Sorry, I don't get this. You build a sculpture from waste products; this is great recycling. Fantastic for the environment. An inspiration for those who don't think anything can be made from recycled products. And then you set fire to it. This then releases smoke into the atmosphere, totally un-doing any good you may have done to the planet by recycling in the first place. I know this wasn't the point: it was about the Exodus of Christ etc. But honestly, setting fire to a recycled statue. That's ironic, surely. Only such an event could take place in Margate...

It's a diasaster. My Saturday morning's will never be the same again. Of course they won't, I'll be working for most of them. Or nursing a hangover. I got paid this week, incidentally. So a fellow colleague and I went and shared a bottle of champagne... then the cocktails... then the gin... then more champagne... then it was about 3am and we guessed we should go to bed. Anyway, my Saturday. The Saturday Guardian magazine has changed. The verdict isn't in yet... I'll have to let you know. But it was such a shock to open the first page and not have the gleaming profiles of Alexander Chancellor and Zoe Williams staring back at me. Whatever shall become of us.

Contrary to what you see here, there was only one Frank Gillard.

Frank was a correspondent during the Second World War, the voice on the radio at a time when that voice meant everything. He was also the man who envisaged a BBC with localness at its core, whose vision gave birth not only to BBC Local Radio, but also provided the blueprint for Radios 1, 2, 3 and 4.

Great, then, that his memory should be celebrated so whole heartedly by everybody from tea-boys made good (or not in my case), to the BBC's Deputy Director General, Mark Byford, whose eulogy genuinely brought a tear to my eye.

The awards themselves weren't important. (From that, you'll glean that we didn't win any Golds*.) What was central to the event was a sense of pride in what we do, and universal marvel that we often manage it on a relative shoe-string, against all odds.

What was also central to the event was drink. Several household names were flushed under the tables on red and white lakes of their own, including one 6Music presenter who I was delighted to meet, but from whom I managed to rouse little decipherable response.

I was far from immune to the odd drunken splutter myself, but fortunately managed to survive a chance encounter with Mark Byford at the urinals with a portion of dignity in tact. Just in case, I told him my name was Terry Wogan.

On reflection, Cumbria was a long way to go for such a short time, particularly when the return journey had to be accomplished ahead of a day's work. But the stops were pulled out by the boys and girls at BBC Radio Cumbria, who must be applauded for a fine night.

Next year, there's talk of a party at the Royal Albert Hall to celebrate 40 years of Frank Gillard's vision. No awards as such, just one giant toast to a giant radio influence. We'll be proud to be there.

* Bronze and Silver awards remain of the utmost importance, in a ratio of 2:1, by the way.

Mr Ross is on fine form this evening with his Friday night show. As I write he's about to serve up a fish stew he has cooked with the help of Jamie Oliver, in between a conversation about what happens to food that gets sent back at restaurants.

Ross: "Back goes the steak, it goes up there, in there, in the sock, round a few times, in the toilet, flush, flush, in the microwave, ping, on the plate, back out, 'I think sir will find the steak is better done'."

Don't ask where there is. Suffice to say it was a visual gag at that stage. I visually gagged.

Meanwhile, remind me to develop some sense of road navigation by 2011.

At the moment I rely heavily on my little satellite navigation widget to get me places I've never been before - even, sometimes when feeling lazy, to places I should really know well enough to find of my own accord.

In 2011 I'll be stuffed with an attitude like that. New Scientist reports as follows:

Navigation, power and communications systems that rely on GPS satellite navigation will be disrupted by violent solar activity in 2011, research shows.

A study reveals Global Positioning System receivers to be unexpectedly vulnerable to bursts of radio noise produced by solar flares, created by explosions in the Sun's atmosphere.

When solar activity peaks in 2011 and 2012, it could cause widespread disruption to aircraft navigation and emergency location systems that rely heavily on satellite navigation data.

[source: New Scientist - 'Solar flares will disrupt GPS in 2011']

We'll be skipping any long flights, too, then.

I'm spending some time browsing through properties for rent in West London on the Foxtons website.

Now, a while back, we mentioned Foxtons on the back of a BBC documentary exposing less-than-savoury goings-on at some of their London branches.

So I was bearing that in mind while searching through the properties they have to offer. One caught my eye in Isleworth - it was at a very reasonable price and looked beautiful from the photos:

The Foxtons description of the property reads as follows:

Situated within a delightful, secluded development this smart two bedroomed ground floor flat offers bright well presented living space with allocated off-street parking.

The flat is located on a quiet no through road moments from nearby superstores and within easy reach of the more extensive amenities of Twickenham town centre.

Well this is all very nice, I thought to myself - I'll have a look on the map. Foxtons, conveniently, have a map option on their site, so I clicked it. Lo and behold:

Can you spot the problem?

From the BBC's Frank Gillard Awards for local radio, being held in Cumbria...

I'm just enjoying dinner with a bizarre mix of voices I know and faces I don't.

Although the chef was perhaps a little too selective with his 'selection of vegetables' (their presence on my plate represented roughly 0.5 of my recommended 5 daily portions), the meal was very tasty indeed.

As is that giant illuminated BBC sign, which is just begging to be stolen. I want it for my wall - it's taller than I am...

For nearly two years I've been following the saga of Manchester City FC's quest to power their stadium with a wind turbine.

In November 2004, on the short-lived Floating Dog, I wrote:

The club has been in discussions with the local council and energy companies over proposals to place a series of wind turbines a stone's throw from the ground, so that the stadium would become the first of its kind in the country, indeed the globe, to be powered entirely by a renewable resource.

City already have an answer to anyone thinking of complaining. The club are expected to offer any excess power generated by the turbines to local homes at a discount.

[source: Floating Dog - 'Blow football']

Then, in August 2005 here on Dayorama, I noted that the scheme had reached the stage of an application for planning permission.

Today that planning permission has been granted! City will become the very first football club in the world to power its stadium with its own wind turbine and, as predicted, local residents will benefit from any excess energy generated.

This from the BBC News Online report:

The structure, designed by Sir Norman Foster, will be one of the UK's largest land-based turbines and should dwarf the nearby B Of The Bang sculpture.

Manchester City Council said it would be operational in 2007.

Planning spokesman Neil Swannick described the development as "an iconic statement of Manchester's commitment to renewable energy".

[source: BBC News - 'City stadium turbine plan backed']

In all of this, there's one person for whom this must be incredibly bad news - Thomas Heatherwick. His studio designed 'B of the Bang', a splendid sculpture standing at one end of the City of Manchester Stadium. Its 59-metre high frame will now stand in the shadow of the 120-metre high wind turbine. Bang goes its 15 minutes of fame...

Very few things scare me about the internet. The last thing from which I truly recoiled in horror online was a website entitled 'Rate My Poo', and that was some years ago.

But I'm a wee bit perturbed today. A few times over recent months I've noticed, in the Dayorama site stats, visitors arriving from www.vroomfondel.co.uk.

If you go to that website, you receive this message:

This is not here.

Moreover, if you click the link I get in the site stats, you are taken to a login page which reads:

Brand Cleansing Research Entry

So what is www.vroomfondel.co.uk doing?

Well, VroomFondel was a minor character in Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy. VroomFondel, a philosopher, protested against the use of computer Deep Thought to decipher the meaning of life. So the use of VroomFondel's name for a "brand cleansing" website already sounds rather sinister.

The URL of the page you reach from the site stats has the word 'boots' in it, so it may not be a surprise that the visitor from vroomfondel.co.uk reached a page of Dayorama where I discuss Boots, the High Street chemists and sandwich shop:

I introduced my friend Andy to the concept of the Boots meal deal a couple of week sago, and he was so taken with it that he went round this lunchtime drumming up support for a group outing to our local store. Off we went, about ten of us, descending on the sandwiches and leaving barely anything for those unlucky few who found themselves behind us.

The post carries on in similar vein and it's very complimentary about Boots. But "brand cleansing" very much suggests a mechanism for unearthing references far less glowing than mine. The header of the vroomfondel.co.uk page includes the phrase "Netrank Brand Cleansing", so I went in search of them.

That search dug up an article by The Guardian on the power of bloggers to moan about comapnies, and the ways companies can fight back. It also uncovered a reference to 'info-cleansing', which I took as my next keyword.

After 20 minutes or so digesting various sources it seems 'info-cleansing' is the process by which companies hire people to 'clean up' negative comments about them on the internet - either by deleting, masking or counteracting those messages. For example, if I were to suggest that Boots' sandwiches are, in my opinion, of shoddy quality, one of their friendly 'brand cleansers' will come along and either try to take my post down, try to get it off search engines, or write a comment shouting down my argument.

I find it disturbing that companies are prepared to pay thousands of pounds for this extraordinarily Big Brother-like stance on free speech. If I think Boots' sandwiches are shite it's within my power to tell you so without Boots wading in guns blazing. Moreover it's the slent, stealthy nature of this monitoring - a website declaring it does not exist, password-protected pages, and the very terms involved. 'Info-cleansing' is not a natural process.

I'm not the first to notice this by a long chalk. Milan, a Canadian graduate student at Oxford, found something very similar going on with his blog a month ago.

You know how, in every group of friends, there's a far flung member who never gets a visit. It's usually up to them to invest hours in trudging towards central territory, to visit mates who've barely had to walk to the end of their street.

That friend is like BBC Radio Cumbria, who in a complete reversal of fortune, will tonight be hosting the 7th Annual Frank Gillard Awards. For once, they'll be paid a visit by over 300 voices from 37 other BBC local radio stations up and down the kingdom, all of whom have made an effort to discover what long distance relationships are all about.

I'll be among them, representing BBC Ollie & David FM, which has been nominated for three awards (including local radio station of the year, no less). Oh yes; this will be a competitive night.

I'm really looking forward to the chance to meet people who are normally a bit too far for coffee. I occasionally record voiceovers for Radio Cumbria (why not, with these broad Northern tones of mine?), but I've never properly spoken to the folk there. I've no idea what they look like, nor them me. I'm sure they'll be hugely disappointed.

Of course, the great thing about a long journey is that you always arrive on time. Those who live far away have longer to make up lost time, whereas those who live nearby are stuffed. Expect blushes from the BBC Lancashire team...

Full updates and photos to follow this evening, courtesy of Mr Williams and 3G.

John Reid at the Labour Party conference:

"To fight global terrorism we need alliances: not just with Europe, and not just with the rest of the world."

Er, who with, then, John? I'm not sure the Klingons would want to get themselves involved...

... To Swindon.

Swindon seems to have it really good at the moment.

Yesterday the big news in Berkshire was the planned closure of the Royal Mail's Reading sorting office - with operations moving to Swindon:

Under the plans, mail centre operations at Reading and Gloucester would move to the expanded Swindon site at Rowland Hill Close, Dorcan.

A Royal Mail spokesman said the move would allow outdated buildings to be replaced and new technology introduced.

Plans will now be submitted to Swindon Borough Council. If approved the new offices could open by 2008.

[souirce: BBC News - 'Jobs at risk as post centre moves']

Today Honda have got in on the act and expanded production of the Honda Civic in Swindon:

Production will rise from 190,000 to 250,000 a year creating "hundreds" of new jobs, the Sun newspaper said.

The announcement is set to be made at the Paris Motor Show, a gathering of the leading motor manufacturers.

[source: BBC News - 'Honda "to expand Swindon plant"']

Not only that but they're even healthier in Swindon!

Swindon residents have beaten the government's target for the number of people to stop smoking.

An extra 500 people quit smoking this year beating the Department of Health's local Primary Care Trust target of 2,726 people.

Stop Smoking Service Co-ordinator Cherry Jones said the achievement was down to the hard work of staff.

[source: BBC News - 'Thousands stop smoking in Swindon']

Well, happily I've discovered the Life In Swindon blog to tell me more about what it's really like in this paradise of boundless employment and unspoilt air. The verdict?

The soil in Swindon is like nothing I have ever experienced, it is pure clay!

Sign me up.

Here's a pretend tool kit:

And to go with it, yesterday I found what appears to be a pretend plumber.

Finally motivated to solve the exploding boiler problem which has left me taking cold showers for the past week or so, I arranged to be visited by a kindly plumber who advertised her services in the local paper.

I'd specifically wanted the lady plumber. Let's hear it for the modern woman, I thought, as she lumbered her way up the stairs, clad in remarkably spotless overalls with toolkit over her shoulder. I really wanted her to be the best plumber I'd ever met.

She wasn't, and in fact I'm fairly convinced she wasn't a plumber at all. After moments spent poking around with a torch, sighing, and sipping her fruit juice (real plumbers, surely, slurp lots of tea), her cover was finally blown when I overheard her consulting her "back up" by 'phone about exactly how an immersion heater works.

Delivering a diagnosis of the problem which was almost as comprehensive as the one I'd given her on arrival, she advised me that it might be the immersion heater at fault, but then again it might not be. She'd be happy to change it, but she'd rather not, and she'd probably need to change the water tank as well. There was also a slight weep from the tank which, though fairly common, was quite out of the ordinary, and should be addressed immediately; or whenever. Sparing her the embarrassment of further explanation, I formed a human shield between her and the rest of the house, and ushered her towards the door.

I would have felt sorry for her, had she not been quite so eager to grab my twenty-five pounds on her way out. As far as she was concerned, her job was done. As far as I was concerned, only I had been.

We're bored with hearing about Rogue Traders these days, but it's worth noting they come in all shapes and sizes. It's also worth noting that not everybody is quite so work shy. I've just returned home to find my flatmate has single-handedly managed to fix the boiler, along with the washing machine, the DVD player and the burglar alarm. I guess that's what you get for leaving a woman in charge.

Or panic in the Atlantic, at least. My Dodge was on the back of that boat til about ten seconds ago.

I jest, I jest. I'm just excited because the new car docks in England tomorrow, having (hopefully) safely crossed the pond between the USA and Blighty. I rang up the garage to check on its progress and was told:

Dodge: "Don't worry sir! It's bobbing up and down in the Atlantic as we speak..."
Me: "That's great!"
Dodge: "... I mean on a boat, of course."
Me: "Er, yes. Thanks for that, I'd kind of assumed you did."

I don't know which port it arrives at - I'd rather not know or else I'd abandon work to go and welcome it. Apparently it'll take between 10 and 12 days from arrival on these shores until I can go and pick it up. So there's one last hurrah for the Micra which, thanks to David, had "DODGE" ironically etched into the dirt on its boot when I last looked.

Back to the title of the post. 'America', by Razorlight, is possibly the best song I've heard all year. I heard it for the first time a few days ago, then again today on Radio 2, and it's completely captivated me. Haunting guitar at the beginning, gorgeous vocals, nothing too strained or overworked about it. And the lyrics!

All my life, watching America
All my life, there's panic in America
There's trouble in America

I don't know why I find that chorus so unbelievably good - I just do.

Naturally I've just discovered I bought the new Razorlight album a couple of months ago on iTunes and have had 'America' sat on my laptop, neglected, ever since. I'm now listening to the album all the way through. I can't believe I've ignored this and overlooked Razorlight as a band for so long (though I did approve of 'Golden Touch' off the first album, back in June 2004).

Exactly 30 years after Al Stewart hit the charts with his best-known song, 2006 has turned out to be the Year of the Cat.

Heralded by Ollie's discovery of the 'Kitler' concept (cats that look like Hitler are now so prevalent they've been awarded this umbrella term), a feline flavoured few months has featured such highlights as cats that dance on your desktop, the enchanting BBC Berkshire catcam (another Williams discovery), and last Saturday, 'Voice of the (Lottery) Balls' and Radio 2 chief announcer Alan Dedicoat meowing on my radio show.

Now we've made the feline affiliation official, by getting a real cat involved. Much to my delight, my soon-to-be flatmate has just taken delivery of Pepe, a long-time street cat who got caught in the headlights of her affection at a nearby rescue centre. And what a cute little thing he is, with his cuddly round face and funny white paws that pad everything in sight.

To mark the start of happier times, we've decided he should be given a new name. Early suggestions included Gordon (after the gin maker), Juniper (after the gin making berry), Sultan (think about his original name), and Roger (the cat, obviously); but instead, we've plumped for doffing the feline cap to the world's favourite Torquay hotelier, and have ended up with a cat called Basil.

I'm delighted. I've always wanted a cat to play with, and soon I can begin bonding with Basil and his many balls of string. As soon, that is, as he stops running away from me the moment I enter the room. Given his chequered history, I think we can understand his current penchant for life under the bed, but I do hope he snaps out of it soon. It's an odd place to go for a cuddle.

Pictures to follow as soon as he emerges.

That's the brand new BBC One ident. Based on the lifetime of the last two sets of BBC One idents, get used to it - it'll be here til 2011.

The 'Dancers' - idents showing various forms of dance - have been BBC One stalwarts for four and a half years. Before that, 'Balloon' idents ran for five years.

To watch one of the brand new idents, click here. (You can also download it by right-clicking that link and selecting 'Save Target As'.)

So, thoughts? It's probably worth watching the full ident before you judge. It's got more of a Sky feel to it than the previous ones - a faster pace, brighter colours, a snappier 'daytime' feel. There are expected to be up to 15 of these 'Circle' idents created, each reflecting the genre of programming to follow. For example, a 'Circle' ident involving a hippo will herald the arrival of a natural history documentary.

The sound doesn't thrill me. There are motorbikes involved in the featured ident, lapping the circumference of the central BBC One logo. I can't help but imagine the noise of motorbikes will start to grate with me very quickly - who knows how I'll survive til the next decade with those revs drilling through my skull between programmes.

The new idents launch on Saturday 7 October 2006.

You know, I admire Tony Blair. I'm by no means a politician in the making, by no means a political correspondent in the making - but I know what I like, and this man, I like.

Forget the policies, the decisions over war in Iraq. You have to understand that in a modern political environment it's less the decisions that matter, more the personality - the personability - of the people making them.

Gordon Brown made his keynote conference speech yesterday and you might as well, I suspect, have watched paint dry. Nick Robinson had five minutes on the speech in the Six O'Clock News and that was less than riveting - the whole speech can hardly have been better.

Tony Blair is currently on the stand and he's holding his audience - here in the office, there at the conference, probably across the country - rapt. He can talk to people. "How," my dad asks - and bear in mind, here, that my parents met at a meeting of the Young Conservatives - "How," he asks, "can people elect that man when he took us to war on a lie?"

But this is a man whose words could weasel him out of any situation. Gordon Brown's words couldn't weasel him out of a brown paper bag, let alone a Brown crisis. He shall forever remain weaselly. He looked weaselly yesterday, he's sat there looking weaselly now, he'll look weaselly on tomorrow's front pages.

A case in point. Just a few sentences into his speech today, Tony Blair delivered this line:

"At least I know Cherie won't run off with the bloke next door."

Try and envisage Gordon Brown delivering that line. No, I can't either.

Can you envisage David Cameron delivering that line?

Do you care much about the Guinness Book of Records? Did you even think it still existed? Somehow it seems a bit passe (I'd put an accent on that but I'm pushed for time and don't know the keyboard shortcut).

The Doctor Who website team think otherwise. I quote from a news item on the site yesterday:

When the 2007 edition of the Guinness Book of World Records landed on the Doctor Who website team's desk, we were eager to see if Doctor Who gets another mention in the new volume.

It does, but not quite in the way were expecting.

Baffled by its claims, we asked Tom Spilsbury, the statistically-minded assistant editor of Doctor Who Magazine, to do the maths for us:

"I was pleased to see that Doctor Who is mentioned on page 178, as 'the longest-running science-fiction TV series'," says Tom, "although there have been 723 episodes now, not just 709, tsk!

"But I was left rather baffled by the entry on page 180, which lists the record for 'Longest running sci-fi TV show (consecutive)'.

"The book has awarded this particular record to the US series Stargate SG-1, which started in July 1997 and had notched up 203 episodes, beating the previous record of 202, allegedly held by The X Files. (There's even a picture of the SG-1 cast with their certificate!)

"Why isn't Doctor Who given this record, when the programme had a new series of episodes every year without fail between 1963 and 1989, racking up 695 episodes in the process? Why doesn't this count as a much longer 'consecutive' run? Surely 695 consecutive episodes beats 203, doesn't it? Doesn't it?"

[source: Doctor Who - 'Record breaker?']

The team put out an appeal for contact details pertaining to the Guinness Book of Records (they couldn't find any), received a fantastic response, and now promise 'an exciting development' soon...

Having introduced you to Mr David Sheppard, let me bring another new name to the table, albeit in less permanent guise.

My friend Adam, currently studying Spanish and Arabic at Oxford (yes, I winced too), has just arrived in Cairo for his year abroad.

Aside from a trip home at Christmas he'll be spending at least nine months in Egypt, much like BBC correspondent Frank Gardner, whose autobiography I'm still slowly digesting. He spent time in Egypt as a student and it's somewhere I'd like to go, but if we're honest it's a country far better left in the hands of professionals like Adam.

On arrival in Cairo I spoke to him online and this is what he has to say about his adopted home:

Someone's just given me a Ramadan drink in this internet cafe but no one else has one. I'm wondering if they're trying to kill me. Ramadan started yesterday, I arrived a day before, so tough times are ahead!

I'm not fasting but Ramadan makes people do odd things, like close shops halfway through the day. You can't eat in the street during the day - well, you can, it just doesn't look very good.

I'm on my own at the moment, although I start classes on Wednesday. There's two other people coming out to join me eventually.

My only issue at the moment is that I can't speak Arabic! The first guidebook I read filled me with confidence:

"Egyptian Arabic is the language spoken between people in general conversation, however this is so different from the Standard Arabic used on television and in newspapers as to be considered a different language."

Eek! It's as if there were two different English languages - one used "eat" and the other used "consume". The problem is that it's too easy just to speak English if you know your Arabic is going to come out sounding like Shakespeare.

Thing is, I'm keen not to walk in the streets with a phrasebook because unlike in Europe, phrasebooks are a sign you can be tricked and ripped off - which is ironic, considering I need the phrasebook so I can speak Arabic and not get ripped off. It's a vicious circle.

You can read more from Adam on his very own blog at LiveJournal, but I'll be trying to coax stories from Egypt out of him for Dayorama on a semi-regular basis.

Equally if there's anything you ever wanted to know about life in (or at the very least uncomfortably near) the Middle East, drop me a line or post a comment and I'll ask!

You wait ages for a bus...

This is the sight of the world's most unusual bus queue, as over 700 buses, bound for the same destination, line-up and wait for their public. Not quite the way it's done on Oxford Street, but very much the way at the Imperial War Museum's aviation centre in Duxford, Cambridgeshire, where the world's largest bus show was held yesterday.

If you're a non-gricer, let me see if I can win you over to the attraction of buses. Firstly, leave your thoughts of a stereotypical anorak at home. You'd be amazed by how many people secretly harbour an interest in buses, some of them quite respectable folk (I spotted former BBC correspondent Andrew Gilligan at many of the Routemaster farewell nights in London last year). Turn up to Showbus, and you'll meet thousands of people of quite literally all shapes and sizes, indulging their passion with an equally diverse offering of buses and coaches.

And some fine specimens there were, too. For the transport photographer, this must surely be the perfect event, with buses and coaches cleverly grouped by the areas where they do (or did) their business. Here's East Anglia, appropriately grouped at the eastern end of the airfield:

This not only made it possible to visit your local area and sample its buses from over the years, it also gave a chance to reunite buses and coaches which haven't been together for decades. Which, I'm sure, is why some of the buses looked so happy.

There's our Routemaster, parked in 'London', along Duxford's main runway. Although masquerading as a 15 for the day, ours spent most of its life on the busy 73 route, busying itself between Tottenham and Seven Sisters, through all the salient points in central London. It lasted right up to September 2004 (then aged 38), when the 73 waved goodbye to its Routemasters and their conductors. Yesterday, they looked like old friends as they nuzzled into each other in the queue. And into planes...

It's always great to get together with people who do what you do, and when the result happens to be a spectacle like 700 buses stretched out across an airfield, you start to feel you may be vaguely normal after all. I resisted buying any more real buses, but if I've persuaded you it's the thing to do, there was a very fine orange open-topper with a 'For Sale' sign in its windscreen. One careful owner, apply within.

Last post for the time being on Richard Hammond, I promise.

Now, have you checked out our Blogroll page recently? No, didn't think so. Why would you? It's tucked away up there and frankly it serves no useful purpose.

So I've replaced it with our very own Dayorama T-Shirt Shop.

I'm sure you know how much I value my comedy t-shirts, so now I've set about creating a little shop showcasing my very own designs at superbly reasonable prices. (Believe me, £15 might seem a lot but you try importing them from the USA and see how much you're paying.)

Due to sheer level of demand - otherwise known as Amy J nagging me incessantly - the shop debuts with a simple, understated Richard Hammond t-shirt:

Click the image above or click the 'Shirts' tab at the top - which replaces the 'Blogroll' tab, and the old Blogroll page - to find out more and order your very own!

Suggestions for future designs are welcome - send them to ollie dot williams at gmail dot com. A simple Dayorama shirt is in the works, and possibly another Richard Hammond one since we all love him so much.

PS: I should point out that while most of the cost of each shirt goes to the printers and not to me, the small commission left over will go directly to the Yorkshire Air Ambulance appeal I mentioned earlier.

Quick Ryder Cup update: never a good idea to throw Tiger Woods' clubs in the water.

What a long week that was. The other half of my team at work is away in Newcastle on a training course, so I've been holding the fort in the same week that I've had loads of stories to go out on: ice hockey, clay pigeon shooting and, of course, morris dancing.

Forget the treadmill or the exercise bike - morris dancing will get you twice as fit, twice as quick. I couldn't believe the sheer amount of energy needed.

Reports for the BBC:
Morris dancing - 'The new gym'
Ice hockey - 'Icy buzz for the Queen Bees'
Clay pigeon shooting - 'Shooting stars'

This coming week I'm hosting several News Online journalists who are coming up from Southampton. They've just started and want to get to know more about the Berkshire news patch, so it's down to me to give them some help. Wait til I threaten them with morris dancing... they'll be back by the sea before you can say "accordion".

It's looking like we can write Sergio Garcia off as Europe look to hold their lead in the Ryder Cup in Ireland.

The Europeans have won every single session so far to give themselves a 10-6 advantage over the USA (where you get 1 point for winning against your competitor(s) over 18 holes, and half a point for a draw).

But with 12 matches on the last day you've got a potential 12-point shift to worry about, so a 4 point lead can be reduced to nothing very quickly. With Garcia four holes down on American Stewart Cink after just six holes, and putting his second shot into the water at the next hole, it's starting to look like that's at least one point surrendered.

Tiger Woods is also leading - having had a terrible weekend thus far - but the Europeans hold narrow leads in three other match-ups, not least Colin Montgomerie, who was first out on the course today.

It falls to Irishman Padraig Harrington, in about half an hour's time, to be the last European out on course against Scott Verplank. It could fall to Paddy to hole the putt to win - or lose - the Ryder Cup. Lucky boy.

Sometimes it takes one bloomin' great idiot, driving at over 300mph in a silly car on a runway, to bring out the best in people.

Top Gear presenter Richard 'Hamster' Hammond's near-fatal crash has resulted in, at the time of writing, a £75,000 boost for the Yorkshire Air Ambulance - which airlifted him to hospital.

A group of readers of the magazine Pistonheads decided, in the immediate aftermath of the crash, to set up an online donation page for the air ambulance which had ferried Hammond to safety.

Initially the fundraising target was set at the cost of one air ambulance flight - Hammond's. The amount raised currently stands at more than two hundred and twenty such flights.

In the words of Martin Eede, head of the Yorkshire Air Ambulance:

A massive thanks from everyone at YAA. To put it in perspective, at close of play on Friday we have carried another four patients with similar life threatening injuries (burns, heart attack, road traffic). So clearly, what you have achieved is already helping to save others!

[source: Just Giving - 'Get well soon Hamster']

My good friend Amy J alerted me to this.

"There's some gorgeous comments," she said, referring to the donation page, where you can write messages of goodwill.

"There was this one little boy who gave his £2.50 pocket money for the week, and a girl who gave her month's riding lessons money.

"And someone gave the amount they spend on hamster food... God knows what their hamster's going to eat now."

I'd ask my sister Alice if she'd donate her riding lessons money to the Yorkshire Air Ambulance, but I don't think she's over the shock of Steve Irwin dying yet, let alone the Hamster risking life and limb.

To donate, please click here.

I think we've been here before, but the contents of my handbag/bucket last night:

1 x mobile
1 x blackberry
1 x wallet
1 x house keys
1 x car keys
1 x blackberry charger
1 x mobile charger
1 x Sat Nav
1 x Sat Nav charger
1 x map of London
1 x novel (the Thorn Birds, again)
1 x diary
1 x notebook
1 x hairbrush
1 x umbrella
5 x pens
4 x pencils
1 x mascara
3 x eye liner
2 x lipstick
1 x foundation
2 x eyeshadow
1 x packet of chewing gum
1 x packet of tissues
1 x sanitiser spray (NHS hygienic to combat germs)
1 x pair of tights
1 x secruity pass
1 x Oyster card
1 x bottle of perfume

Honest!!

Let's hope I was smiling as I drove through Maidenhead today, for I'm almost certainly about to receive a photograph. Not quite as well posed as those little Gillman & Soame efforts we used to have taken at primary school, but likely to be just as expensive.

PC Plod waved his speed-gun at me today, and thus tomorrow will be the first of fourteen days spent waiting to see if Postman Pat will deliver a ticket. I'm far from certain I was actually speeding when the van spotted me (the needle was showing 30mph by the time I'd spotted it); but the fact there's any doubt in my mind means the points would be well deserved.

What's strange is that, even without the photograph, I've already assumed the role of a guilty man. All it takes is a man crouching inside a van, parked behind a bush, and I've forgotten my seven year record of clean, responsible driving. Somehow his stealth makes me feel I'm there to be caught, and not just caught out.

If the ticket arrives, I will request the evidence - if nothing else, it'll prove that my near-side is easily my best.

Richard Hammond is reported to be making progress in hospital following his much-publicised crash in a jet-powered car. According to one news wire he smiled at Jeremy Clarkson from his hospital bed this morning.

In the words of one wag: "must be severe brain damage then".

Golf's a sport oddly suited to radio. The swoosh of the driver, the cheer of the crowd, the hushed tones of the commentator.

Or at least those tones should be hushed. Nicky Campbell, fronting Five Live's coverage of the opening morning of the 36th Ryder Cup, forgot himself for a moment:

"A great start for Darren Clarke there and... er... sorry - Jim Furyk's just stepped back from the tee and looked at me while I was telling you that. Let's, er, go to the news."

This following a colleague who had remarked on the presence of a Scottish flag at the Irish venue:

"Nicky, that flag must be for you since there's no Scottish players in the European team."
"Well there's Colin Montgomerie..."
"Oh yeah, Colin Montgomerie! Of course."

Not quite in the same league as Peter Alliss, who so impressed me a few months ago.

What are you doing on Sunday? The answer, if you're Mr Wyatt the butcher, is resolutely not working.

After well over a century at the heart of gastronomy in a West Berkshire village, Wyatt's the butchers is soon to serve its last snorker. Unwilling to fulfil our 24-hour, seven-days-a-week craving for just about everything (for that's what we now expect from even the most specialist of shops), the present Mr Wyatt has decided enough is enough.

Good for him, I say. Driving into the village for the first time today, it's so obvious that Wyatt's is the place everybody knows and respects as the village centre. Its polished tile facade speaks of pride in a job it's been doing well for all those years. Why should Mr Wyatt, custodian of the wisdom and expertise of generations of butchers, bow to a fleeting fashion for deli-food?

As he put it this morning when chatting to my colleague Maggie, he's 'a butcher through and through'; and on Sundays, he's a family man.

Speaking of Sundays away from work, I'm about to enjoy my first one for three weeks, poking around Britain's finest aviation museum in Duxford. I'll be interested in the planes, of course, but my primary reason for being there will be the 500 or so buses attending the world's largest annual bus show, the aptly named Showbus. Ours will be among them, and you can expect a full photographic account right here. Expect rain on Sunday, too, as it always rains for Showbus...

Some of my socks and pants now live in a small flat in Caversham, Berkshire, minutes from where Ollie and I work. Other items of clothing and assorted essentials are gradually making their way north of Reading to join them, including the odd pillow, dressing gown and AG Bear.

I meanwhile live six miles away in a house in Ruscombe. At least on paper.

I'm soon to take up full-time residence in the Caversham flat myself, and have pretty much made the leap as far as nighttimes are concerned; but knowing the full move will take a good few days of concentrated effort, I'm waiting until such time becomes available. Ironic, since the gradual but persistent method unconsciously adopted by the undies means they're sure to complete the move before I do.

It does mean that in practical terms, I'm now living in two places, with all the associated traumae multiplied by two. The new flat has a broken washing machine (the socks and pants are dirty, you will glean); the burglar alarm announces me as an intruder most nights; and this afternoon the boiler almost exploded, after I made a handy adjustment that showed quite dramatically why heating systems tend to have fuses.

The good news is that Barbara, a sprightly octagenarian and one of my soon-to-be neighbours, already has a name for my car. As became apparent when she called round to bring the metaphorical bag of sugar last week, she has no hope of remembering my name. 'Daniel', 'Dan', 'Chris', when shouted through the letterbox, prompted little response from within. Yet she knew somebody was at home because 'Bugs Bunny' was parked outside...

Richard Hammond, my very favourite Top Gear presenter, has been critically injured in an accident involving a jet-powered car:

The presenter, 36, was taken by air ambulance to a Leeds hospital which has a special neurological unit.

A North Yorkshire Ambulance Service spokesman said he was unconscious when they got to the scene but was regaining consciousness at the hospital.

A BBC spokesman confirmed the presenter had been injured during a shoot.

[source: BBC News - 'Top Gear presenter hurt in crash']

Everyone here in the newsroom is upset - we all love Richard Hammond. He's by far the wittiest presenter on the show and plays his role perfectly. Just a shame he has to go crashing jet-powered cars. I wonder if it hit a caravan...

Note, by the way, that should Richard Hammond take a turn for the worse, his fate will immediately be compared to that of Steve Irwin - both sustained their injuries doing the job they loved. Is it worth it? I asked that question here.

It's been a very busy few days. First of all a second warm welcome to Mr David Sheppard, our fourth blogger and a very funny man indeed. He would not want me to tell you that it took him a long, long time to compose that introductory post of his, so keen was he to make a good impression on our regular reader. Now that's out of the way he can get on with the business of contributing the usual waffle we magic up.

Yesterday took me to the Bracknell Ice Rink in, er, Bracknell, where Bracknell Queen Bees train. They're a Premier League women's ice hockey team and they've got their first home game of the season coming up this weekend, so I wanted to see how things are going - they're in with a good chance of winning the league title this season so it's important to get a good start.

Only problem is they train at 11pm at night! That's the only time they can get the rink to themselves (the men's side train at the far more sociable time of 9pm, the swines) so it means plenty of late nights for women travelling from all over Berkshire and as far afield as Basingstoke or London. Then they have to get up and get the kids to school! It's a mark of true dedication that the team exists at all.

I turned up for the novice women's training too - that takes place at the reasonable time of 7:45pm. Now here's an oddity: there are only two divisions to women's ice hockey in the whole of the country. So if you're a novice team and you want to play in a proper league, either you play in Division One - i.e. the tier immediately below the Premier League - or not at all.

So Bracknell Fire Bees, the novices, end up playing teams of Premier League calibre who've just been relegated or narrowly missed out on promotion. That will explain why their three matches this season have ended 0-20, 0-11 and 1-11. Their team comprises people aged 10 right through to their 40s though, which I think is a triumph, especially when you consider it costs £500 to play ice hockey before you've even stepped onto the ice. That's according to one player I spoke to, who says you need to pay hundreds in joining fees to maintain the ice, and you need the right kit.

I left the newsroom at 3am this morning having finally finished editing the audio for a radio piece on the hockey team today. Then, this afternoon, it was back out to the National Clay Shooting Centre at Bisley, in Surrey, to meet Berkshire clay pigeon shooting champion Keith Kilvington.

He's a lovely man. He and Lee, a shooting instructor, showed me the basics of shooting and then handed me a gun. It's the very first time I have touched a real gun, in any shape or form, in my life. Up into the air went the clay pigeon and I did my very best to wave the gun in its general direction, then pulled the trigger. There was a bloody loud bang. I had absolutely no idea what I had achieved, so I asked where it had gone. Keith, cracking up behind me, told me I couldn't have hit the clay pigeon more in the centre if I'd tried.

Sadly I didn't quite manage to reproduce such stunning results thereafter, but I don't think I was too bad either. At the end when we recorded me taking five shots, I hit the clay four times, which I think is a pretty decent run of form! I actually really enjoyed my afternoon and I'm tempted to go back some time to see if I can improve - as Keith pointed out, it's a sport ideally suited to those of us with the aerobic capacity of a brick.

Morris dancing tomorrow night! I'll be presenting a how-to on the Berkshire website in the near future. Stay tuned...

From Ollie:

Introducing David Sheppard. David's one of my colleagues at work and is just one of those interesting people. He co-owns a bus with several Radio 2 luminaries (you'd know their names), presents a show on BBC local radio in which he regularly holds on-air conversations with an abrupt cat named Tiddles, and lovingly tends to a fetching blue version of those new-style VW Beetles. Give him a warm welcome.

Yesterday you were given due warning of 'something highly unusual and dramatic' about to happen to Dayorama. That'll be me, then.

I can't promise to live up to any of those introductions, but I can say it's a very great honour to be welcomed to the bosom of Dayorama. I've been almost literally glued to it since Ollie first introduced me earlier this year, and I'm delighted the bond has been made official. So, to Ollie, OJ and Amy, thank you for offering up that warm bosom.

'One of those interesting people', then. Well, intriguing, I'll grant you...

The bus is something that intrigues almost everybody who's never owned a bus. Frankly, once you've been whisked along the Embankment on a cold December night, peeping out from between your hat and scarf on the platform of your very own Routemaster, you'll start to wonder how such people can exist. With 72 friends aboard (plus standing room for their guests), the reassuring growl of a Cummins diesel engine, and a night under the Christmas lights of the world's finest City ahead of you, why have you never thought of buying one before? Book your seat now.

The rest I'll accidentally reveal as I try to settle in to Dayorama's spacious back room, sidle on up to you at the bar, and knock over a few life stories. Judging by the indecent amount I've managed to glean about Amy and OJ from their posts, you'll soon have my onion peeled.

As our parents taught us to say after a visit to a friend's house, "thanks for having me".

The alert among you will notice something highly unusual and dramatic is about to happen here on Dayorama.

Others among you will not, so I'll carry on like nothing's happening. Yesterday I had a highly enjoyable time working for BBC South On Tour, on the BBC Bus at the Royal County of Berkshire Show.

There I am jealously guarding my beloved BBC Bus lest any small children attempt to board it. (Some of them got through but they barely had time to put together a BBC web page before I chased them off.) And I do mean beloved - it had six computers in it, a satellite connection to the internet (you can see the dish at the top), its own broadcast studio replete with On Air light, and most importantly it had air conditioning. I want one!

Sadly that bus was on loan from BBC Derby and we don't have our own so, with deepest regret, it and I have parted company. But at this point let me tell you that if buses are your thing, you will do well to stick around these parts in the weeks and months to come. Frankly even if buses aren't your thing you could find yourself won over. You may wish to look up the definition of a 'Lodekker' in advance.

Now most people at the Berkshire Show did not, if we're honest, give a monkey's about the BBC Bus. After all, why would you when there's a TV studio and radio booth next door, offering you the chance to present a special BBC South Today news bulletin or read the news on radio?

There you can see two of our lovely members of staff - Emma, left, and Lizzie - sat in the TV presenters' chairs, miked up ready to record their bulletin. We had thousands of people visit our stage and bus over the two days we were there, and many, many children (and adults!) went away with DVDs of their performance on radio or on TV. You could even try sports commentary with our own BBC sports team!

I'll confess I had in many ways not been looking forward to this day. I wasn't sure how the visitors to the show would react - it could so easily have been a damp squib - and I wasn't sure precisely what I was supposed to be doing, lending the show an air of uncertainty I really didn't want it to have. But when we got there the atmosphere was excellent (helped by gorgeous weather... and air conditioning on the bus), the people were brilliantly enthusiastic and all the technology just worked.

Needless to say the combination of glorious weather and BBC staff was too much for some people. One gentleman spent 20 minutes chastising me for the BBC's new-look weather forecasts, despite my protestations that it was really a matter in which I - and every other member of staff here - had very little say.

There's only so much I can do, culminating in advising him on where best to take his complaint, but I fear some people are just glad to say their piece. Far better they do it in front of a BBC On Tour camera then go away with a DVD of it for posterity, though.

1. When you know you're going to spend 1 1/2 hrs of your day in a Black Cab, make sure you have plenty of "wittering" conversation to hand. 3 Cabs. 3 life-stories. 3 lots of wisdom. 3 interesting journeys. £54.

2. Accept that you tidy and organised flat will suffer during the week - especially if Monday begins with a 14hr day: that's what Saturday morning is for, right?

3. Go to the Gherkin. It's very cool. But don't get confused by the lifts: I did - it's quite embarrassing.

Or I thought. Wandering through St James' Park yesterday I came across a blue-billed duck. It looked utterly out of place amidst the common mallard and a few Canada geese. The delights of a camera phone mean that the moment wasn't lost. The duck appears below. So is it a cross breed? Is it a freak of nature? Has some little kid got a felt-tipped pen and coloured in its bill? No, it is a blue-billed duck. Honest. Oxyura australis if we want to be Latin about it. Native to Australia, the duck was introduced into Britain in the 1960s and now is quite common on ornamental ponds and lakes. It is a freshwater duck and likes to dive. Apparently there are around 570 feral pairs in Britain. So there you go. Don't let anyone ever tell you that ducks can't have blue bills. Incidentally, St James' Park, the view from the bridge looking back at horse-guards parade. Fantastic. Best view in London.

The above will be well known to you as a 'cat's eye' road marker. They light up when your headlights approach them at night.

Now let us imagine the above is one of the new solar-powered cat's eyes being designed in Berkshire, which, we are told:

... enable drivers to see ten times further on the road ahead than the traditional cat's eyes allow.

[source: BBC News - '"Life-saving" cat's eyes trialled']

Let us imagine the sun has gone in. This is the very moment at which cat's eyes tend to be useful items of road furniture. However surely to God, in the absence of sunshine, solar-powered cat's eyes look like this:

Speaking of cats and vision, we were hoping to bring you an exciting event yesterday - the choosing of a new cat for a friend's flat, broadcast live by videophone from a local re-homing centre.

Alas we never got the call, but today we discovered why: the cat refused to go on camera! Our intrepid reporter Bryony barely got one photo of it before it put the proverbial paw on the lens. Everyone thinks they're a superstar these days - we're now negotiating terms with it.

Going back a step, on a road-related note I've recently read several more less-than-glowing reviews of the Dodge Caliber (which I've now actually bought - it arrives in a couple of weeks hopefully). They complain of build quality, drive quality etc. But then I read some posts on Dodge Caliber forums and remembered why I bought the car. Here is one such post:

So I was sitting at a stop light in Santa Cruz this week and I notice this older gentleman gawking and staring at me. Since this happens quite a bit since I've had the Caliber it was no surprise.

I look away and out of the corner of my eye I see this guy take a face plant right into the sidewalk. There was a dip in the sidewalk due to a driveway entrance. I felt bad but just goes to show, Caliber can be hazardous to your health.

[source: Dodge Caliber forums - 'Caliber claims another victim']

Yes! I've not bought the Caliber for superior build or drive quality - it's not going to feel like a step down from the Micra, let's be honest - but I certainly have bought it because it's something different.

The forum is full of people saying how glad they are they purchased their car, and how much they love it. That means a lot more than snotty reviews from people who drive the finest cars in the world for a living.

Two new comedy shows on BBC2 tonight: Extras, the Ricky Gervais vehicle, followed by That Mitchell And Webb Look, from the two gentlemen behind Peep Show.

Extras

I never really watched the first series of this beyond the very first episode, which didn't grab me. I don't know what it is about Ricky Gervais that millions of people do enjoy and I don't, but all power to him for exploiting it.

But this time round I was hooked in by the brilliant opening scene in which guest star Orlando Bloom - for Extras, of course, is all about the guest star - plays a barrister. It's all very Judge John Deed, a favourite series of mine.

Bloom is up against a female barrister who, it is revealed, is his wife. They have a row in front of the jury and a witness. The judge orders them, with great drama, to "kiss and make up", which they then do to a crescendo of music and applause. This is no less plausible than most Deed storylines.

I heard Stephen Merchant, a close Gervais co-conspirator, being interviewd on Radio 2 earlier on. His prediction was that the performance of Keith Chegwin, another guest star, would "put his neck on the line". And how. While Orlando Bloom, as himself, developed in traditional self-obsessed megastar fashon, Chegwin's role as Chegwin was a complete departure.

He is witnessed somewhat drunkenly ridiculing homosexuality, referring with a certain half-hearted malice to "Jews, gays and blacks", and acting with woeful ineptitude. He cuts a sorry character when he films a sitcom scene playing the part of Alfie. Eventually he admits to Gervais, directing the action, that he is confused about who Alfie is. Gervais agrees that Keith's character can be renamed 'Keith' to help him. But then Chegwin becomes confused about "which Keith" he is supposed to be.

Ultimately Extras still failed to hold my rapt attention. Maybe I continue not to give it enough of a chance, but I just know it'll have the scent of Ricky Gervais smeared all over it. It's like popcorn - everyone loves it and I can understand why, but it's not for me.

That Mitchell And Webb Look

I held out against Peep Show for ages before my university friends converted me, after which point I loved it, so it's great to see these two on BBC2.

They've been given a sketch show with which to convince us they're not yet typecast as the pair of flatmates blundering through life with thinly veiled mutual contempt, and they do an encouraging job of it. On a few occasions this felt very much like "the guys from Peep Show doing a sketch" but that's to be expected, and it was wearing off as time went on.

Highlights were 'Numberwang', a game show in the spirit of Countdown in which two contestants seemingly shout out random numbers, to which the host intersperses "That's Numberwang!" at regular intervals with no discernible logic to what, precisely, that Numberwang is. Imagine the number round of Countdown, taking place in an ancient alien language and fast forwarded, and we're about there.

The two Numberwang contestants this week were Julie, from Somerset, and Simon, from Somerset. "Got any hobbies in Somerset?", demanded the host. "Yes!", answered Julie. "No," answered Simon. Somerset is long overdue a good joshing from a comedy show, I approve.

A very clever tactic used by Mitchell and Webb: breaking out of a comedy sketch to show the two of them discussing the scene in question.

They did this in a sketch where the person featured in a "How Not To Look"-esque show turns up in a burqa. That's the first joke, but then we break out to see the full set replete with camera crew. Robert Webb wanders over to David Mitchell, who is wearing the burqa, and asks if this is really going to work as a gag, and are they just mocking people for their beliefs? Mitchell then removes the burqa to reveal himself fully blacked-up, simply because he likes it like that.

Out of the two shows it's TM&WL that'll have me coming back for more, if only because I know these two have bags of promise and there were fleeting glimpses of comedy genius in this half an hour. Extras - I'm sure it's good, but not my kettle of fish, ta.

A bit of "admin". The below have requested a photo on this site, so there they are. Fame Comes To Those Who Wait

And another avid Dayorama reader deserves to be quoted:

"Using your tongue is a bit like playing 'pin the tail on the donkey': you just stick it anywhere and hope for the best".

Without my ever having met them, a select bunch of French children have ruined my chances of a luxurious long weekend in the south of France this month.

When I got this message from my friend Helen in August, I was really quite interested:

Hey Ollie! How are you? I'm having a good time here,( though definitely don't like French children) come and visit if you want a weekend in the south of France!

I've never been to the south of France before - I imagine it's a very nice place to go and it would be lovely to see Helen. So I wrote back saying I'd love to come and asking which dates might be best.

Today my hopes lie dashed. Helen's reply:

Unfortunately I, erm, had enough of the horrlble little shits last week and ran away... am back in Newcastle now need to start looking for a job, preferably none children related!

The photo is unrelated to Helen's little horrors - it's the number one Google Image Search result for "French children". Note the stressy parent confirming Helen's opinion!

It isn't just Ollie you know who is favouring long hair... (see link to London's quality daily...)

It's been years since I got to take some proper photos of my dog, Toby. In fact I think he was only three or four years old when we last trained a good camera on him - now he's pushing 10.

He's always been a dog of simple tennis ball-related pleasures. Even though his hobble's becoming pronounced after very little exercise indeed these days, he still flings himself at the ball with every ounce of enthusiasm in his body. Here he is engaging in some form of exotic Dance Of The Tennis Ball:

Back at school I had a reputation for diving around whenever we played football, but I've got nothing on Toby. Here he has all four legs well and truly off the ground - to the extent that it looks like he's safely stowed his back paws for the duration of the flight:

Meanwhile I'm getting incredibly annoyed with these things:

A couple of days ago they just exploded into the area around where we live in what can only have been some form of mass hatching. The hair salon was covered in them yesterday - I counted more than two dozen on the front window of the shop alone. And when I looked up at the ceiling a couple of nights ago there were nine hanging precariously above my head!

Speaking of hair salons, you'll see Haircast has been updated. I made sure of measuring the hair immediately before going to get it cut, and it finished on exactly 11cm, or 4.33 inches. Now, post-trim, it's at a far more respectable 6.5cm, or 2.56 inches. Weekly updates to follow...

So, I suppose I should update you all. You can't care about the weather when you spend 12hrs of your day in an air conditioned office. It is just not possible. It is inconsequential. Totally superfluous. Especially when you get a taxi home from Canary Wharf because it is midnight. That happened last night. Incidentally, I woke up at 7am... on my sofa. Ouch. I knew there was a reason I bought two sets of work trousers. Actually, tonight was great. I was home by 8pm. But then I was in the Office at 8.15pm. I guess that's nothing. The hours and the pressure will increase. However, I'm enjoying it: of course I feel as though I'm asking far too many questions and I feel I know nothing about Corporate Law, but I also fit. Or I think I do. It feels as though I have worked there far longer than the last week or so. My blackberry has not arrived as yet. Although my swanky laptop will be on its way soon - well, as soon as I get the go-ahead from my Technology Advisor, Mr Oliver Williams. What else? I was at a very good party on Saturday evening, I crammed my weekend with lots of things and managed to see several people and do a whole variety of things. You see, the busier you are the more you can do. I'm not sure there's much more to report for now. Oh, but as I reported to a certain Dayorama reader at the weekend: I need a "tights" allowance. And I also need to find a cobbler to re-heel the stilettos.

It probably isn't my place to comment on this, so I'll just present the facts:

Poor Matt Barbet. He's one of the BBC London staff caught up in the scandal of the 'Is This The Way To Al-Jazeera?' video, made by staff at the former to mark the departure of one of their number to the latter.

The video has found its way into the wider world - as these things have a habit of doing - and has forced the BBC to distance itself from the content, labelling it 'ill-judged'.

Matt Barbet has a bit part role in it. He's not one of the main protagonists but is seen tapping his scripts on the BBC LDN studio desk in time to the 'Amarillo/Al-Jazeera' rhythm, then looking bemused as figures in Middle Eastern clothing walk around the set.

(I like Matt Barbet, by the way. He's an excellent newsreader in my opinion.)

Naturally the Daily Mail have got the full video on their website, but it's the comments left by the Mail's online visitors which thrilled me:

I think that it is one of the funniest things that I've ever seen and well worth every penny of my licence fee. With creativity and a sense of what amuses the (majority of the) public like that, I hope that these people all get a massive pay rise. It is the best thing to come out of the BBC for years!
Matt in Reading

Good to see signs of intelligent life in the news room at the BBC - I was beginning to think the employees had been replaced by robots with the sole remit to scare everyone to death with tales of imminent doom and destruction. Stick it on at 10pm, I say.
Anthony in London

Put them in charge - was a damn sight better than what the current lot pass off as entertainment!
Andy in Poland

Suggestions for music videos the BBC Berkshire newsroom can rip off, please.

While I was test driving my new-car-elect earlier, the salesman asked me what I did for a living. I told him and he replied that he might well have seen me at Reading Festival.

The reason he remembered me, he said - and given he had a potential customer worth thousands of pounds on his hands, he trod extremely carefully with his wording - was my "distinctive" hair.

So from waitresses in Chinese restaurants, to chavs at bus stops, to car salesmen, to legendary former pro footballers, everyone has had a frolic with the follicles. It's time I paid more heed.

No, I'm not changing it. Don't be daft. Instead, for the first time ever, I've decided to measure exactly how tall it is - and at the moment it's quite long even by my standards. Off I go to find a ruler and a mirror...

Five minutes elapse.

... And I'm back, with the only ruler I was able to find - a Barbie one from my sister's desk. It did the job and the result is...

My hair currently stands at height: 4.13 inches / 10.5 cm

The height is defined as the distance between emergence of hair from scalp at very front of forehead, vertically upwards to very tip of hair at front of head.

What this does not measure is how long my hair is. It's cheating to pull the hair taut and measure it - it's all about how well the hair defies gravity. With a little bit of curvature involved, the hair is reaching and maintaining a height of 10.5cm from the beginning of my hairline to front tip of hair.

I'll now track the ebb and flow of the hair on a weekly basis using the Haircast box which will have appeared on the front of the homepage to the right hand side. This also shows a small diagram of what we're measuring to be ultra-clear: the blue vertical line as depicted. No slanting or diagonals allowed!

The hair's due a cut so I imagine the figure will drop very low soon enough, then slowly build back. But it's that age old question - is four-and-a-bit inches enough to satisfy a woman? (Sorry, I had to get that joke in before Amy did.)

I hardly slept at all last night for thinking about cars. Specifically that car: the Dodge Caliber. I want one and I can just about afford one. But will it happen?

The reviews for the Caliber are not, let's be honest, glowing. The Independent's is one of the nicer ones:

So you're buying the looks, the high driving position, the perceived air of ruggedness. You're buying proof that there's a market for an image so strong that the reality doesn't matter. Four-wheel drive? Too many buyers nowadays neither know which wheels propel their wagon, nor care.

[source: The Independent]

Yep, that'll be me. I took a Caliber out for a test drive this afternoon and didn't even know the engine was on when I got in it - it's so much quieter than my Nissan Micra. I had to ask the bloke to make sure before I tried to pull away in what might well have been a switched-off car.

From the Yahoo! review:

The Caliber certainly has its work cut out but its possible to see it carving a niche for itself through sheer force of personality.

[source: Yahoo! Cars]

That certainly sounds like my kind of car too. But What Car? barely conceal their disdain for it:

The handling is stodgy, the cabin is low-rent and the petrol engines are gutless.

[source: What Car?]

All I can say after my test drive is: whoever wrote that review wasn't driving my Nissan Micra immediately beforehand.

Now please don't misunderstand, I love my Micra. It has done many things in many places for its 74,000 miles and has a really nice look to it. But it doesn't have much in the way of luxury, the CD player's temperamental, something behind the glovebox keeps rattling (snakes in a Micra!) and, crucially, it makes a horrendous grinding noise at certain points when pulling away or in low gear.

Now the obvious option is to take the Micra in and get the grinding sorted out. But after the weather we've had this summer I want air conditioning and a fridge for my drinks in my car. With the strange places I end up for work, like the middle of fields, archaeological digs and racecourses, I want a sturdy car which can handle some tricky terrain. And furthermore I want a chunky car in which I feel safe, and the Caliber definitely delivers there.

I firmly expect any Caliber I buy to last me a good number of years, too - this is not a car I'll be looking to shift in six months' time.

So I went down to the local Dodge dealer and tip-toed cautiously inside. I've never walked into a car dealership in anger before and must have reeked of fear to every salesman within a mile of me. After ten minutes of nervous padding back and forth around the Caliber in the showroom I tentatively enquired about booking a test drive:

"One's just arrived, want to go out in that now?", asked the man.
"Yes!" I said, inwardly crapping myself at the very thought.

See, I've only ever driven two cars. The one I passed my test in, and the Micra. I've certainly never driven anything with any oomph to it - the Micra would come off worse against a suitably determined squirrel. So sitting down inside the Caliber, unable even to tell if it was on, was a tad scary. Especially with a gearstick mounted at an angle on the front panel.

I was also asked to sign a form declaring myself to be a fully qualified driver over the age of 25 - which, of course, I couldn't sign. So the salesman simply crossed out 25 and wrote 21. Such sticklers for policy, these car dealers. Still, I survived the 15 minutes in what was, by my standards, quite some style. And this is where it helps to have arrived in a Micra.

The handling is decidedly not "stodgy" by comparison with the Micra, whose steering block might as well be marked "port" and "starboard" such is the effort required to haul it from one direction to the other.

The cabin is not "low-rent" when the CD player in the Micra cuts out a couple of times in each journey in Marvin the Paranoid Android style. And where I currently wedge Diet Coke bottles down the side of the car while driving, the Caliber offers a chilled drinks storage area and two drinks holders that glow in the dark!

And as for the petrol engine being gutless, my word, it's still twice as powerful as the one I'm currently puttering around in! The Micra does a fine job but has been known, on hills, to acquire Lemming status and threaten simply to roll back down into oblivion. The Caliber, accused in one review of being noisy but so quiet I couldn't even hear the engine idling, seems to glide along the road by comparison.

As things stand I'm haggling over finance for it, but it looks likely I'll sign up for one to be delivered some time in October. The Micra will go the other way as a teeny-tiny part exchange offering. The bloke came out to sit in it and assess it for its value. When he switched the ignition on I lost all hope, fully expecting that bloody horrific grinding noise to drown out any thoughts he had of paying a bean for it. But miraculously it kept quiet! Good car. Faithful to the last...

What's the story in the morning glory that is today's Times? (London Times, not Hindu.) Well, Noel Gallagher may be a Manchester City fan, but he's an unlikely transfer market shakermaker for the blues. So it's surprising to discover he's been trying to bring Alessandro Del Piero on down to the City of Manchester Stadium.

Sounds odd, but the Times' Rick Broadbent decided to roll with it:

"I’ve been here [at Juventus] 14 years and have a strong bond," he said. “I owed it to the Agnellis [the owners]. I couldn’t leave the Old Lady like this.

"Noel Gallagher did ask me to go to Manchester because we’re friends through music. I dee-jay and we have the same record label. He gave me my gold disc and came to the World Cup semi-final. He’s my lucky mascot."

[source: The Times - 'Del Piero remaining loyal to the Old Lady']

Some might say it was always unlikely Del Piero would slide away from Juve for the likes of City, even following the champagne supernova that was their championship win followed by enforced relegation. And he'll cast no shadow on the City pitch any time soon.

Still, it's nice to see Noel doing his bit for the cause - I can remember him and his executive box up in the sky at one end of the old Maine Road ground, back when I were but a wee nipper as the club plummeted into the depths of the football league.

And what's this about Del Piero having a record label? Well, I've done a bit of research into this, and he does indeed have a CD out entitled 'The Best Of Alessandro Del Piero'.

However, looking at the track listing, it seems the boy doesn't actually sing or play any instruments himself - sadly it's just a compilation of other people's songs beginning, surprise surprise, with 'Lyla' by Oasis.

Well done to you if you spotted all eleven Oasis song titles I've worked into this post, by the way.

Having come back from Canada I was regaling the nth person in the newsroom with holiday tales when good friend and colleague Richard interrupted me.

Richard: "Did you say you'd been to Newfoundland?"
Me: "Yep!"
Richard: "Did you go to St John's?"
Me: "Yep!"
Richard: "My grandad has the freedom of St John's."

And if we are to believe Richard - we have no reason not to - his grandad does (or possibly did, I'm unsure of tense) possess the freedom of the Canadian harbour town of St John's, following his rescue of thirteen of the town's sailors. How about that!

I have also discovered a whole series of posts documenting a Pearl Jam gig in St John's, which is probably quite an experience. Apparently the band compared it to Seattle "without the killers and rapists". I certainly didn't see any killers or rapists so I'd have to agree!

I'm delighted to see the BBC News website doing blogging properly in its coverage of Labour MP Tom Watson's resignation - by accepting the existence of the politician's blog as the norm and giving it no accompanying fanfare.

In the article 'Blair's 48 bloody hours', an analysis piece by Nick Assinder, the link 'Tom Watson's blog' appears neatly under the small column for related internet links. That's where it should be. Finally we're getting past the stage of rubbing our eyes in disbelief when we see a blog written by someone who might have something interesting to say!

As a related aside: I'm in Southampton, where I spent the morning in a meeting about audience research regarding the BBC's Where I Live websites. BBC Manchester's blogging initiative was mentioned. Apparently one visitor to the site had written quite cynically of it on their own weblog. In the words of one BBC employee this morning who shall remain nameless, "Robin [our blog expert] went onto their blog and responded to their argument, because he can do that kind of thing".

What, leave comments on weblogs? Rocket science it is not - if my dad can do it, and he's done so on here enough times, then it really doesn't need a blogging expert!

Back to Tom Watson's blog. I had a look at his homepage and it's got his letter of resignation, coupled with Tony Blair's response, as the latest post, which makes sense. At the time of writing there've been 37 comments so I clicked to open the comments window.

As soon as the window opened, my PC flashed this warning at me:

SUSPICIOUS WEBSITE

This might be a phishing website.

Phishing websites impersonate trustworthy websites for the purpose of obtaining your personal or financial information.

Microsoft recommends that you do not give any of your information to such websites.

Goodness me! A politician, try to impersonate something trustworthy while thrusting a mischievous paw at your finances? Whatever next?

(Not, of course, to suggest any such thing is occurring here. I somehow suspect Microsoft's phishing filter is being a little hypersensitive. Although strangely this marks the very first time it's found a problem in over a year of using this laptop daily!)

I think I've had an overnight transatlantic flight home once before - from Vancouver seven or eight years ago - but it's safe to say I'm no expert at them. My entire day has been a washout through lack of sleep.

If you're thinking of crossing the pond to Canada then the airline I used, Air Transat, represents great value for money. However, given you're not paying very much money, legroom is certainly at a premium! Trying to squash myself into a comfortable sleeping position was always going to be futile.

A very nice Bangladeshi man named Ahmed sat next to me. He'd taken his wife and five children round the USA and Canada for a month and now they were all on their way back home to Kent.

Ahmed moved to the UK when he was 14 in 1978 and used to run a restaurant - now he buys and sells property and cars instead. He aims to make £20,000 profit on each house he sells and £400 on each car. Business is "not so good", he says, but he seems to be doing well for a man who never went to school in the UK.

He's as keen to go back to North America as I am but he also takes the family back to his native Bangladesh and India. I asked him where he recommends going on the Asian subcontinent and he reckons the train journey from Mumbai to Agra, travelling first class on the Indian rail network, is the thing to do. So that's now at the back of my mind. He says December's the best time to go - "just like an English summer" - so maybe not this year, but next. Any takers?

Ahmed's political views were certainly interesting. He feels sure, he told me, that acts of terrorism against the West will stop the moment George W. Bush is out of office. I suggested I remained unconvinced - there was a bomb under the World Trade Centre years before Bush took power, after all - but Ahmed told me to write his name down and get back in touch when he was proved right. We can but hope...

Yay... I get to go to New York for a few days in November on a training course/shopping trip...!

The blackberry is on its way...

I've actually begun to read the FT. Now this is a first. This almost makes me a true City worker.

Well, it would seem I have joined the big world of work. All well and good. I'm pleased the first day is over and done with: all the niggling little worries gone. The next week will be a mixture of training, seminars etc... and then the real work begins next Monday... (so next Monday will be just as scary/exciting as this one!)

However... at text conversation with a friend earlier:

Me: One day of work down. Only another hundred thousand to go.

Reply: It's not the hundred thousand days you need to worry about, it's the nights.

That is, I feel, a very valid point!

Famed crocodile hunter and TV personality Steve Irwin has been killed in a freak accident involving a stingray, according to reports.

It is understood he was killed by a sting-ray barb that went through his chest.

He was 44.

He was swimming off the Low Isles at Port Douglas filming an underwater documentary when the incident happened.

[source: Australian Daily Telegraph]

I'm stunned. If you don't know who Steve Irwin is you've been missing a lot of television, because the man was larger than life whenever he was on screen - usually doting over the prowess of his young daughter Bindi, be it at croc-taming or TV presenting. To think I thought him pompous for it at the time, and now his little girl doesn't have a dad.

But then that's the risk you take if you're going to make a career out of doing something inherently dangerous. A stingray barb to the chest can't have been the way Steve most likely envisaged going, but an untimely accident involving wildlife was always on the cards by the very nature of his shows.

Similarly I'm currently reading the autobiography of BBC Security Correspondent Frank Gardner, who was shot and left for dead by terrorists in Saudi Arabia two years ago. His entire life since his late teens has been spent in or around the Middle East, often in the company of the most amazing people in the unlikeliest of places, as I am finding out while reading the book. It's fascinating and makes me truly envious of the life he has led, but ultimately that element of risk very nearly cost him his life and left him paralysed.

Is it worth it?

Ultimately it's hard to see why careers like those are worthwhile when you consider two little kids have lost their dad Steve and two more little kids nearly lost their dad Frank - both to incidents which could have been, to a degree, predicted given their livelihoods.

But then if everyone in this life chose to sit at home and stay on the safe, narrow, well-trodden path society lays out for us, it would be a boring world indeed.

I know my little sisters watch Steve Irwin's shows goggle-eyed at his antics. He performed a damn good public service in explaining with extreme precision and maximum entertainment just what it was to go out chasing wild, and potentially dangerous, animals. He had a career to be proud of and a young family being raised in the same vein.

Do you take risks some people would find hard to justify in order to fulfil what you think is your goal in life? Especially when you have young kids? Or do you play it safe to keep yourself alive as long as you can? My God, what a question.

My thoughts are with his family. Little Bindi, now Steve's legacy rather than sidekick to a proud dad. It's a really sad day.

So said one of the air stewards on today's WestJet flight back from St John's, Newfoundland, to Toronto.

The WestJet crew do try very hard not to sound like your average in-flight air crew. In fact WestJet try quite hard to make you think of yourself as a 'guest' and each steward as an 'owner' rather than 'passenger' and 'employee'.

I'm not sure it completely works as intended - occasionally it feels a tad strained, such as "our wonderful pilot has switched off the seat belt sign above your heads" - but it's fun watching them try.

For example, on today's flight our hosts and hostesses opted to recite the pre-flight safety instructions, in their own words, "in the style of Dr Seuss". I wish I'd recorded it. For a whole two minutes every element of in-flight safety was dictated to us in rhyming Cat-In-The-Hat couplets. It was at once ingenious and cringeworthy.

Other gems:

"We're sorry, but there will be no free cookies on this flight as no one brought the flight crew any lobster from St John's."

"If you have any questions, write them on the back of a twenty, fifty or hundred-dollar bill, then pass them back to us. The bigger the bill the quicker you'll get an answer."

And finally, sung for a good thirty seconds just before take-off over the cabin tannoy:

"Croooooooooss-cheeeeeeeeeeck cooooompleeeeeeeeeeete!"

Last week I was meant to see the Boyfriend, and the production was rained-off. Tonight, Anthony and I were supposed to go to Prom 66 at the Royal Albert Hall. What a wonderfully relaxing way to spend my last night of freedom. But no, there was a fire earlier on today in the RAH and the Prom was cancelled. Tragedy. We settled for an enjoyable dinner and wander through Hyde Park... but it isn't quite the same!

The real and fantastically exciting world of Flom begins tomorrow! Corporate-whoredom here I come!

Welcome back to Newfoundland and St John's. Today we've been out to Signal Hill, Cape Spear and the Railway Coastal Museum:

Cape Spear

Darren the friendly taxi driver picked us up from the hotel and took us to Cape Spear, about a 20-minute drive south. Darren beats yesterday's taxi driver, whose accent was barely intelligible, whose driving nearly got us killed, and who wound down his window to spit dramatically onto the tarmac not once, but twice, in a 10-minute journey.

Darren was a vast improvement. He's lived in St John's all his life and is married to an English woman so had plenty of useful local information and good conversation. Mind you, I'd be friendly if my job involved waiting for tourists by reading the paper in a taxi over a view like this:

You might just be able to see the fort at the top of Signal Hill in the distance in that photo. Cape Spear's landmark, though, is this lighthouse:

Meanwhile here's yours truly over the other side of the lighthouse. Beyond this outcrop there's nothing but Atlantic until you hit Europe:

Signal Hill

After Cape Spear it was back across town to Signal Hill, where Marconi received the first transatlantic wireless transmission in the early 1900s. The building there is a fort used in the nineteenth century:

Inside there was a nice exhibition detailing Marconi's experiments, which we wandered before embarking on the trail down Signal Hill back into St John's itself. Here's a view of the town from the hill, looking through the jaws of the bay behind which lies the Atlantic:

Railway Coastal Museum

In the space of a hundred years Newfoundland both gained and lost a railway, a story beautifully told by this harbourside museum. Darren the friendly taxi driver had put me onto it - he lives in a house originally built for railway employees in the early twentieth century, and collects Newfoundland railway memorabilia.

In the late nineteenth century it was decided Newfoundland - an island at least twice the size of Wales, remember - needed its own railway, and by 1890 one crossing the island had been built (although it took the first train two months to make the journey!).

Up until 1949, when Newfoundland joined Canada (it had been independent previously), the railway slowly grew and prospered. But, by the 1950s, the narrow gauge in which it had been built only allowed trains so slow the route was mockingly dubbed the 'Newfy Bullet'. By 1968 there were no more passenger services and the whole operation was closed down and ripped up in 1988. The Trans-Canada highway now runs in its place.

The museum's housed in what was St John's railway terminus and even has its own model railway with a replica 'Mikado' steam engine. For the equivalent of £2.50 each, it was an absolute bargain.

Tomorrow we fly back to Toronto, but not before an evening out tonight. We asked Darren where to go and he recommended Bridie Molloy's, an Irish pub on George Street. Darren's accent was, essentially, Irish, and the entire community has a heavily Irish flavour to it. Bridie Molloy's promises traditional, live Irish music tonight. I can't decide if that's a good thing or not...

I'm currently in St John's. St John's is the mystery location I said I'd be travelling to yesterday. In case you're wondering, St John's is here:

St John's is on the very eastern tip of Newfoundland, itself the very eastern edge of Canada. It's a proper Atlantic fishing town with plenty going on at the docks, like this battered example:

Speaking of battered examples we had an amazing dinner at Oliver's Restaurant (can't think why we chose that), on the aptly named Water Street a row away from the harbourside. The service was excellent and the food delicious beyond words - recommended next time you're passing through Newfoundland.

The weather when we got here was spectacular: driving, horizontal rain which caused us a bit of a bumpy landing and some hurried umbrella-purchasing. Just what you'd expect when this is the first thing the entire Atlantic Ocean bumps into, mind you. You could draw a straight line from St John's to Minehead without hitting land - fact! How amazing is that. St John's, for all its weather, is much further south than Somerset. Thank the lord for the (now endangered) gulf stream warming the UK.

Tomorrow might involve going to the lighthouse at Cape Spear (the eastern-most point of the eastern-most town in the eastern-most territory) or climbing up to the top of Signal Hill above St John's, where the first radio transmission was received and where a fort now lies. Tomorrow might, just might, also involve something far more sporty. We'll see.

Step 1: You lend an Oyster card to a friend.
Step 2: The friend is an absolute s*it, beyond belief. You're still friends, but not enough to trust them with your Oyster card.
Step 3: You ring Transport-for-London regarding a travel card-Oyster. And they advise you (with persuasion from yourself) to cancel the current Oyster card you have...or... you have "lost"
Step 4: You cancel the Oyster card you know your "acquaintance" is using... and gain £11.00 in the bargain...
Step 5: You innocently text the user of the Oyster card to let them know. Who said shit doesn't happen.