed - at least, those it has in its archive. There are some gaps, like a lack of sport and some missing regional programmes, but for the most part it's astonishing. You can even view little graphs plotting television and radio appearances against time elapsed, with which to gauge the ebb and flow of your favourite presenter's career.

If you'd like to be kept up to date with the career of your BBC personnel of choice, you can also subscribe to an RSS feed offering to let you know each time their name crops up in a new entry.

Click here to explore the catalogue for yourself. Alternatively click here to see the list of programmes in the archive which aired on my date of birth, 1 November 1984. I note with interest that an investigation into corporal punishment and Enoch Powell MP both made it onto BBC1 that night, David Dickinson - yes, the Bargain Hunt one - was Series Editor of Newsnight, and that day's episode of Henry's Cat was entitled 'The Magic Tummy Button'.

This is all almost as much fun as realising, earlier on today, that my Outlook address book at the BBC has every member of the corporation in it, from Andrew Marr to Arlo White. How thrilled was I! The BBC has an ultra-cunning method of separating Mr Marr's "private" email address from his public BBC one, a method I couldn't possibly divulge or comment upon, except to commend it in its cunning.

There's been a very poor squirrel-to-email ratio since yesterday's plea for more photos of squirrels in Berkshire, but I live in hope. I have, in the mean time, had photos of swans, flowers and wisteria, and am promised one of a robin on a kayak. Personally I think a robin on a kayak is a must-see (akin to snakes on a plane) and am looking forward to that one intensely.

In the absence of squirrels, robins and kayaks you can still enjoy the seven new galleries of user-submitted photos we've set up, as well as a short preview of the Windsor Wheel, Windsor's answer to the London Eye (with appropriate mocked-up photo supplied by yours truly).

Now, the idea of sensationalising a story is common to many British folk. You'll find newspapers like The Sun are often cited as the main culprits when it comes to ever-so-slightly overdoing a story. But they've got nothing on a report from the Awareness Times of Sierra Leone. The Awareness Times documents a native Manchester City fan's trip from Africa to England in the sort of glowing terms normally reserved for, say, the pope:

[The man] was received as the Club’s Ambassador from Africa, and was accorded the honour and dignity he deserved while on the visit in England. Accordingly, he was received by no less a person than the Manager of the Club, players and other fans on arrival in the United Kingdom.

At a special dinner organized by the Club in his honour, he had the opportunity of meeting with the most important officials of the Club who posed with him for group photographs and also joined him to sing Sierra Leone’s National Anthem and raise the Green White and Blue, symbolizing the country’s Flag.

The event was so touching that most of the Man City fans promised to take Sierra Leone’s Flag to the World Cup, to fly it all over the place as a way of demonstrating how important the country’s support is to the Club.

[source: Awareness Times - 'Man City fan back home from England']

One can't help but notice that the fan in question and the newspaper's editor-in-chief share a surname...

The BBC and composer David Lowe have released a new three-minute version of the BBC News 24 countdown.

A while ago I spoke out in favour of the old 90s BBC news themes, which I loved because I was young and impressionable and they were, well, bloody good. But even though I'm not so keen on the main BBC News themes these days, it doesn't get much better than the full-blooded BBC News 24 extended themes. If that doesn't get your hair standing on end by the time it finishes, very few things will.

You can listen to the new three-minute version on the BBC's site here - and even remix it, if you've got the skills, time and inclination. The second mix, by David Wartnaby, is particularly good in my opinion.

On the subject of BBC sites, if you happen to live in Berkshire then please go out and photo some squirrels. I'm updating the BBCi Berkshire photo pages and there aren't enough squirrels. I even ended up on the radio this afternoon making a plea to the good people of Berkshire for more squirrel pics. To paraphrase Bob Geldof, just give us the f#@!ing squirrels!

Oh how I wish the current crop of mind-numbing 3D-cartoon-animal extravaganzas would end. Please, everyone, just let Pixar do it and accept that they've got the tools for the job. That means you, Father Of The Pride, you, Over The Hedge, and you, The Wild. And please never let Garfield be transformed into a weird 3D monstrosity again. There is a place for 2D yet.

I spent the morning in Birmingham being introduced to the BBC's online Content Management System. Writing for websites in the past, not least this weblog, has given me a decent grounding in these things, and it certainly looks pretty comprehensive. But content management systems are renowned for their fickle nature, and it's no surprise that this one seems a bit temperamental too (I'm told it went down for most of yesterday, which leaves the minor problem of a hundred or so BBC journalists drumming their fingers impatiently for a day). At least I've certainly lost enough Dayorama posts - for example, by pressing "Save" and then the system inexpicably dying - to be able to deal with that sort of thing.

On the way back from Birmingham the train was held in Leamington Spa for an hour while a woman was treated by paramedics. I've no idea what was up, but the train manager had earlier called for anyone with medical training on board to help, and 60 minutes is a long time to wait in a station, where the paramedics could easily have removed her from the train had she been in a fit state to move. It must have been serious.

So I was quite angry at the reaction of a fellow passenger a little later on. The train pulled in to Oxford, still an hour late, where it was announced it would terminate - despite originally being destined for Reading. There was another train to Reading departing in five minutes from the other side of the same platform. That was not enough for one gentleman, who proceeded on an extended rant-to-nobody about the "incompetent" Virgin Trains staff and the "cynical" attitude of the company.

I don't think there's anything incompetent or cynical about delaying a train for an hour to allow a seriously ill woman to be treated. If that means the train has to terminate early because of the severe delay, adding all of an extra five minutes to the hour lost, so be it. You'd think the knowledge that another passenger had spent 60 minutes in what must have been an extremely serious condition - before paramedics even contemplated moving her - would be enough to make the rest of us just glad to be fit and well. Alas, some people want it all.

So I got up today. And felt better. So I went to College for the first lesson + lunch (to see b/f) and then wimped out. I grabbed the papers of my two mock exams and came home to the comfort of my sofa. On the way I made a detour... to S/bury. I just wanted a cake or soemthing to make me feel better. What did I do? I was so dazed I left my cash card. Luckily the cashier came running after me, but I hadn't even noticed. I then got beeped by a taxi driver, crossing the road. And then I got a Wesbound tube.... when I wanted to go East. Why? I've no idea. I think it was much safer for me, and the world when I was safely tucked up on my sofa. Better luck tomorrow, eh? I've got to drive to Parsons Green... that should be fun.

I've just completed my first driving of any consequence - from Minehead via the M5, M4 and M40 up to Stokenchurch in Bucks - and suddenly the glamour of driving is beginning to fade. An hour and a half in queues around Bristol (two lanes closed, stalled twice in the queue, am working on that), then torrential conditions across the M4 (spent 20 miles in utter terror at the thought of aquaplaning).

It's an odd kind of empowerment when I, and only I, get to decide which service station the car's stopping at. Speaking of which, my friend Amy J tells me she saw (and may also have met, I forget) Jade Goody at Exeter services the other day. Jade will be dining out on that meeting for years. And still I struggle to escape the shadow of Big Brother.

Finally, a quick plug for TomTom ONE, the sat nav system I'm using. Considering it's allegedly an "entry-level" system it's relatively pricey but it's also bloomin' good. I've got the 3D screen mounted just next to the steering wheel and it turns navigation into a glorified PC game - follow the highlighted roads and the little arrows for 200 miles, door to door - leaving me to get on with fretting about everything else going on with the road itself. I recommend it to anyone thinking of investing in sat nav. You can take it from car to car too, convenient if I'm going to be going out to all kinds of destinations in a radio car, for example.

What did I do yeterday? I stayed in bed with a high temperature and sore throat. And what did I do? I read a 900+ page Jilly Cooper from cover to cover. I still can't believe I did that.

I promised myself I'd stay away from Big Brother. In my defence I'm sat here being subjected to it by others, rather than choosing it of my own free will, so I'll allow this exception.

Aside from the fact I'm watching a young man in a silly hat and an orange shirt cry openly over possibly the single most trivial issue in the history of mankind, it's actually been almost worth - wait, no, no it hasn't. It's pap of the most unbelievable variety.

The one redeeming feature is the image conjured up every time someone mentions Sezer, one of the contestants. I can only envisage Cesar, the dog food marketed by a rather sweet little West Highland Terrier. I remarked the other day that Big Brother would be more bearable if older people were involved, but now I'd much rather have a contest populated by twelve Westies. Insert laboured "barking" pun here.

There exists a brilliant sketch by Eddie Izzard on the subject of dog food and Caesar, the well known Roman. It's on iTunes if you want to go and find it (I imagine it'll only cost you around 80 pence for it). It may be this which inspires me, and it goes a little something like this:

"There was a dog food a while back called Mister Dog, for small yappy-type dogs. After a while they decided to change the name from Mister Dog to Cesar. That's a bit of a shift ... Mister Dog: small dog, bushy face. Caesar: Roman leader 2000 years ago... small dog with a bushy face ... bit of a left turn at the traffic lights on that.

"I doubt Caesar was thinking in those terms 2000 years ago: 'My name is Caesar, I am the first emperor of Rome, I wear the laurel wreath upon my head ... in 2000 years' time I shall be remembered as a can of small dog food, for yappy-type dogs'."

And later, Mr Izzard impersonates a Roman centurion meeting a Gaulish leader:

"Well, I'm a centurion, and this is our leader, Mister Dog."
"Centurion, a word with you if I may. Now, centurion, I'm thinking of changing my name. Mister Dog's all very well as a name, but Caesar... I think Caesar, that would work."

Go and buy it. I first heard this at least seven or eight years ago at school and it's only getting better with time.

It will be if Finnish band Lordi win. They've caused controversy in Finland for being ever so slightly different to your average folk entry, as documented by the BBC here. And this is the video for their track "Hard Rock Hallelujah" (from which this post's title is taken) just to make a point. Which is probably more than they'll do tonight.

It's just another excuse to use the "weather" category. But it's true. It doesn't rain, and then it pours. Buses don't come for ages and then three come at once. I don't see Ollie and OJ for three months and then see both of them in the space of two days. You guessed it, I had lunch with OJ today - and of course the ceremonial scrunchie... on a salt and pepper pot...aka its wheels... in honour of Ol's driving test (which he passed... see below... and we're all very proud - twice in one week!) Anyway, we had a long and enjoyable catch up. OJ's still a stubborn sod, but at least he did eventually admit that his hair needed cutting... He's also very tall. I had to stand on tiptoes to kiss him. I'd forgotten about that. But nothing else to report really. Some of the contents "stays on tour" as it were. All good fun though. I miss them both.

I have a deeply sad announcement to make regarding the future of Britain's rail network. I have passed my driving test.

This of course means revenues for the Association of Train Operated Companies are set to plummet quite spectacularly. In the past few weeks I have travelled from Taunton to Reading, London to Wycombe and back several times, London to Manchester and back, Manchester to Bolton, Altrincham and Hazel Grove, a few trips between Slough, Reading and London, and back down to Taunton again from London, all by train. No more.

I passed with two minor faults: one for hesitation (which I'll grant, since I had to wait an inordinately long time at a couple of junctions and got flustered as so often happens), and the other for trouble meeting traffic at a junction.

That second one I was sure had failed me outright. Take a look at this little diagram and read on:

Okay, so I'm the blue car at the bottom there. There is a temporary set of lights ahead of me, with the traffic lights themselves on green. But it's really difficult to tell, from where I am, whether the lights are green or not since I can barely see them side-on.

Also waiting for the lights we have another learner driver, indicated appropriately enough at the front of that queue of cars. They are sat there motionless as I wait a good five seconds, craning my neck to view the lights. I have no idea what colour they are, and am not even, in the heat of the moment, at all sure whose right of way it is. So I pull out.

As I pull out, I notice to my horror that the lights are indeed green, and look as though they have been for a while. The other learner driver takes this opportunity to pull away. I scurry across to the other side of the road (final position of blue car, above, following arrow) and carry on. I am by now certain I have failed the test because of this.

I spent the final ten minutes of the test driving on autopilot, beating myself up about the decision to pull out at the junction but, equally, trying to insist to myself that I should carry on and not commit any more errors just because of that one. And then I found out I'd passed and this blurred into the mightiest insignificance.

All this does raise one spectre of a question: I'm not that much better at driving now than I was a month ago. What went so horrendously wrong then, so as to incur 11 minors, that only became two this time round? Well, my driving instructor and I have a theory.

Last time round, I had a different examiner. As we walked out of the test building towards the car to start the test, he asked me: "What would you like me to call you?"

I, a bundle of nerves and - I like to think - usually ready with a quick response in any case, replied before I could stop myself with: "Dorothy".

I am not sure where the name Dorothy came from, but there it was. I quickly added it was a joke and Ollie would do fine, but as quickfire responses go, it was the lead balloon to end all lead balloons.

We can't help but wonder if at least half the minors could, directly or otherwise, be traced back to that one moment. This time round I remained very much Ollie, not Dorothy, and coasted through. Lesson learned. From now on I shall never be Dorothy again.

Welcome to Dayorama's coverage of Big Brother 7. This post is Dayorama's coverage of Big Brother 7, you're not getting any more, at least not if I can help it. And believe me I'll fight with every fibre of my being to avoid being sucked in by this.

I notice one of the contestants is an 18-year-old called Glyn from deepest, darkest Wales. He's head boy in his sixth form. I demand of OJ: why, oh why, did you not go into the Big Brother house when we were in sixth form and you were head boy? At least it would have given me something worthwhile for fledgling school newspaper The Orb...

Seriously though, the poor boy's going to either get eaten alive or lose his mind in this house - although I have a strong suspicion he's the one in the flesh-coloured figure-hugging top. God, it's depressing. So many people say this every year, but damning indictments of the entire nation don't ever come quite so comprehensive as the first night of each new Big Brother series.

My mum just wandered over and demanded to know when there'd be a series with old people in it. Go on, laugh, but wouldn't that be such a refreshing change? Put twelve older, wiser, wrinkly-but-enthusiastic individuals into a house for a month and see what happens. On a slightly different intellectual level it'd be every bit as riveting, I'm sure.

Still, we're left with the usual gathering of twelve egomaniacs, at least two of which Endemol hope will have sex on live television. This is where the BBC should come into its own and provide nightly anti-Big Brother programming: maybe dedicate BBC4 to daily 9pm reruns of Horizon, or hand Terry Wogan the task of providing a wry commentary on Radio 2, simulcast with Big Brother itself. A bit like watching the football on Sky but listening to the Five Live coverage.

The ordeal has ended and the contestants have disappeared off to E4 to carry on getting drunk and boisterous. It only remains for me to warn you that Lisa is going to be the really annoying one plastered across the papers this year. Avoid at all costs.

Last week I noticed some of our visitors were wondering if David Miliband was vegetarian, and promised to find out.

He's not. And I quote:

"I am sorry to disappoint ... but I do eat meat (and fish - though my fish and chip shop of choice in South Shields, Colman's, assures customers that all their fish is caught in a sustainable fashion)."

Meanwhile, it has not escaped my attention that the Prime Minister now appears set on nuclear power - with a question mark over whether he was determined to pursue that option from the start.

A month or so ago, well before the PM had made any such intention clear, my driving instructor told me several of his clients were Americans working at Somerset's Hinkley Point nuclear power station. They had been hired ostensibly to assist with the decommissioning of the plant, but he swore blind they were really here to oversee the expansion of the site. (A new generation of nuclear plants will mostly, if not all, be built on existing sites to allow the speedy acquisition of planning permission and to lessen the likelihood of local residents complaining.)

Now, my instructor has a thing against civil servants in general and also against Tony Blair, so I'm always careful to err on the side of caution when listening to him where these matters are concerned. But it's looking like he might just have been right. The bad news for Somerset and the rest of Britain is that one of these individuals, charged with pioneering the development of more nuclear power in the UK, could not tell left from right during his driving test. I'd start digging your bunker now...

Ollie and I have neglected to tell you about our lunch yesterday. In short, the amusing incidents were:

a) The fact I asked for a "beef and horseradish" baguette... and received a "roasted veg and mozzarella" baguette. The waitress showed us that those were the exact words she wrote down. I didn't complain and we got a free diet coke regardless. But how does "beef" end up as "roasted veg"?

b) We missed the other 1/3 of our trio. Consequently we placed one of my hair scrunchies on the table and every time we spoke about OJ, we referred to the hair scrunchie. We also sent him a photo, via text, of said scrunchie. He can't complain that we weren't thinking of him

c) I had a lemon tart for pudding. The waiter came to the table with the puddings and offered them, saying, "Lemon tart?". I looked up, deadpan, and said "no one has called me a lemon tart in a long while". The waiter looked dumbstruck. I laughed. And Ollie laughed.

Another time. Another place. It all continues...

May I briefly draw to your attention a wonderful website - funkypancake.

The name could use a little work but the tag line, "an eye for the mundane", could not be more accurate. It's a photo blog, a collection of relatively hi-res photos of absolutely anything the author happens to notice each day.

This sounds like a recipe for mind-numbing tedium masquerading as art, but trust me, there are slices if not hearty chunks of brilliance in this website. I urge you to visit - click here.

That's a sight no Arsenal fan will want to see ever again - Norwegian referee Terje Hauge with a red card in his hand.

The consensus emerging from tonight's Champions League Final between Arsenal and Barcelona is that this was a game, in the words of Sky's Andy Gray, "too big" for Hauge to correctly officiate. And we've just heard Thierry Henry launch an unprecedented attack on the referee, and on Barcelona, moments after the final whistle on live television. This is from memory, but he said words to the effect of:

- the referee may have been wearing a Barcelona shirt;
- he, Henry, had been kicked off the park in the first half and no one had noticed;
- maybe Henry would have to learn to dive to get his attention.

That's the sort of post-match interview that, as a journalist, you dream of. It's all too rare in the stage-managed, overly cautious world of football to catch a top professional footballer letting their guard down completely and saying precisely what they think - all too often they're far more concerned with the potential for an FA disciplinary hearing or such like.

But you can entirely understand what drove Henry to say what he did, when he did. There were some decisions made by Mr Hauge which were questionable at the very least - from the decision to send Jens Lehmann off rather than award Barcelona a goal, a decision to the benefit of neither side at the time, to his apparent reluctance to book Barcelona players for any one of a series of quite dangerous challenges. Henry will have felt well within his rights to tell the world precisely what he thought had happened on the pitch. And now the fallout begins.

We've just witnessed one of the more bizarre refereeing decisions of all time, in football's showpiece - the Champions League Final.

A Barcelona striker breaks clean through on goal. On the very edge of the penalty area Arsenal goalkeeper Jens Lehmann brings the striker down, but not before the ball rolls free to another Barcelona player, who tucks it into the empty net.

In many, many people's books, that is a goal. Not for this Norwegian referee. He brings play back, awards the free kick on the edge of the box, and sends Jens Lehmann off. Robert Pires, possibly playing his final game for Arsenal, is withdrawn to allow a replacement goalkeeper onto the pitch after mere minutes of his swansong.

Pundits and fans often talk about wanting to see common sense applied by referees on a football pitch. Leaving to one side the question of playing advantage - and surely you'd think the goal being scored was advantage plenty enough - common sense dictates that the goal and a continued game of 11 versus 11 is infinitely preferable, for all sides, compared to no goal, a sending off, and one of football's finest occasions marred in almost the opening moments.

What possesses an official to make such a bizarre decision at a crucial moment in the game? Granted, there is immense pressure on everybody on the field of play, not least the three officials - after all, one linesman for the game was forced to step down earlier because he was photographed wearing a Barcelona shirt. But this was one of the most obvious decisions I have ever seen. Barcelona wanted the goal, Arsenal wanted their goalkeeper. In one fell swoop, the referee alienated both sets of players, enraged supporters on either side and spoilt what was for many the 'dream' cup final. It's a shame.

During my three weeks on placement in Manchester, I stayed on the floor of a good friend (BBC Radio Manchester's sports reporter Andy May, a man so very good at his job that you wouldn't guess his age til you met him). We only had one key between us - I suggested getting another cut, but Andy rightly pointed out that there's a special electronic fob on the keyring allowing access past the security gates into the building, which we couldn't replicate. So one key it was, between two of us, for three weeks.

Most days, that meant me leaving the key on BBC Manchester reception, halfway between my place of work and home. This arrangement was fine by us two, but clearly it did for the poor receptionist: BBC Manchester are now advertising for two new ones!

... actually, not the weather at all. Since we are unable to post comments at the moment, I think I'll just send a collective "well done" and "we're all very proud of you" to Ollie. Because we are. And it's all very exciting. Especially the new "weather" category!

P.S. Ollie I'm assuming, as the only salaried member amongst us, lunch is on you today?!

It's been a good day.

I started it entrenched in my student status - a status which hasn't changed since 1991, if six-year-olds starting at school count as students. I'm ending it as a fully employed member of BBC staff, which makes quite a nice change, I must say.

I'll be working at BBC Radio Berkshire in Caversham, helping to look after and improve the bbc.co.uk/berkshire website. It's great to have the chance to get to grips with a BBC site and see what I can contribute. And of course I'm delighted to be working in the environment I so fell in love with at interview last week.

This doesn't mean I'll be departing Dayorama I hope - far from it. I want to carry on using this website as our collective home on the web, and hopefully now as a showcase for what we produce at BBC Berks. Any ideas for features will always be appreciated and taken on board, I should now have the resources to really pursue exciting stories.

There has, however, been a minor Dayorama change: the "BBC Watch" category has departed. This more often than not provided a home for extremely positive comment, but I can hardly claim to be watching the BBC with any objectivity now that I work for it (for which read: I don't want to get myself the sack), and nor can either OJ or Amy in the knowledge I'm there (read: I don't want them getting me it either).

In the place of "BBC Watch", in accordance with Amy's request in the last post, comes "Weather". We discuss it enough on this site and it's actually becoming front page news far more often than you'd expect: think everything from broad climate change issues to drought in south-east England. And let's not forget my obsession with hurricanes ever since childhood.

Right, I'm off to watch my colleague Terry host a celebration of fifty years of the Eurovision Song Contest. Thank god that BBC salary mole's been caught eh. I don't know what you'd all do if my package was open to the public...

I think we should create a new category: weather. I checked the met-office website this morning and it told me that it would be warm and dry today. Not sunny, but warm and dry. So I left in a t-shirt and jeans. I returned in the absolute worst rain I have walked in for ages. Soaked to the skin. I don't knwo why my umbrella wasn't in my bag - it is now. My feet are wet. My trousers are wet. Aghh! And I missed a call from Ollie!

Well, someone had to go to the fifth day of the test match between England and Sri Lanka. And that someone was me, forfeiting my tenner at the North Gate and taking a seat in the Edrich Stand below the space-age media centre. (My laptop picked up the BBC's Test Match Special wireless network from underneath their commentary position, which - were I an expert hacker of a certain inclination - could have been amusing.)

I settled for the old-fashioned trick of listening to TMS while sat watching the afternoon's events unfold. Alas, there were very few events in need of a good unravelling. All we got through the entire afternoon session was a dropped catch, a couple of sixes and the monotonous trudging of the Sri Lankan tail towards what had been an immensely unlikely draw. I left at the tea interval, after which they duly sealed an escape which has every England head dangling in shame.

But let's look away from the pitch for some sources of comfort.

Alright, granted, perhaps not the most inspiring of views. However it tells a little story that I find quite heartening. There are very few spectators in that particular corner of the ground, or indeed any other, but those that are there have turned up on their own. You don't get that very often with sport nowadays - it seems to me cricket could well be the last bastion of the casual spectator rocking up at the ground on his or her own for an hour or two, then sloping back off to carry on with the work they've been putting off.

That was certainly the case where I was sat. There were plenty of empty seats in our stand, but even those that were occupied changed hands - or buttocks - with surprising regularity. People came for half an hour, sampled the action, clapped a few times, drank a beer, then slipped away back into the north London hubbub. It was almost an extended lunch break for some, a chance to unwind in this, the calmest of all sporting atmospheres: that of a test match heading for a draw.

Equally pleasing is the variety in the crowd. Go to some football matches and you have to work very hard to find a member of the crowd who is not white. There is nothing wrong with that - after all what would the solution be if there was? Introduce quotas? No, it's simply an observation I've made at more than one game. Today at Lord's the crowd was as diverse as you could imagine. There were of course plenty of Sri Lankans, mostly on their own as I've just described, smartly turned out in suit and tie, clearly popping in for an hour or so to see if the boys could complete their great escape. Then you had your English contingent, but that doesn't just mean middle class white people like me. Sat in front of me was a young black man, probably around my age, doing the exact same thing - watching the cricket, listening to the radio, politely applauding. And looking around even a crowd this small covered every shape, size, colour and creed.

Cricket should be proud that test matches completely transcend any of these artificial barriers we sometimes throw up. Avid Sri Lankan fanatics sat a couple of seats away from paid-up Barmy Army troopers and shared their appreciation, a laugh and a joke, on the drizzly, breezy fifth day of a dreary test. Football's World Cup is coming up and is always billed as an inclusive celebration - the 'universal language of football' - but too often that descends into the universal language of violence, xenophobia and irrational hatred. Certain sets of fans can not be placed together or else all hell will be let loose. I've attended very few football matches where the crowd has been totally mixed (England v Portugal in Euro 2004 was one, and I wrote about the sensational atmosphere here).

Cricket, by contrast, has retained its gentlemanly reserve in this country. Sit where you like, with who you like, and have a good natter and a sandwich. Sat there in the Edrich Stand watching England throw away a near-certain win it felt like, for that select number who speak the language, cricket's cultural bonds are far greater than anything football can offer.

Just a charity and website that is close to my heart and one every young woman should take a look at.

Brilliant footage of a top-class cock-up from BBC News 24. They had meant to get Guy Kewney, well known internet pundit, on to talk about the decision of Apple (computers) versus Apple (Beatles). They ended up with a confused taxi driver.

Click here to read Londonist's account and watch a clip of it. The taxi driver's face as realisation dawns is beyond words.

Update: The BBC have now written this up for themselves and clarified the issue. The 'taxi driver' was in actual fact not a taxi driver at all but a man, also named Guy, at the BBC for a job interview. He was then happened upon by a studio manager, confusion ensued, and he ended up on screen in what he thought must be some part of the interview process. At least that didn't happen to me... or if it did, I missed it.

Tony Blair says he'll put his name to a petition backing animal testing:

The prime minister, who condemned the "appalling" actions of animal rights extremists, will join around 13,000 people on the People's Petition.

He said threats against GlaxoSmithKline shareholders showed why those in medical research had to be protected.

[source: BBC News - 'PM criticised over animal testing']

The right decision?

YES

The debate over animal testing has raged on for far too long without any sense of direction and not a peep from the government - strange for a leadership often portrayed as the 'nanny state' elsewhere. If it's allowed to continue unchecked then more people could die and more atrocities be committed at the hands of extremists, and who'll be accountable?

The government needs to take a hard line on animal rights terrorists as the very first sign of its new commitment to overhaul the warped sense of 'human rights' currently enshrined in UK law. It's a small first step, and the public will be expecting this to be followed up by a comprehensive set of measures which deter and detain these extremists. But unambiguous support in the face of the lunatics from the very highest level of government is a good, if belated, start.

NO

The last thing we all needed was Tony Blair wading into yet another minefield (if fields can be waded into, as such). It's almost another Iraq in miniature - a highly flammable situation with tensions running very high, and the PM's plumped for an option which brings those tensions to boiling point while solving absolutely nothing. What will his name on an online petition do, aside from throwing more timber on the dangerous, burning passions of the extremists? Does he not have enough people plotting against him already, be they in a cave in Afghanistan or next door at Downing Street?

This is a pathetic attempt to pander to popular opinion with no considered strategy brought to the table. What we need are means of dealing with the threat of animal rights extremism, backed up with a definitive, independent study into precisely how much animal testing is still necessary. Then we can pursue the highest medical and ethical standards, and the extremists, with equal vigour and success. What we do not need is a knee-jerk reaction and a token gesture from a deeply ill-informed leader.

Let me know what you think. Email ollie dot williams at gmail dot com (comments remain broken indefinitely until I have time to resolve the issue!).

I have a four year old brother named Harry. He loves his tricycle. Today the family spent a lot of time transporting all kinds of furniture and goods to new premises we're renting for our small memorabilia company. All the while we were loading and unloading, Harry circled us like a miniature shark on wheels.

He probably doesn't like cycling this much, though:

A four-year-old boy and his father are attempting to break into the record books by cycling the length of Britain.

Henry and Adrian Cole, from Winscombe, Somerset, are two thirds of the way through the 874-mile trek from Land's End to John O'Groats.

The pair have already cycled 500 miles up the length of England, and are now preparing for the final, Scottish section, which will begin later this month.

They cover an average of 30 miles a day with Henry pedalling a trailer cycle attached to the back of his father's bike.

[source: BBC News - 'Four year old on epic bike trek']

Much as Harry might not be up for taking the trike the length of the country, I have noted it down as an alternative threat to 'the naughty stair'.

That, of course, is a Supernanny invention. She's Harry's arch-nemesis. Last night I asked him what he thought she'd do if she came to the house:

"She'd make me sort lots of things out... stupid-nanny! I'll kill that Supernanny."

Harry then displayed signs of having watched a little too much Power Rangers with a series of faux-martial-arts moves designed to mortally wound Supernanny in the forthcoming confrontation. Harry Williams - Supernanny's Lex Luthor.

Update: It turns out Supernanny has one crucial ally in her battle against Harry - the Cybermen. They starred in tonight's episode of Doctor Who and he's so scared of them, he had to ask me to accompany him to the fridge to get a pudding in case one jumped out at him en route. I told him there was one inside the fridge so he couldn't go in and there'd be no pudding. He was not amused.

Yes that's a clever title, not a spelling mistake. Ever since Spurs collectively turned the same shade as the pitch they were playing on and handed fourth place to Arsenal on a (salmonella-ridden) plate, there's been debate over the whole debacle.

Should the game be played again? Should it heck. Can Spurs sue the Premier League? Can they sue the hotel where they all got food poisonin? Can the whole thing be traced back to Arsenal spies breaking into the kitchens in the dead of night?

And how about, were the Spurs players actually suffering from food poisoning at all? For all the fuss they've kicked up, the tests performed on food samples from the hotel seem to show there was nothing wrong at all. Instead, to quote the BBC report:

Tests on food and players have been carried out by the Health Protection Agency and environmental health staff.

But they suggest one person had a form of gastroenteritis which may have spread to the other players.

Dr Alex Mellanby, Consultant in Communicable Disease Control at the Health Protection Agency, said norovirus, a form of viral gastroenteritis, was found in a sample from one of those affected.

He said the person affected by viral gastroenteritis appeared to have been exposed to it before the stay at the Marriott Hotel in Canary Wharf, east London.

[source: BBC News - 'Doubt over Spurs "food poisoning"']

So it's highly unlikely Spurs will be suing anyone if it turns out none of them had food poisoning at all. But can someone sue Spurs? If I were in charge of the Marriott hotel they'd stayed at, I might be so inclined. That hotel's name has been dragged through the mud in the past week. Careful analysis of the written reports I can find shows Spurs officials to have been quite cautious about this, tiptoeing around pointing the finger of blame at the hotel. Not so the reports themselves though, which seem to clearly implicate the hotel, even if they do stop short of proclaiming judgement:

"Until we get the results, we don't know whether it was the food or a virus," said a Spurs spokesperson. "We should get the results in 48 hours."

The players had dined at a London Marriott hotel.

If the hotel is found guilty of serving unfit food, the punishment - under the Food Safety Act of 1990 - could range from a fine to the threat of six months in prison.

The investigations at the hotel are the responsibility of a joint team involving the Health Protection Agency and the Environmental inspectors at Tower Hamlets council.

[source: BBC News - 'Tottenham await food test results']

That's as close to the bone as anything gets online, but I heard radio stations broadcasting the hotel's involvement with near certainty. Now it looks like the hotel had not a single thing to do with it. Whose fault is it that the hotel's reputation spent most of last week in tatters? Spurs, for publicising the reason for their lacklustre performance? Various news outlets for rushing to make five out of two and two?

Spurs chairman Daniel Levy referred to "highly suspect circumstances" surrounding the illness and the hotel just two days ago - now that suspicion's resting on a virus already present when the team turned up. In the litigious society we inhabit there's more than enough possibly for heads, and not just stomachs, to roll.

In a week wh