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 when the whole world's eyes have had to be dragged kicking and screaming from Melanie Slade, I found beauty of an entirely different sort today. In a building.

That's Caversham House, home of BBC Monitoring (and Radio Berkshire), and it's not even the side of the building I saw. The entrance is round the back, where "the back" is defined as a driveway extending through an acre or two of lawns, flower beds and trees, punctuated by two football pitches (no idea why). I've not seen too many BBC buildings in my time, but this must be the finest approach to one in existence.

It's one of those buildings with a faint colonial mystique about it. It's bloomin' huge and entirely unsubtle, but it fits its surroundings and has that intriguing air, like the MI6 building. There it sits in central London, and you know full well really interesting stuff's happening there every day, but the building itself possesses a built-in warning. When you see it, it says to you "don't even think about it, sonny". Caversham House has a bit of that. That did not stop me thinking about it. Time will tell who wins.

Do you know what I'm doing today? I'm a) going to a football stadium for the first time; and b) watching my first game of football. Ever. I've never watched one fully on tv or in the flesh so to speak. Footballer's Wives is probably the closest I've got, and somehow I don't think that counts. I know this may be alien to the likes of Ollie and his dear Father (who I trust is well), but such is life! I'm away for the weekend, but no doubt I shall report in due course...

I was thrilled, getting in to work this morning on my last day, to discover I'd be interviewing Bryan "Captain Marvel" Robson that afternoon. He captained England, of course, as well as spending over a decade at Manchester United before going on to manage Middlesbrough and now West Brom.

He's up in Manchester to promote his new autobiography, so the interview was to take place just before the start of a book signing at the Trafford Park ASDA. This is home to the ginormous Trafford Centre, so you can imagine the ASDA itself was huge in its own right.

I turned up with time to spare, then made my way to the Customer Service desk to track down someone who'd lead the way to Bryan. And lo, down the escalator came the PR lady.

"Are you him?" She asked.

I found this a little abrupt, but nodded.

"You've not come here hoping for an interview, have you?" And suddenly a reproachful look. "Your radio station didn't publicise any of this, you're not getting an interview - there was never one agreed, I didn't reply to your email, there was no fax, you've no right and there'll be no interview. He's here to sign books, not talk about relegation."

All this in a raised voice in the middle of the packed shop floor. Then Bryan Robson himself materialised behind me and she scuttled off. I tried to find a hole in the ground to jump into, then rang my sports editor to report this minor technical hitch and see if we could do anything.

But just as I got off the phone, back she came. "I am so, so sorry. Please, come and talk to Bryan, he's just up here. So much confusion! Not anyone's fault, not your fault at all."

Well, yes. I knew that! I have no idea what caused this absolute sea change in opinion and attitude over the space of no more than five minutes, but the difference was immense. The four copies of Robson's autobiography I had asked her to pass to him to be signed - "I might be able to sort that but they won't be personalised," said the dragon pre-change of heart - came back immediately, personalised exactly as requested.

The interview was great too. Bryan Robson - who of course had nothing to do with any of this - is a lovely man, warm and friendly, fire in the eyes still, a genuine pleasure to talk to. The man either talks naturally in fifteen second commercial-radio-friendly soundbites, or he's a seasoned pro at this sort of thing. I suspect the latter.

Did you watch Fonejacker? It followed Lost on Channel 4 and involves one man making prank calls to a series of people. Highlights include:

- the phone call from an obvious fraudster to a woman working for a major bank, trying to get her account details so that the scammer can allegedly "steam clean the vault" her money is being kept in. Woman duly spots obvious fraudster a mile off, reads fraudster riot act, threatens to call police. Woman: "Do you even know my name?" Fraudster/Fonejacker: "Miss... er... ... ... Jones?"

- "Jean-Pierre", the wealthy Frenchman attempting to buy a car from hapless British car salesman Roger. Jean-Pierre's phone mysteriously kept cutting out every time he went to give Roger his credit card number for a ten thousand pound deposit. Roger's ire steadily increased (actually I thought he reached frustration tipping point far sooner than he should - that man had no patience to speak of).

- a gentleman (Fonejacker) with a very high pitched voice phoning the vet and insisting on being seen immediately. Vet's receptionist insists man actually needs doctor. Fonejacker (represented by a cartoon mouse on screen) claims it has to be a vet, says he ate some cheese with funny green powder on it. Is sure he has been poisoned. Makes dying noises, dies. Vet's receptionist hangs up.

New comedies don't have a particularly great success rate in grabbing their audiences, but this one did a decent job without relying too much on the same gag (although they cut it fine once or twice).

The only oddity is why on earth this show was ever commissioned for television. As a half hour comedy all about phone calls, it's ideally suited to radio, even though I'm well aware Radio 4 tried and failed with a similar format last week. The screen time was filled by cartoon characters and photos with South Park-esque moving mouths, adding very little to the programme with the possible exception of the mouse sketch, which it simply made even more obvious.

I do also wonder what became of the bank lady's complaint to the police. If it is a crime for actual fraudsters to call people up demanding bank details, is it a crime for people making silly Channel 4 comedy shows to do the same? Being locked away indefinitely for criminal television would be a new one.

So, one vicar. One vicar would be fine, wouldn't it? You only need one vicar to get by in life, that vicar can take care of just about all your spiritual needs. But a Morris Minor can cater for just about all your vehicle needs, and that doesn't stop the manufacture, sale and enjoyment of many 4x4s. I have no excuse, I hold my hands up to my greed - today was a two-vicar day for me.

We'll start with vicar two - *entering Cilla mode* - and that was our Chris, from Eccles. Chris is part of a new Church of England initiative where priests come into your home, say some prayers in various rooms, and offer a blessing. This was news because they launched it at the top of the Beetham Tower, Manchester's tallest building (and the tallest residential building in Britain). In the words of another vicar, the new residents of the tower have already "shown their desire to be closer to heaven", and are therefore particularly deserving.

But vicar number one - Rob, from Hazel Grove - stole the show. He's holding a seminar next month about the Da Vinci Code, highly topical (still) what with the movie about to be released. He welcomes the book, as a significant minority of Church folk have done, expressing a sincere belief that it shows interest in Jesus, even if that interest may be a little misguided in some.

While commercial radio demands I scythe the poor man down to a prudent 90 seconds, Dayorama gives me the space to indulge myself a little. There was an extended silence when I asked him about the movie. Granted, he welcomes the book, but would he have welcomed a film crew into his church to film the movie?

Update: On Sunday 20 May 2006, Rev Rob Green wrote to me with this response (see below for mine):

A response from Rev Rob Green:

Ollie came to interview me on behalf of Key103. My understanding was that we were recording an interview that would be suitably edited before going out on air and that it would appear only on Key103. I am disappointed, then, that without my knowledge and consent, he has included the full interview on his Dayorama web site. In any unedited interview even the most seasoned of interviewees will sometimes need to say "stop, I'll rephrase that" or "just give me a minute to think". So, for someone like me, who has only been interviewed in this way once before in my life, that need is much greater. However I have not asked Ollie to withdraw this interview - I don't feel that I have anything to hide! But I feel I must respond to the issue of Ollie's highlighting the "extended silence" regarding the question of filming the Da Vinci Code at Norbury. This was an entirely hypothetical (but not unreasonable) question, but it was unexpected and I did need time to think about it. Interestingly whilst the Westminster Abbey authorities refused the filmmakers permission to shoot there, the authorities at Lincoln Cathedral took the opposite view. With regard to Ollie's interview, I was mulling this over during the "extended silence" and I would stand by my eventual answer which was that, first, I would need to see the script and, second, to talk to the Director and producers about their intentions for the film. If I then felt that the film was a deliberate attempt to undermine Christian teaching then it would, of course, have been a contradiction to have allowed filming to take place in a church. However if I felt that the filmmakers were simply trying to ask questions and raise issues, that would be a different matter. I believe, from what I have read, that the Da Vinci Code movie does the latter - however, without having yet seen the film ( I will be going on 27th May) it is impossible to answer that question definitively. I am very keen to engage with others who have seen the film and read the book and to hear their questions and comments - which is exactly why I have put on the event at Norbury Church. It will be on Wednesday 7th June at 7.30pm."

I apologise to Rob - it was unprofessional for me not to have asked for his consent beforehand, and the last thing I ever set out to do, here on Dayorama or elsewhere, is cause anyone any harm. As it happens Key dropped the interview in its entirety and have not, to my knowledge, run it since. I felt this was a sad waste of an extremely interesting interview with Rob, one I enjoyed doing and wanted to share. That doesn't excuse putting it online without his consent, of course, for which I've apologised to him and do so here too. If only I were still in Manchester I would have loved to go back to Norbury Church for the event Rob is hosting, too. I've removed the audio - though please note not at Rob's request - and hope to avoid any further offence!

I haven't been one to comment on the Iraq war. I have my own opinions on the matter, but I'd rather not get caught up in a pro/anti-war protest and create a large fuss on this site. However, isn't it about time we pulled our troops out of Iraq? I was thinking this as I read the Metro this morning. On one page, there was a report that the government have won an appeal against a rule allowing the chap who has been protesting against the war outside parliament since 2001 to continue to do so. On the other were the sad details that out of the five British military personnel killed in Iraq over the weekend one was the first British servicewoman to die in action in Iraq and another was the most senior officer yet to be killed in Iraq. And then there were another three men with equally grieving families and loved ones. I'd like to know what our mandate for staying in Iraq is. What are we achieving? I'm not saying I disagree with why we are there... I just don't know why we are, and I doubt I'm alone. I think we have a right to know what we are doing and the timescale for us staying there is. Otherwise, how do we know whether these innocent people have died in vain or not?

There are times when it feels good not to be centre stage in the build-up to the England World Cup campaign.

William Hill are offering odds on whether Theo Walcott - the 17 year old called up to the England team by Sven yesterday - will pass his driving test or not.

From the William Hill press release:

Theo Walcott is more likely to pass his driving test first time out than he is to play any part in Arsenal's Champions League Final against Barcelona, start in England's opening World Cup game against Paraguay, or score at any time during the World Cup finals.

Bookmakers William Hill are quoting him at 11/10 to pass the driving test (4/6 to fail), but 7/4 to be involved on the pitch in the Barcelona showdown and 2/5 not to.

The Sun have revealed Theo was in the middle of his theory test when Sven picked him for the squad.

Apparently his driving test was booked for June, but obviously the boy's off to Germany now so it'll be July at the earliest. This means I've got at least one go, probably two, to pass it first. I am quoting me at 1/2 to pass my test before Theo, and 5/1 not to.

You may remember my mentioning Emily Maitlis during my election coverage in Friday's early hours, desperately clawing her way through an hour or so as the BBC's election anchor following a power cut at Millbank. I was going to say you will remember it, but then I came back down to earth and remembered most of you will have only come here from Google, looking for dirty photos of her. Especially now I've mentioned her name and "dirty photos" in the same paragraph.

Moving swiftly on, then. Emily's written an account of her week for The Observer including the aforementioned unscheduled appearance as the face of BBC political programming:

London, we keep hearing, will be "The Big Story of the Night". Suddenly, it is, though not quite in the way we expect.

Millbank has a major power failure, and the main studio with Dimbleby, Vine et al cuts out. After a hasty hunt for cameras and loquacious guests we are thrown on air and told to fill indefinitely.

Instead of slick on air graphics we have the blue biro scrawl of the floormanager as he runs across the room to hand me results.

Instead of Jeremy's illuminated map of the country we have a couple of pencil drawings by indispensable LSE analyst Tony Travers. I think he has handed me a sweet picture of a horse until he turns it round and shows me the psephological pattern he is trying to impart.

But that's not nearly the best the diary has to offer. I prefer this paragraph from Tuesday, with Emily at the Blush Ball for Breast Cancer Haven:

The end of the evening brings a floorshow by Dita von Tease. Not, as they say, her real name. Dita calls the act "burlesque cabaret". Everyone else calls it stripping. She starts off in a glittering basque and a skirt of white feathers that would have the good people of Celladyke reaching for the DEFRA emergency hotline. She ends the dance in nipple tassles and a sequined thong. Huge relief I left mine at home. Nothing more mortifying than turning up in same outfit.

The BBC have reproduced the diary here.

Now, BBC Berkshire have a blogging vicar, the BBC in Northern Ireland have a blogging reporter with a religious spin, and tomorrow I shall blog about a vicar. I'll be speaking to the Revd Rob Green of Cheshire diocese about the Da Vinci Code. He's planning a special sermon to discuss the book and welcomes it as proof people remain interested in Jesus rather than anything more damaging. I'll be challenging that notion and exploring the wider implications, just ahead of the release date for the undoubted blockbuster film of the book (19 May).

Actually, I'd like a glass teapot. Not one with a filter, just a normal glass teapot. Then I can buy green tea flowers and pearls and watch them open and infuse the water. So if anyone wants to buy me a pressie, a glass teapot would be wonderful, thanks. :-)

Take the headline, "Could You Be A PCSO?" Is it just me who, on first glance, thought that it read "Could You Be A PSYCHO?" This headline appears on the front of TheLondoner (delivered to my door earlier today). It's unfortunate really because "Could You Be A PCSO" refers to a Met Police recruitment drive. A PCSO is a Police Community Support Officer. Enough said...

I have been able to divine, from the Dayorama site stats, that some of you are wondering whether David Miliband is a vegetarian or not. This also appears to be a source of intrigue for the Vegetarian Society, one visitor from 'vegsoc.com' arriving having asked Google about the man's eating habits.

It's a valid question to ask of the man newly appointed Minister for the Environment. After all, his choice of chow might well affect his approach to climate change. Vegetarian? Likely to be sympathetic to "greener" points of view then, which might be ideal - and the reason why Tony Blair chose him for the job - given David Cameron's push to give the Tories ultra-green credentials. And if he isn't vegetarian, then we're talking a pragmatic, no-nonsense approach. Not to suggest vegetarianism is nonsense - yours truly was vegan for two years. Indeed, a reluctance to entertain vegetarianism as a concept might just suggest a certain pigheadedness (arf arf).

Let's not forget "Food and Rural Affairs" are also part of the brief, so farmers are going to be interested in this one. If you're a cattle farmer, a vegetarian minister in charge of your rural affairs is probably not the best news you've ever heard. (Although if John Prescott were in charge of rural affairs you'd be listening for dodgy noises coming from the barn.) If you've been cultivating plenty of soy beans lately, veggie politicians might be better received. My limited understanding of global food production leads me to believe soy beans are largely produced abroad, whereas cattle is of course common to Britain, so a vegetarian minister might just subconsciously boost British food imports.

All of which leads me to the admission that I haven't got a clue whether he's vegetarian or not. I've emailed his office and asked - I'll let you know.

Elsewhere today, not one but two voxing expeditions. Those of you who haven't been reading religiously may not know that I tend to object to vox pops (the process of broadcasters interview randomly selected people on the street as a gauge of public opinion) for two reasons:

a) They often tell us very little we and our audience don't already know. Today, for example, the choice of audio was between 15 seconds of three people telling us why youngster Theo Walcott should or should not have been taken to the World Cup, and the England manager explaining the same decision. I would choose the England manager's viewpoint over the vox every time. In longer programmes the vox has a place, but never - in my book - over and above audio from figures able to speak with authority about something.

and

b) I'm rubbish at them.

I failed dismally to locate any Manchester United fans to discuss Ruud Van Nistelrooy's anticipated departure this morning, but then I did only have ten minutes to do so, and one cannot magic up Manchester United fans at will. Having endured those ten miserable pessimism-infused minutes (dead-end voxes are about the only time you'll catch me like that), I thought I'd served my time. Think again - at 5:30pm back out I went to vox people on the England squad selection. In the wind and rain. This vox mercifully took only five or ten minutes, but then a hell of a lot more people can relate to England than can to Manchester United, even (especially?) in Manchester.

This vox comes with a delightfully relaxing accompaniment too. The background noise as the rain lashed the nearby canal sounds just like the pitter-patter of tiny feet - Theo Walcott must be going to the World Cup after all.

I feel so sorry for Noel Edmonds.

He's been robbed of a BAFTA for 'Deal Or No Deal' by Jonathan Ross and, while I bear no animosity toward Ross, I can't help but feel it's a gross injustice.

I'm not afraid to admit to loving 'Deal Or No Deal'. Not in a must-see kind of way - no TV qualifies as must-see for me, not even the likes of 'Green Wing' or 'Lost' - but in as much as whenever I happen across an episode of 'Deal Or No Deal', I've got to watch it til the end.

Only a few days ago I watched a young man prancing round the studio in a maelstrom of agony and delight when he narrowed his chances down to two boxes: one contained £20,000, the other £250,000. He was offered the chance to swap boxes. He declined. Then his box turned out to have 'only' twenty grand in it. He was devastated, Noel was devastated, the studio audience were devastated. The man had won a year's salary and he was on the point of tears. Noel assured us we'd all be back to watch the next episode, and if only we didn't all have lives, we would.

It's brilliant television, a stupidly simple concept that generates painful decisions, moments of stupendous, irrational genius, and more highs and lows than a day in the life of Pete Doherty. There's even camaraderie between the occupants of each 'wing' of prospective contestants, who each open boxes for the lucky individual in centre stage until one day it's their turn. In the episode I most recently watched, the young man insisted on joining his 'wing' for the last time as the stakes rose and the pressure mounted.

Even Ross admits he'd have liked Noel to win. What were the judging panel thinking? (Who decides these things? Tell me this wasn't an audience vote.) Maybe I'm just biased because Noel once landed at the front of my school in a helicopter, but this is no deal for Noel and 'No Deal'.

Oh I'm just slightly agitated. I bought a pair of shoes on Thursday. Simple summery ballet shoes. I tried on the size 3 and the size 4 and decided on the size 4. Yesterday I went to wear the shoes for the first time. I have one shoe which is a size 3 and one which is a size 4. The receipt says a pair of size 4 shoes, and the box says size 4. So, I telephoned the shop and told them my problem. They have to order a new set of shoes for me, which won't be ready until Wednesday. Apparently they have the other size 3, but can't find the other size 4. This week is incredibly busy, so I won't be able to go and collect them until this time next week (since I'm away over the weekend). Bother! But quite amusing, really!

Dick Van Dyke never fails to surprise me. Aside from going through more feature-length episodes of Diagnosis Murder than I've had hot dinners, he's now turned up on my television in Sabrina: The Teenage Witch. He's playing a gentleman newly returned to human form having spent his previous years as a cat. First line: "Do you have any of those liver treats?", followed by a sequence of Dick batting the air with his "paws". Clearly the children and animals line never passed anyone's lips in the Van Dyke household.

What a baptism of fire for Des Browne, newly promoted to the Defence post in Tony Blair's earthquake-stricken Cabinet, replacing John Reid, who replaces Charles Clarke, who's been sacked, unlike John Prescott, whose responsibilities have gone to Ruth Kelly, who's replaced in Education by Alan Johnson, who's replaced in Trade & Industry by Alistair Darling, whose eyebrows will be sorely missed at Transport, now occupied by Douglas Alexander. Margaret Beckett has somehow ended up as Britain's first female foreign secretary, kicking Jack Straw into the lowly post of Leader of the Commons, and David Miliband has wisely evacuated Local Government for the Environment - reassuring isn't it, especially when Climate Change minister Elliot Morley appears to have had his job wiped out with no replacement.

None of the above can have had such a depressing start as Des Browne. His first task under the Defence brief was to tell us all that a helicopter carrying British soldiers had crashed in Basra, accompanied by depressing pictures of scores of local people hurling everything from rocks to petrol bombs at the wreckage and other British reinforcements. Nice to know you're welcome, isn't it.

My friend Sue's Iranian - she was in Manchester yesterday and we spent about five hours in a coffee shop, which I swear is some kind of record for me (given I don't even bloody drink coffee). For me it was previously very easy to fall in with the received wisdom that Iranian society is essentially dangerous and backward. It's dominated by religion to an extent we can't even begin to understand in the West, it's hell bent on acquiring nuclear weapons, it supports the idea of terrorist acts to get the Israelis out of the Middle East, and the concept of democracy in Iran is, to say the least, fledgling. At one point Sue casually described the limits on opposition parties "coming out with their crap", which struck me as something of an off-hand dismissal of the principle of free speech.

But parts of her argument were pretty compelling. It's relatively easy to forget Iran had a revolution only a quarter of a century or so ago, and revolutions aren't easy concepts for us to understand either. The US had one a good couple of centuries ago, and even that's recent compared with the last time the British popped their tea and biscuits down for a minute to patiently endure a revolt. We don't do that sort of thing any more, we just engage in elections full of hanging chads and rigged postal votes, with a dodgy system of representation and a culture of spin. And we settle for that, and tell ourselves it's a nigh on perfect system of democratic government.

I tend to agree. It's probably as good as we're going to get. But there are more than enough flaws in it for countries like Iran to wonder why, precisely, we think replacing a fledgling Islamic, Iranian government with a "Christian democratic" one would be such a grand idea. Twenty five years after the British had what passed for a revolution, we as a nation were not a pillar of democracy. Rotten boroughs spring to mind for a start. Countries which for centuries after their revolution allowed seven pigs, a horse, three dogs, two cats and a pigeon to elect a Member of Parliament should not rush to judge any foreign modus operandi so soon after such upheaval.

The big problem is it's only now that governments fresh out of a revolution have nuclear weapons on the brain. Not that the theory hasn't been practiced before. The Russians had a good crack at world domination after their revolution; it was accepted for new Viking overlords to pop invasion high up the list of priorities. Revolutions tend to breed people in power who suddenly acquire the liking for power and an urge to keep hold of that power. Then they go a bit mad on the idea and we need another revolution. All we get in Britain is a cabinet reshuffle if we're lucky, but some people might argue bloody revolution achieves the aims of a lot more people a lot more efficiently than telling John Prescott he's not allowed near any communities any more. In the grand scheme of things one can hardly blame the Iranians for wanting the same kit the Americans have got, given the apparent predilection of the US government for a fight.

Iran presents a danger to the West, but all that's happening is a relatively new government finding its feet and trying to copy much of what we've done over here. I'm not saying that's all okay and we'll learn to live together, but I can see why Iranians object to opinions of Iran as an irrational aggressor. If you're Iranian, you just happen to live in a society that does things a bit differently, and not necessarily for the worse. This will be no comfort when Iran has blown up London and the UK has blown up Tehran, of course. Who would be Des Browne? Still, at least he's not one of those having to take responsibility on the front line today.

What a brilliant last day's Football League action. Matches you'd never have thought meaningful 46 matches ago are suddenly life or death situations. Bournemouth have equalised against Brentford deep into stoppage time to stop Brentford, including new chairman Greg Dyke of course, being automatically promoted.

Meanwhile, as I write, Oxford and Leyton Orient are drawing 2-2 in added time. Oxford have to win to stay in the league; Orient have to win to gain promotion. It's one of the few games still going. It's odd that my emotions at this point are mainly guided by Football Manager (Championship Manager, as was). It's a football management game. In around 2002/2003 I took Leyton Orient to the Premiership in it, then last year I did the same with Oxford in the next version. I want both teams to do well.

And Orient have just scored! Oxford are down, Orient are promoted! Ivan Gaskell is live on air on BBC1 as I type describing the action, which is the sort of broadcasting moment you can only hope to have as a sports journalist. I think I wrote some kind of tribute to football quite a long time ago in very similar vein, but this is the sort of stuff that makes sport a worthwhile proposition. It's full time, Orient are up. Congrats to them, commiserations to Oxford, and there's always next season...

Somehow or other I managed to find myself at the Radio Academy North-West Radio Night yesterday evening - an extremely warm back room of a bar, packed with what can be politely described as "radio enthusiasts".

These, my friends, are the trainspotters of radio: the people who produce the jingles and other fancy noises that aren't music or speech. For them a sweeper is not the bloke sitting just behind the back four in a 5-4-1 formation; give them a good stab and they'll appreciate it.

I'll grant you I like a good theme toon - I even wrote about the BBC News themes recently. But I am not a member of what the evening's host endearingly termed the "jingle community". The night consisted of around ten tables of said community, to which had been added one table of BBC Radio Manchester employees, to which had been added me. So I found myself representing the arch-rivals in a three hour long pub quiz about radio production.

Well needlessly to say I didn't really represent them, since I couldn't answer more than one question. In the lyrics round I knew "I'd make a deal with God, and get him to swap our places" is from Kate Bush and "Running Up That Hill", but that was the extent of my participation. I was of no use during the jingle round, in which two jingles were played and the audience invited to fill in the missing words.

Jingle number 1 turned out to be the very first Key 103 jingle after it changed its name from Piccadilly Radio. Lyrics: "Get up and get going with Key 103, start the day knowing what's new, get up in the morning with the breakfast show on Keeeeeey 103." Have a listen here:

Jingle number 2 was, apparently, the BBC Radio 2 news theme - played backwards. Then there was the round where we had to guess the station from the very first moments of its launch date broadcast, with the station identity bleeped out. If you're born a considerable number of years after Radios 2, 1, Aire and Piccadilly launched, then obviously this is going to be a tricky round to negotiate. As was the question where the teams were asked to give the full phone number of a particular, seemingly legendary, jingle production company.

However there was a free bar, so I shall stop looking this jingly gift horse in the mouth, and maybe in forty years I will know my RCS from my LBC in such matters.

During local election night I forgot to mention one enjoyable moment. I'd gone to interview a successful Labour candidate - I won't say which one for reasons that will become clear. It isn't anyone I've mentioned elsewhere or whose audio I've put online (i.e. it's not Richard Leese). They were being hugged and congratulated by plenty of people as we started the interview, so having begun recording and said my opening hellos, I had to break off while these celebrations continued.

The Labour candidate then spotted a friend walking past and called out to them, with breathtaking clarity, "You can tell Tony Blair that sometimes the bloody infantry win it without the sodding leaders!"

This was by far the most interesting audio I collected all night. But alas, seconds later, the candidate turned white as a sheet as they looked back at me and at the microphone. "You've not recorded that, have you?" Well, I said, yes. "No... you haven't," they said, laughing nervously. "I'm afraid I have, you know." And at this point I felt so utterly sorry for them that I committed the journalistic sin of promising not to air it. I've not quite reached the highest hard-nosed summit of political hackery... yet.

Where to begin yet another rambling account of my life? Perhaps the beginning. Well, the beginning is Thursday evening. I wasn't in College on Friday so I popped home to Kent to see my parents and collect a wedding hat, amongst other things. It's an incredible hat by the way. I left in glorious sunshine. I left without my mobile. No idea why. Clearly it prefers the comfort of my sofa rather than my handbag. Luckily I do have the b/f mobile number in my diary, so I could let him know that I was alive and wasn't ignoring him.

On Friday morning I came back to London, via Bluewater (what an excuse that it is en-route!) I managed to spend more money than you think you could spend in 37mins. Women. Then I got back to London and was reunited with my mobile. I had a few messages and a couple of missed calls. However, the only voicemail was from "Ricki" the car mechanic, telling "Kevin" that his welding had been done but he couldn't collect his car until he had paid for the work. Oh wonderful. So I rang "Ricki" to tell him that he had left a message on my phone, not "Kevin's".

You'd think that this good turn would set me up for the day, wouldn't you? Oh no. I met the b/f after he finished College and we trotted off to an exhibition at the Royal Academy. We meandered around and amused ourselves at the exhibition (I'd been given tickets a while back) and then decided to enjoy the sunshine. Our plan was the head through Green Park towards Buckingham Palace, cross over into St James' Park, along Birdcage walk and down towards Sloane Sq, where we could then get the bus back home.

However, when we were in St James' Park, we spied the elephant. Elephant? What elephant. Well, anyone who has read the London papers this week will know about the Sultan's Elephant. (or Ken's White Elephant as I have heard it referred to) Have a look at the "gallery" to get a better idea of what is going on. Anyway, the Elephant was clearly visible in Horse Guards Parade, so off we trotted. We arrived quite early for the "show" (that we didn't know was taking place until we arrived) at 5pm, so we had prime viewing position at the edge of the ring.

Watching a 40 foot-high dancing wooden elephant and a wooden girl riding around in a routemaster was certainly an experience. We also had some overly-knowledgeable people behind us who provided quite an interesting running commentary of events! I'm not so sure I'd be so positive about the whole think if I were Indian. But I'm not, so I don't suppose it matters.

Anyway, that was that. You'd think that dinner and an early night was in order. Well it was. Until I ended up taking the b/f to A&E at the Chelsea and Westminster from 11pm-3am. It's a long story and this is not the time and place to tell it. Needless to say all is well and it was an interesting experience. Not only was A&E pretty grim, but I also had to drive in London. Busy London. At night. In a car that I had never driven before - until being handed the keys. It's one thing that I've been placed on the insurance, another that I have to drive it! Anyway, all was fine and at least I don't have to think twice about driving it part of the way down to Devon now! Anyway, so that's that. I think if I were to "rate the day" in terms of variety, yesterday would certainly have hit 9/10.

The necessary plate for every weight-conscious woman? Advertised in the Guardain today, perhaps the diet plate is the next step forward....? Amusing, yes. Practical, I think not!

If you went to bed a long time ago, like most sane people, you've missed the sight of a large chunk of the BBC crashing to the ground.

At around 3am all the BBC Election Coverage and News 24, plus I'm told Radio 4, dropped off air. BBC1 and News 24 then simulcast BBC World for a while until they restored coverage of the election - from the pub!

Yes, what an opportunity for Emily Maitlis. There she was, hosting an informal chat in the pub as per the BBC way of doing things, occasionally getting some airtime away from the main BBC studios. And now she's at the centre of the whole shebang! And looking shit-scared at the thought of it every time she's on air too. Who can blame her? No Dimbleby, no Robinson - although the latter's mentioned it on his blog:

The entire studio has just been plunged into darkness, taking the programme off air.

I am dictating this to a kindly colleague because it's not just the studio that has gone down. It would appear that all power to this building - and a large part of Westminster that we can see out of the windows - has gone.

None of us can remember anything quite like it.

[source: Nick Robinson's Newslog]

It's a bit of a mess right now on the BBC. To quote Emily: "We're just hearing ... (grabs piece of paper) ... yes, this high technology, we're just hearing Harrow is a Tory gain. They couldn't have written it any bigger - trying to make it easy for me. A Tory gain there."

Good job I did all my lurking behind the BBC presenter whilst he's on air at Manchester before their power went down...

If you believed the pre-election hype, the Lib Dems were "supposed" to give Labour a real run for their money in Manchester tonight.

In actuality, they shed four seats to Labour and made no gains of their own. Local Lib Dem leader Simon Ashley told me the party would have to "learn lessons" and rebuild, and he insisted they were allowed one "bad year".

Asked about the comparison between Labour's woes nationally and their success in Manchester, he expressed dismay. "It beggars the question what [Labour] have got to do to lose the confidence of the people of Manchester."

Use the audio panel below to listen to him.

The Tories enjoyed their usual level of success in Manchester - no seats at all. At least it's impossible to lose seats when one possesses none to start with.

Adrian Glasspole and his wife had both been Tory candidates in different Manchester wards. Both were never likely to be elected, but he gamely agreed to speak to me about the apparently hopeless task of representing the Conservatives in the area.

His intriguing explanation for Labour's success here tonight was as follows: Labour nationally have damaged politics so much that no one could be bothered to vote; therefore, Labour locally won because no one could be arsed voting against them.

Use the audio panel below to listen to him.

The Tories have missed their first target seat - the City Centre's a Lib Dem hold, Conservatives in third place behind Labour. The 'quiet confidence' I heard earlier may well be misplaced on their behalf but there's a long way to go yet. I just spoke to leading Green candidate Steve Durrant, who wasn't about to give anything away, but I got the sensation he's not expecting any miracles.

There's a big anti-BNP movement here tonight. There are banners outside and most people are wearing purple stickers declaring their united opposition to the party. I've yet to spy a BNP candidate lurking anywhere, but of course if I do it will be interesting to see what their expectations are tonight.

Welcome to the local elections in Manchester. I'm sat in what is fast becoming the War Room for the media, a large pillared atrium with a vast plasma television next to a series of white boards on which all the results will be gathered.

At the moment it's a case of meeting various candidates from various parties, making myself known and getting into a position where - hopefully - I can accost local politicians, established and budding, throughout the night for a chat about the latest results.

The Conservatives are certainly more enthusiastic and optimistic than the Labour contingent, who told me there will 'definitely' be a swing. But it's the Lib Dems who are predicted to do well here and I've yet to tie one of them down to give me their view. One Tory seat in the whole of Manchester will be a big achievement for them - expect it to come in either the Brooklands or City Centre wards. The Greens are targeting Labour-held Hulme, and I think the Lib Dems want widespread gains.

We'll see how it goes.

There's a brilliant article from the BBC News Magazine today about ethics. Following a poll of visitors to the site, a medical ethicist has presented the results of a vote potentially more interesting than the one most people will hear about today. It involves four ethical questions - click here to read more. The moral of the story appears to be: don't be a fat man. And if you are a fat man, don't stand on a bridge or go caving. You'll only put yourself and others through great moral stress.

Of course the 'other' vote today might have ethical consequences in its own right. If the BNP gain seats or the Green party gain seats, there'll have been an ethical dimension. But for most people the focus is likely to be what happens to Tony Blair and Labour following the debacle they've endured over the last week; what happens to David Cameron and the Conservatives in his first real test since taking the party throne; and what happens to the Liberal Democrats with Sir Menzies Campbell installed as leader?

You'll be able to find out on Dayorama. You'll also be able to find out in many, many other places, but if you're particularly bothered about Manchester City Council then definitely stick around because that's where I'll be. It's a Labour seat with a chance - just a chance - the Liberal Democrats might sneak it. And if the Conservatives even win one ward here, that's an improvement, so they've nothing to lose. I'll be at the count until its conclusion and then filing audio all night, but there's bound to be a quiet moment or two to update Dayorama during proceedings.

Dayorama has quite a varied track record over previous election coverage. In 2005 OJ and I co-hosted Oxford Student Radio's general election special from 10pm until 4am, helped by what amounted to our own newsroom of seven or eight people, a truly brilliant occasion.

And in November 2004 we were up for most of the night following the US Election campaign - coverage started here and went on for another fifteen or so posts as time, and Doritos, wore on.

Well you wouldn't. Amir Khan, silver medallist at the 2004 Olympics, is already something of a boxing legend in his home town of Bolton, if not Britain as a whole.

So you can understand why Network Rail chose him to front their new campaign against kids playing on railway lines - No Messin'.

With the Atomic Kitten scheduled to be interviewed today crying off sick, off I went to Bolton station instead, for a press call where Amir would set out the campaign and speak about his own experiences.

Paul MacDonald was the real star of today's press call. Paul lost his arm when he was 12 after being hit by a train.

He's lucky to even be alive but when you've seen him detach his fake arm, it brings home the reality of what happens to kids who think they're invincible until it's ten seconds too late.

He wanted to take his shirt off and detach his arm for the various TV cameras who turned up, but they declined on the grounds it'd be too shocking for early evening television. I think that's a real shame - the true, graphic nature of what happened to Paul is a far more powerful message to kids than anything Amir Khan can say, genuine and forceful though he was in his delivery.

It's meant to be about 24 degrees and sunny in both London and Oxford tomorrow. That's marginally exciting. It's only meant to be 23 degrees and raining in Manchester. Sorry, Ol.

As you can tell, I haven't had a very thrilling day!

Tonight saw me off to the opening night of Moby Dick at Manchester's Library Theatre. I'm not normally one for opening nights at plays - or, come to think of it, plays - so this was a departure. It was actually very good, too. I was worried that at three hours in length, and having to go on my own in the absence of knowing anyone up north who was free to take up the spare, I'd become phenomenally bored. That wasn't the case, it was a genuinely entertaining production with one or two very odd but laudable interpretations. He said, commenting on interpretations of a book he hadn't read. I'll be quiet.

Anyway, the highlight of the evening wasn't the play. There I was, stood in the foyer before the performance was due to start, thumbing through the programme, when who should appear in front of me but one Max Carter. He and I used to go to school together for quite some period of time - so much so, I'm fairly sure there exist photos of us playing football at something like the age of 5. He'd turned up to the opening night of Moby Dick with his girlfriend! Such culture vultures. He seemed very well indeed, which was reassuring. I remarked how surprised I was to see him, and he rightly pointed out that, being a student at Manchester University, and me being a student in London, his was not the most surprising presence there.

My presence on Sky News earlier today was equally surprising. It all harked back to this morning, when I was asked to go to Bolton Wanderers for a press conference. Then we remembered I can't drive, so we tried enlisting the help of other people in the newsroom. I ended up booked in to go to the conference with a reporter from arch-rival-but-not-really BBC Radio Manchester. So I wandered over to the BBC where Del (short for Delyth, I think) came out to meet me. She's only a few years older and used to work for Manchester United radio before coming to the BBC, which is a career start you're certainly unlikely to find me pursuing. And speaking of starts, she couldn't get the BBC standard issue Peugeot to move for fifteen minutes, til she remembered the steering lock (I can't talk, it had me totally foxed too, but then I rank as one of the least useful people ever to have sat in a car during a car-related panic).

So Del - who by the way would win Broadcasting Hair Of The Year if such an award existed, I was extremely impressed - took me to Bolton and looked after the young work placement kid from the rival radio station for the next hour or so. Out came Sam Allardyce, who had a good long chat about his rapidly waning England prospects, and we all went home again.

I got back to my own newsroom and sorted my audio out, then went to pre-record my sports bulletin. I emerged again to be told I'd just made my debut on Sky. It turns out the TV crews had taken footage of us lot clustered around Sam Allardyce with our microphones, hanging on his every word. That footage had made it onto Sky. I've not seen it so I have no idea how much of me, for how long, made it into the frame, but everyone apparently recognised the shirt so there you have it. My dad's no longer the only one in the family with a Sky appearance to their name!

It's nothing new to say I hate people eating on the tube. The chap next to me on the tube this afternoon was eating a tuna baguette. I love tuna, but not on the tube. And then, to add insult to injury, he applied cold sore cream to his mouth. Yuck. It was enough to entice me back to my 20p (what a bargain) Evening Standard. My environmental side has finally got to me. It isn't Cameron's cycling to work... with his papers being driven behind him that convinced me... no, it was the fact that Ken Livingston doesn't always flush his toilet at home if it is only "yellow". I'm guessing that means urine since it would be pretty odd to have yellow turds. Unless you were a seagull perhaps. Anyway. It's a good point though, 1/3 of our water is wasted through flushing the toilet. Surely with the worst drought in years looming, we really should be watching our water carefully. I was driving in Kent the other weekend and saw a man washing his wall. Not a special wall, just any old wall. I nearly got out of the car and read him the riot act. Why was he washing a wall with a bucket and sponge when there is a hose-pipe ban in the area? I'm also going to get some new bins for my flat so that I can separate cans and glass - I drink so much coke (and wine) that I really should recycle more than I do (just newspapers at the moment). What else? A friend bought me a pineapple and some lychee juice yesterday. Lychee juice is actually very pleasant and would probably be lovely with some vodka. I'm sure I was going to say something mildly important. Oh yes, the local elections. I'm really annoyed. I've voted Labour in my local election (postal vote - which, miraculously, didn't get stolen in the post). Why? Because I don't want the Respect party, or the BNP to stand a chance in the Local Elections. But, this means I have to endorse Tony Blair. I've always been of the opinion that local elections are more about the local councillors themselves, rather than the politics behind them. But even so I have to vote Labour, when all I want to do is tell Blair to stick it where the sun doesn't shine. Then again, the sun hasn't really shone on him at all this week has it? Oh and I passed another couple of exams on the LPC.

I've met some forward-thinking university professors in my time. I was taught everything I know about the Anglo-Saxons by a man who used a website to show exactly where different types of Saxon coin had been found across Britain and Europe. But Cedarville University president Dr Bill Brown is way ahead of the game:

Evidently, a university president writing his own blog is an anomaly. I read where some presidents have blogs and hire professionals to write for them. Most don’t even know what is in their own blog! Actually, most are pretty boring which ensures no one reads them so it doesn’t really matter who writes them.

To be honest, I did try to hire a grad student to write these blogs for me. He had all the qualities I was looking for: he was intelligent, loved words, and worked cheap. This is the opening of the first blog he wrote for me:

Elen sila lumenn omentilmo
'Quel (re/amrun/andune/undome)
Vedui' (il'er)
Aaye
Nae saian luume'
Cormamin lindua ele lle
Saesa omentien lle
Mae govannen

I then discovered he was really into the Lord of the Rings and wrote everything in an elvin language. I thanked him for his work but told him I wouldn’t be able to use him. I did give him a gift: a small sword that glowed green when a psychiatric professional was nearby.

[source: Bill Brown's Xanga Site]

Around a week ago I paid a little tribute to Dayorama posts from First Great Western trains over the last three years - today, it's hats off to Virgin. I'm on one of no fewer than three trains leaving Oxford for Manchester in the space of an hour. It arrived ten minutes early, it's all but deserted, and this last detail may be absurdly minor to most people, but the windows are gobsmackingly spotless.

Now that really surprised me. Most problems with trains aren't entirely guaranteed: there might be a seat after all, it might just be on time, there might not be a bevy of teenagers strangling the life out of you with tinny r'n'b from their mobile phones. But you can be nigh on certain the windows will either:

a) contain utterly illegible graffiti etched thinly into the pane with a key, sure to confound the archaeologists of the forty-first century with their intriguing hidden messages; or

b) not have been washed since the age of steam, black smears providing a beautiful view of the countryside as it would look if coloured by a peculiarly depressed three-year-old goth.

Not here. I'm afforded a gorgeous, panoramic, unspoilt view of... well, Leamington Spa platform 2 at this precise moment in time, but give us a few moments and it'll be glorious English countryside again. For a bank holiday Monday the weather's not at all bad - bit blustery, granted, but it's truly a green and pleasant land out there this morning.

Of course for some people, the last place you want to be this June is England. They'll do anything to get hold of some World Cup tickets. My trusty bottle of Diet Coke informs me I can win World Cup tickets with them :

How much do you LOVE the FIFA World CupTM?

Take a photo with your mobile phone or digital camera showing how much it means to you. Send it to 80094 via MMS (std ntwk rates apply) or upload it at www.coca-colafootball.co.uk and you could be there!

All well and good. World Cup ticket offers are nothing if not expected, bordering on obligatory, in the run-up to the big event. But have a closer look at what we might, following Coke's example of vowelicide, call the "trms n cndtns":

No Purchase Necessary (NPN). Entrants must obtain consent of al identifiable individuals in photo. Daily draws from 01.06.06 to 30.06.06. Extra draw 01.09.06.

Whoa - these terms go on a bit longer but we'll stop right there. Extra draw 01.09.06?! That's... a good month or two after the World Cup ends! What gives?

Peeling the label off and studying the back for the full trms n cndtns, I've discovered the answer:

All entries received up to 31.08.06 will be entered into a draw for a chance to win a pair of 2010 FIFA World Cup tickets.

So there you are - if you want to be one of the first people guaranteed to be on the plane to the 2010 World Cup, start buying Diet Coke and wait til the day after this World Cup ends to enter. You could take a photo demonstrating the 2010 World Cup means so much to you, you missed the 2006 one just to be in with the chance of going to it...