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