Hello, I'm Troy McClure. You may remember me from making similar Simpsons jokes, occasionally, on Dayorama in the past.

Just dropping by to make a couple of wonky related notes. First, a report that MPs are lobbied at least 100 times a week. A gross underestimate, I assure you.

On to the main purpose to my posting tonight - the first episode of Party Animals, a new BBC drama based on the lives of MP's researchers in the House of Commons. Well, that'll be me then. It has been said elsewhere in the political blogosphere that it was unlikely to be too realistic, which was one of the points of the series. They weren't wrong.

I watched the first 15 minutes in the office, then walked home, and caught the last 20 minutes at home. In that first 15 minutes, I lost count of all of the mistakes that were made. A junior minister wouldn't base herself out of Portcullis House. Nor would the Chief Whip. Nor are the offices that big or nice. (Well, some are, but they're reserved for the big beasts, not a PUSS and her shadow Tory spokesman.) The pass isn't quite right. The set for the chamber was a bit shabby. I left the office with little hope.

And yet, on my walk home, I gave some thought to the whole concept. It's a sign of the changing television times, I suppose. For example, Party Animals is being sold as This Life for my generation. Now, I remember watching This Life on its first run of repeats in 2000, and I'm currently making my way through the DVDs now. Even now, it still presents an aspirational lifestyle for me to lead. I'm not sure I'd want to lead it, but the point was that it was something I could do in a few years time. Similarly, The West Wing always had that sense of distance (if slightly less achievable) that drew you in. But not Party Animals. All I can see is something so very different from my job (and the jobs that are more directly shown on the show), which makes me write something like this. I fully expect there to be many similar reviews online and in the corridors tomorrow by other researchers. I'm not aspiring to live the Party Animals life; I'm annoyed that a show that wanted so much to portray a realistic picture of our jobs could go so wrong. Of course, it's all in the name of drama, but for the first 15 minutes, it didn't look like a trade worth making.

But I sat down at home and watched the last 20 minutes. It really wasn't much cop for most of it, until - spoiler here - they ran over and killed the annoying, alcoholic, drug taking lobbyist. Genius. Completely unexpected, well acted, and I'm excited to see how this will play out in the next episode.

There were a few other nice touches as well. The outside locations are all on site, and make it more realistic certainly (although researchers can't really afford to drink in the St Stephen's Tavern, frankly). And the scene with Danny falling asleep by Newsnight is so very, very true - he says typing this post in front of Jeremy Paxman on screen.

So, it's... merited another viewing. But frankly I can't help but feel they've wasted an opportunity here.

See you in another few months!

Yesterday was a very long day. I began it at 6:30am writing about the possibility of Reading signing defender Alan Bennett from Cork City, and ended it at midnight cropping a picture of Greg Halford signing for the club with chairman John Madejski.

So Bennett and Halford have both joined, and we've already had the chance to speak to Bennett, who sounds just like the other two players Reading have signed from Cork - Shane Long and Kevin Doyle, who both joined a couple of seasons ago. Bennett's interview finishes with us wishing him good luck, to which he replies, "Thanks a lot - sound!". More people should end interviews with a hearty exclamation of "sound!". He seems like a very nice guy.

It's fair to say it's all been happening this week as far as Reading goes. On Monday they were drawn away at Manchester United in the Cup - I ended up speaking to the chairman on air about the potential consequences of the draw, on the pitch and also off the pitch, i.e. financially. The also signed a young winger named Oliver Bozanic.

On Tuesday, havng barely done anything in the transfer window all month, it all kicked off. By about midday we knew that Alan Bennett was definitely going to sign, and then BBC Essex gave us a call in mid-afternoon to say that Colchester were almost certain to sell Greg Halford to Reading too. The advantage of working as part of a network of local radio stations is that someone has their ear to the ground in every part of the country (except, for some reason, Cheshire, which nobody seems to care about), so BBC Essex kept us informed right up til the moment it was a done deal.

Today Michael Duberry seems to be about to sign for Reading from Stoke (all three of these are defenders - clearly Steve Coppell's a man on a mission), and John Oster's signed a new deal. Meanwhile the United game's been picked for live TV coverage and two more Reading players have been called up to the Ireland squad. That's quite a lot to get into one sports bulletin (bearing in mind it's a sport bulletin, not a Reading FC bulletin!).

Not that I spent quite the whole day in the office:

For the very first time this season, despite dealing with interviews and match reports week in, week out, I actually got to go to the bloody game. We had tickets right behind the goal in the South Stand, which is fine by me - I'm very happy behind the goal and it's quite close to the pitch, even if the away fans are just a few seats away (they were pretty well behaved).

The general consensus seems to be that Reading were pretty poor but I've seen much worse in my time. Marcus Hahnemann pulled off a couple of cracking saves and when Wigan took a very early lead I thought I was going to turn into some kind of bad luck charm for the club, but they turned it around well.

Plus, I feel compelled to praise the public transport to and from the ground. We parked at the station and were on a bus inside ten minutes despite a fairly big queue, and the bus got us to the ground in only 20 minutes or so despite the Mad Stad having a dismal reputation for traffic. At the end we were on a bus within 15 minutes of the final whistle and again, back at the car in 20 more - for £3 return. That's a good gig! Being a night match might have made it a slightly easier ride but on that evidence I'll be taking the bus the next time I go. If there is a next time. Back to the desk... where's that bloody Duberry gone...

Last week, we met the woman who's trying to pay a quality visit to each of London Underground's 274 tube stations.

I bring bad news for her. A few extras seem to have sprung up...

... and as you can see, she'll have to travel a little further than Cockfosters or Elephant & Castle to visit many of them. Lucky that we're prepared for the odd overnight stay:

Now here is a bold extension to an already ambitious project: to visit every known rip-off of London Transport's distinctive roundel, evidently the ultimate envy of designers and branding experts across the world. Together with the sharp, reassuring Johnson font, it's what you see when you close your eyes and think about London. And Byculla Mecanicks, obviously.

It would take years to do it, if indeed you'd ever finish. But the photos she'd take at some of the 'stations' would certainly lend variety to her blog...

So, I've come to a decision. Not to be beaten by the fact that inspiration dawned at Tubewhore's sliding door before it reached mine, I shall embark on an altogether more ambitious tour. I'll take a great idea, add a little twist, then badge it as my own - just as the creators of these signs have done.

Shame my Oyster won't take me further than the first stop...

More tube related musing at Annie Mole's great London Underground Diary, which is always worth a look.

Sundays are very much "off" days for many BBC local radio stations. Ours was barely populated after 2pm today, with one or two people recording shows, and the occasional passing broadcaster (including one gentleman who appeared to have come in purely to ring up National Rail Enquiries and yell at the poor lady whose job it is to man their phones on a Sunday night).

But we'd better hope Al Qaeda take a similar approach to their weekends, for two reasons. Firstly the massive barriers which traditionally guard the entrance to the car park have been down for the last day or so, presumably because they've gone for a burton again. This means that, despite having the sort of security developed to keep the Russians from infilitrating local radio and gleaning precious travel bulletin information, any terrorist only has to nip round the front and they can walk in without bothering to scale any of the more formidable defences.

Secondly, we have many, many cameras all around the complex to allow our security guards to keep watch over things like the barriers, be they down, up or otherwise (once they caught a car containing a local band coming in to record a live session - it tried to follow a friend in without letting the barrier go up, and the barrier elevated the car at a hilarious angle, wrecking it in the process. Amusingly the band were called The Skies.)

So, in theory, even if the terrorists had been rota'd in for Sundays and noticed the absentee barrier, they'd have been picked off by our crack security squad in seconds. Especially if they did more than 15mph down the drive.

But it would seem the security staff, watchful as ravenous hawks when the barriers do work, take the malfunction of the barriers as their cue to chillax a little. I got in this evening to discover the pair on reception giggling at a computer screen. On further inspection they were watching clips from The Wedding Singer on YouTube.

"It's alright," I said, "I'll let you know if there's any terrorists in the building."

(In reality I don't begrudge them their YouTube at all. There's about as much likelihood of us being the centre of a terrorist attack, on a Sunday or otherwise, as there is of me winning the Reading Half-Marathon. Or even running it.)

Yes, I know. I haven't posted this week. Why? Well, it snowed, didn't it? And if the tube doesn't work in the snow, and if planes can't take off from Heathrow, and traffic on the M25 comes to a halt, then I am unable to post. More precisely, it was so very cold that I didn't want to move off my very comfy sofa and post. I also had a horrific cold on Monday - Thursday. It was only bad on Monday and Thursday; Tuesday and Wednesday I just survived on Lemsip. But Monday and Thursday were truly dreadful. I knocked myself out with honey, lemon, whisky and hot water in order to sleep. Luckily, the worst came, and then was over by Thursday evening, since I had an all-nighter at work, followed by an early morning finish on Friday night / Saturday morning. So that snow? Even London is quiet in the snow. You know how the countryside becomes so very still in the snow? Well, even the same is true of London. The view from the Wharf over the City, all white and covered in snow flurries, was beautiful.

A disaster waiting to happen?...

No. It just did.

After three days in bed with a dose of something nasty, it strikes me that only the Grim Reaper will ever stop me from doing things. In spite of the impressive portfolio of symptoms which have all but closed down my body, it's been very much business as usual in the mind department. Every opportunity has been taken to claw back a few seconds from Dr Death in order to catch up on a few errands - the odd bill to pay online, letters to write... in short, any excuse to wear reading glasses and make my bed look like Rymans.

I'm incapable of switching off - the very reason, I'm assured, why I'm stuck in my eiderdown office in the first place.

So it's been nice to work on something worthwhile over the last 24 hours, something I've been threatening to do for many a year. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you this...

It's alarming how quickly we fall out of contact with old friends, and just two years on from leaving my University radio station, there are just a handful of one-time daily acquantances whom I see with any regularity. So I'm hoping this should do the trick, not just for me and the friends I made during my time there, but for generations before and after us. A chance to remember happy times...

For the moment, it's gathering people's attention as a group on Facebook (the virtues of which are so often extolled here, but let's remind you once again that it's a very good thing). Twenty people have signed up on its first day, and I'm certain word of mouth will bring more. Soon there'll be drinks, friendships reunited, maybe even the need for me to buy Cilla's hat - it can only be a good thing.

It comes on a day when I'm reminded how much I owe to my time at Burst. Today also brought the news that I've got a brand new weekly show to look forward to, beginning in March, which looks set to become the kind of programme I've always wanted to present. It'll be live on a Saturday evening, at a time when creativity and spirit in the audience is high, and late-night story telling comes into its own - I can't wait. Who needs Russell Brand? More news on that when I have it.

So, not a bad day's work for sick boy. Now, where's that note...

Yes, I've gone and treated myself. It's not cheap, but if I'm going to work in radio then it makes sense to have a very good radio of my own (shut up, that's my story and I'm sticking to it).

And the above, a Pure Evoke 3, is a very good radio indeed. Almost all the customer reviews you can find online sing its praises, despite the expense and despite the somewhat dodgy quality of DAB radio (for that's what it is) in some parts of the UK. In my experience the reception is pretty good around these parts, so I don't anticipate any trouble.

Of course if you're my dad, you spend your days listening online. I don't know how he's done it, but the PC at his industrial unit streams live radio like it's the easiest thing to do in the world.

Here are the rest of us, struggling with infernal time spent "buffering" and audio quality which makes it sound like the presenter is in a submarine - and my dad has crystal clear online quality. I've not heard it buffer once. BT must have built a pipe the size of Mauritius with which to supply his net access.

Anyway, back to the DAB radio. The good thing is I don't need to rely too heavily on the reviews, since I checked the radio out for myself while shopping in town earlier. So I've seen it up close and am satisfied that it's a very tidy little box of tricks. Its greatest asset is that it is, in the words of many reviews, the "Sky+ of radio" - it can record hours and hours onto a small memory card, and you can book shows in advance using electronic programme guides supplied by radio stations. I need never miss a David Sheppard show again (more to the point, he need not burn each and every one onto a CD, to be filed in a personal Sheppard archive bigger than the BBC's).

Of course it might have made sense just to buy one in the shop there and then. But, for the very first time in my life, I resisted the impulse and decided to chance my arm on the internet back home. Lo and behold, I have just picked one up for £30 less than the price the High Street was prepared to quote me. Is it any wonder our town centres are dying out when they're charging me a £30 premium for shifting my lazy arse out of bed to see them? The only other entertainment I had out of my afternoon was taking arty photos on the Park & Ride:

In fact at this juncture I'd like to recommend eDirectory.co.uk, which I've only happened across just now using Google, despite its insistence that it's been around for 10 years. It appears to bring together lots of little shops in one searchable location. I found the £30-cheaper radio, a memory card and even a 6-way extension plug (need somewhere to plug the radio in, after all), all under that one virtual roof. Assuming the goods turn up, I'll be a very satisfied customer.

Oh and if you want a show recording, let me know. (I've got visions of doing a roaring black market trade in back issues of the "Royals Footy Phone-In" to Reading fans.)

I remember once hearing a rising comedian say that he judged other people's work by his degree of jealousy at not having come up with it first. I can't remember who it was - I was too busy raging that someone else had thought of the line before me - but if we're honest, the measure holds true in almost everything we (don't) do.

So here's a truly awesome idea, executed by a brilliant woman whose magnificent daliance makes me sick with envy, damn her...

When it comes to visiting all of London's 274 tube stations, it's become something of a cliché to do it against the clock. Even for those luck.. err, skilful enough to shave minutes off the world record time (currently 18 hours, 25 minutes and 3 seconds, by the way) there must come a sense that, aside from beating those who went before, very little has actually been achieved. One's life is hardly enriched by winning a title simply because the Waterloo & City line was running a good service...

Far better to take the time to enjoy the experience and make every visit count, which is what our lady - known to me only as Tubewhore - is doing, and blogging the experience for us to enjoy too.

You'll certainly remember her if you find yourselves sharing a train. She's dressing for the occasion...

... and if the hair isn't a giveaway (presumably the Met. line is a favourite?), the smell of Tippex should do the trick as she strikes off yet another station from her map.

I think this is a fantastic project, and I both admire and envy her for taking it on. She's certainly doing it justice. Whilst her mission statement says it's all about being 'able to say (she's) done it', it's clear she's getting so much more from her experience: inspiration for artwork as she soaks up the atmosphere of each and every one of the locales; great interaction with the people of London as she explains her mission, and cajoles them into playing their part with the camera; she's even had an offer of tea from one of her readers when she visits her local station!

We're all getting something out of it, in fact. Take a look at some of the atmospheric photographs she's giving us, along with a witty and incisive commentary that yes, once again, makes you wish you'd done it first.

I'll be reading every step of the way to her remaining 186 stations, and enjoying a living account of London's Underground network in the making. And when it's done, I shall still envy her for a great deal more than a tube map completely obscured by Tippex.

A recipe for fun and games if ever there was one. The coming of snow is always a special event here, even if it's routine in other parts of the world.

So waking up to a new, white blanket over the gardens and driveways meant a celebration was in the offing. Toby and I decamped to the cricket pitch to make the most of the tardy winter weather.

How can you resist? It's simple: throw the ball, make a dog happy. Repeat many times. Soon the snow was freckled with the prints of scurrying paws.

Dog and owner were quick to enjoy the snow while it was still there - although even now, at gone midnight, some still lingers on the pavements and hedges outside.

Now we're both curled up asleep, hoping for more snow tomorrow. Goodnight!

I went birdwatching on Tuesday morning in order to create a feature marking a new RSPB campaign.

My mother has always done a very good line in birdwatching - on hearing birdsong two miles off she can tell you which bird it is, its vital statistics, its home address, phone number, political disposition and inside leg. I've no such skills, so I dragged local RSPB member Ken out into the freezing conditions with me.

We went to Lavell's Lake, a remarkably tranquil spot in between Reading and Wokingham, where there are a couple of hides for birdwatchers. Despite the sort of wind traditionally reserved for exclusive Eskimo use, there were a few hardy souls trying to spot the one bittern which has apparently made Berkshire its home. Nothing doing there, but I did get some very nice photos, including this one:

You can see some more in the proper feature here. I'm not afraid to admit I found the hour and a half I spent there so remarkably calming,I may sneak back when nobody's looking.

There's also a brand new competition on the sport section of the website, which, on Wednesdays and Thursdays, is now lovingly tended by Andy while I lie in bed watching one-day cricket. Though I'm not at all sure about this "have a good idea while Ollie's away" lark, I have already entered the new caption competition and I suggest you do too.

Finally, get a load of that snow this morning! But I'll leave full snow discussion to Amy. She's in charge of all things Kent, where I'm led to believe the snow was heavier, and she likes talking about this sort of thing:

What Shape Is A Snowflake
In The Bleak Mid Winter
Mirror, Mirror, Is It Snowing?
Two Days Too Late

After my experience with the parcel sent via Aberdeen last week, I wasn't at all surprised when the man from Tesco Direct 'phoned at 9.15 this evening to say that he and our shopping were waiting outside... a house in Keswick. Some mix up straight out of One Foot in the Grave had resulted in our online shopping being dispatched to an amalgamation of my flatmate's old and new addresses; whilst the road name was (by fluke) correct, the destination was actually some 291 food-miles further north than was ideal. Slightly less than Direct, then.

The Reading end of the conversation was a delight to hear:

"No - that's not my address. You should be in Reading... near London... Yes - in the South!... I realise that, but could it be sent from another depot?"

Unsurprisingly, it couldn't, which meant a late night visit to the supermarket for poor Bryony, waiting on me hand and foot as I battle with a nasty dose of flu. But for all at the southern end of our transaction, there was to be a little silver lining...

Late night shopping brings unexpected bargains, like this one:

For just £1, here's a whole feline toy box full of goodies to keep your cat amused. A cuddly fish on an elasticated string, which dives tantalisingly into padding range and then quickly springs back again; and a little toy mouse which looks (and squeaks) for all the world like it might make a tempting dash for freedom at any second. Ideal reward for young Basil, who's really coming out of himself these days, and occasionally now dares to join us in the living room. As the bag says, cats love catnips...

... except Basil, it seems:

Being scared of unfamiliar human beings we can fully understand, and try as we may to persuade ourselves that he ought to be used to his latest owners by now, we forgive him for the odd moment of cowering as we enter the room. But as for being this petrified of a tiny pretend mouse, I don't think so.

Having taken refuge under the coffee table the minute his new toy was unveiled, Basil had greatly underestimated the tenacity of the 'mouse' when in the hands of his new owners. Little by little, 'mouse' was moved closer until he too was sharing the shelter of the table. Eye to eye, there was to be a stand-off.

Minutes passed, and only when we both grew bored of watching did a little white paw reach out and roll the mouse over, perhaps in curiosity as to why it had remained so still, but probably only because Basil wanted to get it sorted before he was forced to cope with a menacing white fish which was now bouncing onto the horizon...

The mouse will be useful as we try to reacquaint Basil with the outside world. Bizarrely, his days as a street cat have left him nervous of outdoor life (not that he's King of the indoor party, as we've seen). We're having to tread very carefully. Most days we take him to the front door and show him a little sunlight, but he rarely wants to know. One of these days he'll show an interest, and knowing him, he'll decide it's what he's wanted all along. Doubtless we'll be getting another call from Keswick that night...

Now it's really not my place to criticise other media folk going about their business - after all, there but for the grace of God I go.

But I can't help myself in the case of David Wright, sports journalist at a local Berkshire newspaper.

He produces regular video blogs for the paper's website, some of which they've also submitted to YouTube. Each and every one of them is the most hilarious satire you have ever seen, made even more brilliant by the knowledge that it isn't satire.

There are 13 of his videos available on YouTube and more on the website for the paper in question. I urge you to set aside 20 minutes to watch every single one. Each comes equipped with a catalogue of basic technical errors plus hilarious antics from David himself.

• SEE one of the least likely candidates ever for a video blog as he delivers lines with all the style, panache and energy of a badger in a desert.
• WATCH as David's face is needlessly transported around the screen in amazingly cheap-looking fashion, using the built-in visual effects from the software he's using.
• MARVEL as every video blog has different introductory graphics and different theme music!
• LAUGH at the end of each video blog, as comments like 'That was alright, wasn't it?' and 'The music cut me off!' are left on the video!
• Indeed, HOWL as the music does cut him off!

It's clearly not David's fault. Someone, somewhere, thought it was a good idea for him to do a video blog. But this is one of many situations you get in the media where the people in charge have clearly not employed the principle of horses for courses.

You do not make someone who is clearly so ill at ease in front of a camera do a video blog, even if you're mad keen on having a video blog on your site. If it's that important, do it yourself or get someone trained in such things to come in and do it.

It's like appointing me to replace Michael Schumacher at Ferrari. Yes, I can drive a car, and yes, I've seen it done. But all the evidence points to it being incredibly unlikely that I'll actually know what I'm doing, and I'll look a complete fool in a race.

The worst thing is, the paper seems to think the sheer ineptitude of these video blogs has made David Wright into something of a cult classic among sports fans. I can't help but feel it's just made him look a bit silly. For example, one contributor to a Reading FC fans' forum simply wrote:

"He's a fairly senior journalist, isn't he? You'd think he could get some media coaching to help him come across abit more professionally."

And yes, you would! But no, there he is on the front page of the paper's website, billed as 'cult hero and minor celebrity'. Just have a think about that and if you've still not watched the videos, go and do it. If you ever saw The Day Today, I promise you won't be disappointed.

When. Is. OJ. Going. To. Post. ?

Now doesn't that sound like a good idea. Perhaps if I had a spare 270k I would invest in a hotel room too... check in here. I still prefer the truffle tree idea.

I'm going to give you something of a world exclusive here.

A couple of hours ago a lady rang the newsroom at the radio station. When I answered she said she'd given us a call because she "just wanted to moan".

This is usually the cue for ten or fifteen minutes of thinly veiled abuse from a member of the public dissatisfied with the work we're doing in some shape or form. But it turned out that the lady didn't want to moan about us - she wanted to moan about her electricity company.

Now you'll remember we had some mightily blustery times on Thursday, as a rather large storm passed over Berkshire and the other Home Counties. Well after the worst had passed, this lady discovered a live electricity cable dangling over her driveway, just underneath head height. It had been brought down in the storm and while all the other houses in her street still had power, she didn't - except for the death-trap swinging to and fro near the front door.

Naturally she rang the electricity company to report this as quite an urgent matter, and she says they agreed. They'd send someone over, and in the mean time she and her family were to remain indoors and on no account venture out near the cable.

That's all well and good, but it took the electricity company over a day - in fact, nearly two - to turn up! The lady was busy telling me the story on the phone when she broke off to answer the door, and in the background I could hear a gentleman explaining he had come from the electricity company about the cable (clearly he'd made it past said cable to the door - it would be unfortunate to electrocute the electrician).

So this poor lady has been trapped in her home for a couple of days, afraid to leave for fear of sending however many thousand volts down her spine. Somehow she seemed quite chirpy about the whole thing, whereas I'm sure I'd be on the point of murder if I had things to do and couldn't get past my door unless I diced with death.

What would have happened had one member of the family fallen victim to the cable? What if a neighbour happened by and failed to notice it? What if the postman suddenly found his round curtailed when leaning back up from their letter box? Who would be responsible for the horrific accidents that could have taken place? The owner of the property or the electricity company charged (sorry) with maintaining the cable? I'm hoping we get her on our breakfast programme on Monday, it should be really interesting.

The storms have apparently also taken their toll on Basingstoke Town FC. Some of the exterior walls at the club's ground have been blown over - and the club are getting one of their fans to fix it! According to their manager, who spoke to me earlier, a supporter named Cliff is a dab hand at this sort of thing.

It reminds me of Slough Town's Darron Wilkinson, who's just taken over as Slough manager having previously been a player. In 2004, when they played Walsall in the FA Cup, the FA said Slough's ground needed segregation for home and away fans putting in. It just so happened Darron was a scaffolder, so he ended up installing the extra facilities, then playing on the pitch!

On a day where just about everything seems to have been blown off course, it's good to see that one thing ended up where it should have done.

Or, at least, where it was sent. Spot the mistake...

What you see is not a result of today's disappointing licence fee settlement necessitating our relocation to Aberdeen, but a small slip of the mouse made by somebody at the BBC's music library when dispatching a parcel.

I'll forgive them. Not only is the service they provide normally excellent (they're essentially the music equivalent of Oxford's Bodleian library), they've managed to find a record that's outnumbered by NHS dentists specialising in hens. Given that I've waited four years for the contents of the parcel, one more day won't make any difference.

Back in the days when I was younger even than Ollie, I used to spend my evenings lingering at Radio Bristol in awe of a man called Richard Lewis. A production pedigree to inspire such awe in itself, he was probably one-time executive producer of your favourite light entertainment programme, and he's almost certainly written scripts for your favourite television drama or comedy. He's also one of the finest broadcasters I know, and his evening show of the time was cult listening across the west country.

Eventually they gave me a job on the show, and it was from the great master that I learned so much about how to engage an audience. The show was weird by design, "another way" of broadcasting as we called it, and that's why it was wonderful. Listeners would 'phone to share stories as colourful as the lady who was nipped by her new puppy and arrived at hospital bathing her left breast in vodka; and the man who, when selling his old car, had removed the speedometer to turn the clock back a few thousand miles, only to find the legend "Oh no, not again" inscribed on the reverse of the dashboard...

... And he used to play a wonderful song called "Loving You Has Made Me Bananas", by a man called Guy Marks.

I remember the song from my first evening there, and it came to embody everything that was so different about the show. Soon my days too were filled with dreaming up ideas for the show, and after a little treatment from the master, we'd all roar with laughter as they made it to air. And every now and again, in knowing appreciation of an idea well crafted, the Guy Marks song would appear. Minds in harmony, and not a word spoken.

Around the time I left to move to Radio Berkshire, I narrowly missed buying a vinyl copy on eBay, the only one I've ever seen. Hoorah for the BBC music library in London, which now has a copy on CD... with, guess what, 14 other records by the quirky Mr Marks.

Once I've indulged, I shall send it to Bristol (via Aberdeen, of course) for Richard to use on his show, these days in a well deserved daytime slot with an audience as huge as the list of celebrity guests he attracts. Rumour has it, though, I may be needing it back in Berkshire soon...

"Your red scarf matches your eyes, you close cover before striking... loving you has made me bananas".

Windy, isn't it! If we were talking outside, I'd be having to SHOUT INCREDIBLY LOUDLY AT YOU TO MAKE MYSELF HEARD!

Good job we're not. But my word, the drive to work this afternoon was like a half hour tour of wartorn Bosnia. Cars clumped in small, uncertain convoys, swerving this way and that, avoiding fallen branches and impromptu lakes littering the country roads. I half expected to be shelled.

My dog, Toby, had a hard time dealing with the weather too. Yesterday I ran out of time to take him for a walk so, when he gave me a look of absolute disgust, I promised faithfully to take him to the cricket pitch today. Then I woke up and saw the trees bent horizontal in the wind outside the house.

But a promise is a promise, so off we went: the dog looking utterly unperturbed, me wrapped up in coat, scarf and hat, armed with a tennis ball and racquet.

The moment I hit the tennis ball for the first time, we both knew it would be an entertaining half an hour or so. Having given the ball a fairly hefty whack up into the air away from me, it stopped dead in mid-air, then arrowed back in towards my head. The wind was so strong that I needed some considerable force to dispatch the ball into the breeze - but watching the dog try to correct for wind was an extremely funny reward. To his credit he got the hang of it fairly quickly.

I think the dog far preferred the relative calm of sitting on the ground, waiting for the wind to blow the ball back, to the alternative: me pelting the ball into the distance with the wind behind it. When I tried it I could almost hit the ball from one side of the pitch to the other. The dog was most unimpressed (but well enough educated in cricket etiquette to scamper around, and not over, the square).

All in all the wind didn't pose me many problems, but tomorrow could be a different story. I'm supposed to be in Bristol at 2pm and I've got a good couple of hours of work to do at the radio station first. Given the state of the trains today, not to mention the state of the M4, I've got no idea how I'm going to make it. I wonder if we've got video conferencing technology...

You think 42's going to be something to do with The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, don't you? That I'm going to make some utterly vacuous but supposedly witty point about 42 being the meaning of life, the universe and everything. Oh, the humanity.

I'm not: 42 is the answer to everything, but only if you're playing cricket. In 42 separate laws, the entire game of cricket is enshrined. Yes, I'm learning to become an umpire.

I don't want to be Shane Warne in that picture. Stuff him. He's probably done that wrist of his all sorts of damage, and he's a sportsman. We know from my physique that if I'm going to be a sportsman, I'd better get good at darts quite quickly. But I don't like darts, and I do like cricket. No, I want to be the umpire (it's Billy Bowden, the man and the legend) - stood there, telling Shane there's no way in hell that's out, oh and by the way, that's five penalty runs for damaging the pitch.

Every Wednesday - starting with the one just gone, and running through the next nine - myself and the erstwhile Amy J are umpires in the making. Sat like naughty schoolchildren as we giggled at cricketing anecdotes from our team of five instructors, we've just whiled away one of the best evenings I can remember having in years.

And the thing is, it's only that good an evening if you're a very select breed of animal: someone who finds few things more entertaining than an unlikely umpiring conundrum. For example:

Q: A fair delivery hits the batsman's pads and rolls towards his wicket. Seeing this, he kicks the ball away which goes between the slips towards third man. The non-striker calls for a run. They cross on the first run, then the third man fielder throws the ball in an attempt to run out the batsman. He misses and the batsmen decide to run a further two runs before the fielder returns the ball to the wicket-keeper, and the ball is dead. How many runs are scored?

A: Two.

If you don't understand why, then the answer is simple: you need to come to umpire training. Here, with thirty eager students of all ages sat around them, five instructors impart wisdom and tell of immensely implausible cricketing scenarios, like Vikings of the wicket, commemorating the correct application of Law 37.4 in song.

(Which, if you're interested, specifies that a batsman who picks up the ball with his hand and throws it back to the fielding side may not be given out Handled The Ball, but may be given out Obstructing The Field - only, of course, if the fielding side appeal).

I'm delighted to say I've got some fantastic moments from the evening on tape, ready to use in a radio feature on Monday morning. But the hilarity certainly won't end tonight, with nine more sessions coming up, and that's just the first part of becoming an umpire. We could be at this for three years! We now have copies of the umpire's bible, Tom Smith's New Cricket Umpiring And Scoring, and it's possibly the single greatest textbook I've ever had. A textbook all about cricket! As Amy observed, an Oxford degree's got nothing on this.

Forget academia. Forget broadcasting. We're umpires now. And we'll let you know what each new week brings. I'll pop a link on here when I've written a proper feature.

Goodness me, where have the last few days gone? Where's January gone? So far 2007 is disappearing in a blur of sport in a wonderful variety of forms.

Dayorama reader Amy J is fast becoming a partner in crime in many of my sporting endeavours. You'll remember she was on hand at the Madejski Stadium in the autumn, and on David's Christmas bus back in December. Well this week, it was high time I travelled back to Amy J country: Cheltenham, and more specifically Whaddon Road, home of Cheltenham Town FC, for the visit of Scunthorpe United.

As Tuesday nights go, it wasn't spectacularly pleasant, at least from a weather point of view. The rain did that beautiful swirl it always does underneath floodlights, made all the more beautiful by the knowledge you're sat under cover and the players are bearing the full brunt.

Amy J's father, who is distinguished enough to have had his first name all but eliminated in favour of the word "Lord", has tickets in the vice-presidents' lounge at Cheltenham Town. When it became clear that not only was I free on Tuesday night, but Lord J was unable to attend the match owing to work commitments, I found myself down on the list to occupy one of the best seats in the house for the League One match against Scunthorpe.

Now Amy J and I are both passionate about a computer game named Football Manager, which some of you might know as Championship Manager (without getting into technicalities, the new Championship Manager is in fact an entirely different franchise - the old Championship Manager became Football Manager about two years ago). Amy is currently managing Reading in her version, while I'm looking after Maidenhead.

In her fictitious Reading side of the future she's got a man named Billy Sharp playing up front. She signed him from Scunthorpe United, and he's now one of her top players. Lo and behold, there he was on the Cheltenham Town pitch on Tuesday night, playing of course for Scunthorpe.

Amy J is passionate about Football Manager, but not half as passionate as she is about Cheltenham Town. My muted cries of "Come on, Scunthorpe" just as the teams kicked off were enough for me to all but face a fatwa. But when Cheltenham went 1-0 up, we all celebrated (it seemed wise to join in) and all was well with the world. Cheltenham are in a bit of trouble in the league - winning being something of an alien experience for the team this season - so to be beating Scunthorpe, second in the division, was all the better.

Alas, it didn't stay that way. Just after the second half had got underway, the same Cheltenham player responsible for their brilliant goal found himself free with the ball, running towards the Scunthorpe area. Carelessly he played the ball too far ahead of himself but, as a Scunthorpe defender moved into to tidy up the loose ball, our Cheltenham man threw himself like a six foot dart in the ball's general direction. He missed by some considerable distance, but made instant contact with the Scunthorpe player's leg. The latter had barely hit the floor by the time the referee had his red card out - Cheltenham down to ten.

Suddenly a Scunthorpe equaliser seemed inevitable and, when it came, the scorer equally so. One Mr William Sharp rose to flick home a corner. Amy J, who'd previously held him up as a paragon of virtue in Football Manager, sat stony-faced and silent. I sat grinning like a Cheshire cat, trying desperately not to open my mouth to voice any of the hundred witty comments racing around my mind, lest I find myself beaten black and blue.

After five minutes I plucked up the courage to speak, only to be told to shut up. Amy J and the ten-year-old behind us, a commentator in the making with a catchphrase of "that's gone!" to describe anything that looks like it's going out of play, intimidated me into the sort of silence most of my friends and colleagues would saw off limbs to experience.

The moment Amy got home after the match, she removed Billy Sharp from her Reading team in Football Manager, sent him packing to languish in the under-18s squad, and transfer listed him. A somewhat harsh punishment, but apparently it would seem it's the only way he'll learn.

If only Scunthorpe's other striker, Andrew Keogh, had scored the winner. He's in my Maidenhead side - I'd have doubled his wages overnight. (You might remember Andrew Keogh: my wallet certainly does.)

Is not just that it rains as soon as you step out of the door at 8am in the morning and again as soon as you step out of the Office at 11.30pm at night. It is that because it was raining when I arrive in Canary Wharf for work this morning I decided to get off at Canary Wharf DLR station as opposed to Heron Quays. For anyone who doesn't know the Wharf, it is possible to get to Bank Street from Canary Wharf DLR station without coming above ground. If you get off at Heron Quays (closer to Bank Street), then you need to walk outside and therefore if it is raining, battle the elements. So, this morning I got off at Canary Wharf DLR in order to avoid the rain. Bad decision. I had to walk through the shopping malls. I had bought a dress and top in the sales. All before 9am. Damn.

Yesterday, I dismissed the music grabbing habits of billions of mobile 'phone users as a 'fruitless addiction', something technology has provided us with the opportunity to do, without there really being any great need.

Tonight, I appeal for technology to get on and solve some problems in a way it does best, by saving me the bother. So then, we can quench our desire to hear just about any song at any time and any location* we choose (*3 Mobile customers excepted), Mr Technology you spoil us so. Why then is it still not possible to paint a bloody ceiling without ending up like this?

This has to be the worst job ever, and every sodding time I find myself faced with it the indignity gets worse. Last time, I ended up bathing my cochlea in vinyl silk as the excess dripped straight from my roller into an upturned ear. Today, Homebase's milk white matt emulsion went one better, launching its attack directly from the ceiling with remarkable precision.

In case you think this was a fluke and that, by the law of averages, a stray drip was bound to strike the bullseye eventually, be in no doubt that you're wrong. This was an opportunist drip who knew exactly what he was doing, and struck within 20 seconds of the roller first touching the ceiling. It's almost like Lord Sainsbury of Homebase (whose staff I really put to the test earlier today) had a hand in it himself. Or a watchful eye.

And still we go on carrying out this ridiculously ill-fated job with virtually no assistance from the boys at technology HQ. They're probably all busy reinventing the toothbrush, or finding new ways to make skin products sound more sexy (added aqua, anyone?). Meantime, I'm unwillingly left to highlight my lashes with splashes whilst risking life and limb at the top of a ladder. Surely there must be a better way?

I'm certain there is. And what's more, I think the technology is already in place, and somewhere lies the top secret blueprint for the world's first automatic ceiling painter. The reason we haven't yet seen it is that, in the meantime, it's far too funny for people like Bryony, my flatmate, when they hear cries of help from a one-eyed man torn between sorting out his affliction and making sure further drips don't go on the carpet. There just wouldn't be a market - at least, not until I've done the kitchen, too...

It took nearly two years, but the road sweeper has followed me to London. Remember the dire road sweeper that used to trundle up and down the Turl with its deafening growl? Well now, at about 11.30pm each night the road-sweeper droans up, and then down, my road with orange lights flashing. Agh!

I could honestly say I've never been tempted to reach for my mobile 'phone to download music... right up until Sunday morning.

In principle, I stand by my long term view that anybody doing so regularly has either too much money to their name, or else a fruitless addiction to novelty. It's not that I'm behind the times - I just happen to think there are so many better ways of downloading and playing music these days, through pieces of kit which are designed specifically with this in mind. So why the heck would you want to use a tinny old phone?

Well, one reason might be that you have Mika's fantastic new single 'Grace Kelly' bouncing through your mind, and require an immediate rendition in whatever form you can get.

That's my excuse, the fact I have a fruitless addiction of my own. Since the moment Ken Bruce first hit the button to play it on Radio 2, I've barely stopped singing it. Shame most of the notes so effortlessly tackled by Mika are a little out of my reach...

It's a great song, not just because it's catchy and memorable (which to me are fairly basic requirements, but so often underplayed by the critics), but it's a clever song with a purpose. Listen to it casually and hear a man desperate to please, perhaps, a would-be lover by offering to be anything she likes; relatable or what? Talk to Mika himself, as Emma Jones did, and you'll find you're actually listening to an attack on the music industry and its insistence on moulding artists to fit convenient pigeon holes.

"Why don't you like me without making me try?".

Just as relatable in every walk of life, I'd say; the temptation to try understand new ideas by translating them into old ones; the writing-off of individual brilliance because it's "strange" (Mika's word). You only have to look at reality television to see that we're mostly working from the pigeon hole out.

But Mika's an individual in every sense, and I applaud him for that. He's proved the merits of his individuality by battering the industry over the head with a song that's very different, and very, very popular. I like it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to clear some 'phone space for the rest of his album. Yes, I'll be buying a hard copy, and downloading it on iTunes... but I'll need the 'phone for emergencies.

... when the contents of one's fridge amount to tomato ketchup, mayo, horseradish sauce (don't ask), two cans of diet coke, two cans of beer, garlic puree (no idea), some coffee and some flora... the cupboard contains seven tins of tuna fish and a jar of olives... and the freezer contains half a bag of chips and some frozen peas... I don't think this is particularly healthy.

I was chatting to someone the other day about living in the London suburbs. I mean Wimbledon, Richmond - why? Why subject yourself to an hour long commute on the District line, just so you can reside in a leafy street. I'd just go the whole way and quit the City entirely. However, earlier today a few friends and I went to Greenwich. I have to say I have always been a fan of Greenwich. I've said this before: it has the water, it has the park, it has an array of shops and restaurants, and of course it has the fantastic market on a Sunday. It is very relaxed, with people of all ages, all dress-types and both Londoners and tourists. But it is a form of Suburbia. It doesn't have the hustle and bustle of London. And it is pleasant. Then this afternoon / evening I visited my cousin in Kingston. Again, definitely Suburbia. It was quite pleasant to wander to his house along "normal" streets and eat dinner in a restaurant in a normal town. At the same time, I don't think I would like it. There is something about feeling as though you live in London. Despite the grime and rough edges, living towards the centre of town has its advantages. It is all very pleasant to escape to Suburbia, or indeed into the Counties surrounding London, but, nah, not for me. Not just yet, anyway. I'll stick to my Sunday visits for now.

On Saturday afternoon Anthony and I were wandering around London and happened upon the Russian Winter Festival in Trafalgar Square. We arrived a little before the six which if you read the program of events here, you will see was near to the end. The event was free and promoted all things Russian and all things touristy connected with Russia. There were, needless to say, and incredible number of Russians gathered. There was a stage with Russian folk / pop bands singing away and many craft stands selling Russian wares or tempting you with their tour guides or vodka. The highlight was the playing of the National anthem. It is a very rousing anthem, rather military in style. As the final notes of the anthem were fading away, the sky (it was late dusk, not quite a "black" sky, but that dark dusky blue with a few streaks of pink cloud) was filled with artificial snow from the four corners of Trafalgar Square. We were gently covered in foamy fake snow, as the anthem returned for a final chorus. They had also positioned lights so that the "snow" glistened in the air, representing the three colours (red, blue and white) of the Russian flag. Young children and old (me) were entranced. It was really rather magical, even if as English folk we were outsiders, intruders almost. It also made one feel rather sad that we couldn't be slightly more Imperial at times, and that we were equally aroused by the strength of our nation.

Oh what fun we had this afternoon. For those of you who missed all five hours of David's show today - greedy little beggar, I know - he got a text message from a man named Stan midway through the afternoon. In fact, he got several messages from Stan.

Here are the messages, displayed on AirShare, the system we use to receive texts. You'll need to start at the bottom and read up to get them in chronological order:

David is not disturbed by much, but he was a bit of a worried man at the sight of all these texts. He doesn't know a Stan in Winnersh, let alone a Stan who can't spell Winnersh, and he couldn't recognise the phone number. He felt sure it must be a friend playing a prank, but who? There was the distinct possibility that some 100 per cent genuine psycho was out to stalk him.

It hadn't been me (despite having the accusation levelled at me), so even I was intrigued by the prospect of this rather elderly-sounding Stan trying to chat David up.

But it did look as though somebody with inside information was at work. For a start they knew the last four digits of David's phone number, which - granted - you could find if you put enough effort in. But they also called him "Davey". Now, if you know David at all, you know that his name is David. He gets cross enough if you try to shorten that to "Dave", but "Davey" is another matter entirely. That could be lethal.

All this suggested a friend or work colleague pulling the strings, but their phone number wasn't in David's phone contacts, or mine - and between us we've got just about everyone connected with the radio station.

We bunged the number into Google, but to no avail. As a last resort we put it into the search box in ENPS, the piece of software the BBC uses for radio scripts, news bulletins and the like, as well as for storing details of all our contacts.

Immediately, up popped the name of Michael - the young broadcast assistant who's been working weekends here for about two months.

Not long enough for his phone number to be in our contacts, but just enough time to have established how utterly hilarious it would be to send Mr Sheppard prank text messages while on air (David read a couple out to the entire county before he realised they were turning sinister). Michael had been sat in our phone-in booth all afternoon composing saucy text messages from "Stan" in between editing clips of rugby commentary. He'll clearly fit in.

Here's our victim, on the left, with the cunning perpretator, moments before the grand revelation:

Good to, er, see Amy back by the way. And yes, I have read all fourteen contributions from the lady herself. For those who missed this, the long-absent Amy Kennedy returned to Dayorama life by promising one post for each day of the year so far, plus one for luck. Which she then wrote in about an hour. I'll be impressed if she can keep that going...

It may surprise you given the content, but I did actually have to think about what I was going to post and write a haphazard list. The challenge is over. All 14 posts are done. Only another 351 and I'll have posted one for each day of 2006...! It has made me realise how much I have missed posting, so I shall endeavour to turn the face of Dayorama away from the BBC and back to more wittering and girly drawl (with excessive typos, of course). My final thought for the day is this: facebook. Over the past few months, more people from my "past" have added me on facebook. I don't think we are the facebook generation. Well, perhaps we are the facebook generation, but certainly the teenagers of today are on it from the time they leave secondary school, so the network starts at a much younger age and becomes automatic as soon as they reach University. But when will it stop? Will we always be adding "friends" even when we are 30? Will it come to it that our neices and nephews* one day reach the age of 15 and add us as "friends"? When we meet a friend of a friend in a bar one night when we are 29, will we go home and pop their name into the search facility to see if they are on facebook and then "add" them? It is a strange thought, but one that I doubt is far from the inevitable truth.

*have just realised that this is a really silly thing to say since both OJ, Ollie (sort of) and I are only children.

I know at least one Dayorama reader who is a fan of postsecret.com. Well this weekend it has come to London.
For a little bit of background, the artist Frank Warren distributed post cards across the US and asked people to send them back to him with secrets written on them. These were then posted on a blog. Now people from all over the world send in secrets. It is an incredible phenomenon - people who can't confide in people close to them can tell their secret over a website. I suppose some will be made up. Some are also clearly based on teenage hormonal anger and resentment. But others are heartstoppingly moving. Ironically, the website has now become a forum where people turn for help. They realise that they aren't "alone". An incredible manner in which the human phsyc can be affected.

Anyway, this weekend some of the postcards are on display in Foyles Bookshop on Charing Cross Rd. That's all I wanted to say.

Nutritional Information. I'm all for this to be displayed on food packets. There's a large push to move the 7,000,000 kcal from under the flap of a Mars bar to the front. And rightly so. But Diet Coke? They now display the kcal on the front and work out the % of your daily intake. Isn't this a little mad? Surely if it says 1.5kcal, we should know that a man would have to drink nigh on 1,000 cans to reach their daily allowance? I suppose if we are going to label one food, we should label them all... but this does seem a bit pointless.

I don't know what to do. I have had my hair cut at the same salon since I was 6. That's a long time. It is a very well respected family affair based in Kent. Jamie, both my Mum and I's hairdresser, knows everything. He knows the holidays we've been on, the times my Aunt comes to stay, knows my A level grades and more importantly knows my hair. Don't laugh. I know you boys only pay about £5 to have yours cut, and then grumble. My shampoo costs more. But it is important. My hair is relatively long and I don't have the time to deal with it, so it needs to be cut well. At the moment I should have my hair cut, but I am actually trying to grow it a bit, so time is less of the essence. The problem is, Jamie has Hodgkins Disease. He is unlikely to return to work before the summer, if ever. There is a large part of me that feels terribly guilty having it cut by someone else. Almost a betrayl. I know I could go to the same salon and have someone else, but it wouldn't be the same. If he doesn't come back, it will be a loss but not so hard to have someone else. It is just the thought that he may come back and I don't want someone to cut my hair in the interim. Having said that, I think it will need cutting in about 6 weeks, let alone 6 months. We'll have to see. It is a strange feeling.

In life, there are those things you areeternally grateful to your parents for. And then there are those things that you are less grateful for. Last Saturday evening I was at home with my parents. My Mother had begun to watch Soapstar Superstar. She forced me to stop watching the DVD of Pirates of the Carribbean No.2 to watch it. And since I have followed it all week. I have only managed to catch the repeats / after programme on ITV2 this week, but last night I was in and actually watched the main show (semi final). I even voted. What is happening?

Until an article on BBC online yesterday, I had no idea about the meaning for jaywalking. Heavens knows why, I of anybody should probably pay attention. I am utterly useless at crossing roads. In fact, it was a good thing in Mumbai that I was with someone who appreciated this fact. I was restrained on several occasions and also got reprimanded for "squealing in a very girly manner" (I am a girl, I am allowed to) at times when I was about to be run over by a bike or something. So there we are. Jaywalking. I've learnt something new.

I'm struggling now. Seven posts down and seven to go. Anthony and I were at church last Sunday and I have to say, I never knew Epiphany was so complicated. I think perhaps the preacher over-complicated matters slightly by producing all manner of boxes (don't ask) but it really was quite an epiphany (sorry). Although this does lead me to a New Year's Resolution. A colleague from work and I have decided to do at least two cultural things per month in the hope that we will get out of the Office. At least we should both understand if we have to cancel etc. So, we're thinking of seeing Twelth Night. We've booked the ballet in February, so that's one tick box. But we still need two for January, and time is ticking. I must sort something, actually. And my other NY Resolutions? Oh, the usual. Lose weight. Some things, will never change.

I've always had an NHS dentist. And I've always had my teeth checked every six months. Well, it is January and my six months are up. But how can I get to my NHS dentist in Kent? I'd have to take time off. And how can I register with one in London? Nigh on impossible. So I have gone private. There is a firm discount - not that this really dents the bill. What a difference. The dentist spoke to me. She chatted away. My appointment was 30mins - and it started on time. I was also able to read the "current" edition of Harpers (no Hello or OK) whilst waiting. At the same time, I just wanted to get in and out; the dentist isn't really the place I want to have a discussion about anything more than the weather. I can say this much though, it was relaxing and it was effortless (the fact it is a 1min walk from the Office helped).

Anyone else slightly concerned at the weather? I've never really been one for discussing global warming before, but honestly - twelve degrees in January? Everyone knows I get cold very quickly. But not this year. I suppose there were a few time before Christmas when I was in Kent that the wind was bitter and icy, and I had to scrape ice off the car. But nothing on the usual. I haven't warn by trademark baggy jumpers. I've had my heating on at night, but this is more because I think I should because it is winter, more than the fact that I probably need to. But what to do? Kill a cow? Recycle more? (I already have five different bins, I'm not sure if I can cope with more).

No, I'm not getting married! I don't think I'd announce it on Dayorama first, if I was. Whilst I may not be, other people are. Two friends from school to be precise. One in February and the other in August. Now that is just scary. Everyone is growing up. OK, so I have a flat and a car (-glove box) but marriage? At the same time, they are both raging Christians, so perhaps that explains it.

Just another highly entertaining story from Boris I felt like linking.

It wasn't all good. On my return my car had been broken into. That wouldn't be so bad. It's life. You own a car, you expect the consequences - the failed MOT, the punctures, the chip on the windscreen that means you have to replace the whole thing etc. But these cretins. They broke into my car by smashing the front passenger window. Glass everywhere. They didn't steal my walking boots (always in the car), or a pair of trainers (also in the boot), they didn't steal my stereo (I never have any CDs or valuables in there anyway), they didn't steal my big umbrella (I would be angry if they had) and they didn't steal my maps. Oh no, they stole the following:

1 x cigarette lighter
1 x spare tyre
1 x jack (for the tyre)
1 x car manuals
1 x door to my glove compartment

So, I had to get the police out to check the car and also Mr Autoglass. The police managed *not* not notice that my spare tyre had been stolen despite the gaping hole in the boot. And the following has cost me the following inconvenience:

1 x cigarette lighter - I'll have to ebay this
1 x spare tyre - cost me £100, had to get it from Kent, ended up driving home illegally. Oh, they also stole the bolt thing that holds it in place so my Dad ended up making one with an old egg poacher. That's another story.
1 x jack (for the tyre) - not botering to replace. The RAC will always change a tyre
1 x car manuals - oh well. I'll never be able to change a windscreen wiper again now
1 x door to my glove compartment - it would cost £120 to replace from Renault. I'll be ebaying (may even find my own on there) or scrap-yarding that one then.

I'm not angry (if I had lost my brolly and boots I would have been angry) I am just slightly bemused and put out. It takes time and effort to sort this. It also doesn't feel nice to think someone has been in my car.

I can honestly say, that my five days in Mumbai were fantastic - and I came back very relaxed. I promised Ollie I'd write a post akin to some of OJ's way back when he was in Princeton. However, the time seems to have come and gone. Instead, you can have this abridged dribble.... 2 1/2 days of work, 2 1/2 days of play. It was good/useful to experience the Indian office environment and to put the work that I have done over the past few months, and will be doing over the next few weeks, into context. Mumbai as a City is fantastic. Certainly one of extremes. From the window of a taxi it looks quite daunting - there are people absolutely everywhere and the poverty is horrific. But when you actually walk through the streets, you realise that this isn't the case. Whilst I was never on my own, I didn't ever feel threatened. On our days off a colleague and I did all the "things you must do" in Mumbai... the architecture is fantastic (gothic, wonderfully English and yet at the same time so very Indian)... the hotel was fantastic (google the Taj Palace and Tower Mumbai and you'll see why)... the restaurants served the most wonderful cuisine (gorgeous marinated fish)... Elephanta Island, home to caves containing carvings of Siva is a must - wonderfully tranquil in parts... the street markets are fascinating... the beaches are fantastic, especially if you manage to have a drink in a outside bar overlooking the beach at sunset... clubbbing was an experience (3 nights, 6 clubs, lots of bars, lots of booze)... and Virgin upper on the way back. What else can I say?

Yes, OK. It is now the 13th January and I feel thoroughly guilty for not posting this year. However, as always I have been either chained to my desk or out or asleep. In fact, this is the first time I have turned my laptop on in my flat (which says a lot) and I actually had to sign into Dayorama as it had "forgotten" me.

So far, 2007 has been quite fun. It started 5 1/2 hrs earlier than everyone else in India (more on that later) and has continued to be quite pleasant. So, Happy New Year.

I am now going to make up for 13 days of not posting... by posting 14 times today. I made a promise that I would, so here goes...

So The Truth About Food exemplified one of the many things the BBC does well.

Keeping things going when all else fails is another of our specialities:

Yesterday brought one or two technical problems to the door of BBC Radio Berkshire. In time honoured tradition, those listening would never have known, and it may have surprised even the keenest of ears to learn that our programmes were being made without presenters, producers and journalists actually being able to hear them.

Of course, in all other respects, programme makers were fully in touch with what was going out on air - but a windy January has knocked our receiver out of alignment, meaning that we're unable to listen to our own (or indeed any other) radio station inside the studios. Where once the great Henry Kelly did boom, the sound of a gentle hiss now fills the corridor.

We passed the test of a professional outfit, coping against the odds to safeguard our product from harm. Others, yesterday, did not...

A long running problem with my work computer came to a head yesterday, and having spent months baffling our long suffering station engineer (he of bent aerial fame), I decided to take specialist action. I called the BBC's IT Support team - outsourced a while ago to a company who, mercifully for them, I shall not name here - hoping they may recognise symptoms and at least be able to suggest a fix, if not do the necessary remotely as they often can.

After much sucking of teeth, the technician on the other end of the 'phone told me it was a job for a specialist, and he'd be dispatching one to my location straight away. What service!

Twenty minutes later, a man did arrive at the request of IT Support; it was Martyn, our station engineer, who'd been called to duty from the desk next door. Apparently, this happens a lot.

Of course, and through no fault of his own, he was no more able to fix the problem than he'd been over the preceding few months, and reported this back to IT Support. Later, I received a message to say that IT Support had called our Newsroom (via the general enquiry number) and asked the first person to answer whether he could "pick up the repairs". A senior sport journalist, I gather he gave a short talk on how to take a running jump.

I received an email last night from IT Support telling me the matter had been "closed". Ah, good - that's a help. Lucky that Martyn and I had, between us, managed to sort something out by way of a short-term fix...

Having just done my Saturday morning show, I'm back on air for five hours this afternoon bringing the County coverage of London Irish versus Toulouse and, among other things, Tiddles' operatic debut. I'm sure it'll be a quiet afternoon.

Educate; Inform; Entertain:

The three word mantra which every BBC employee up and down the land has been encouraged to chant at each stage in their working life - not, as much of the media would have you believe, since the recent spotlight surrounding the Hutton Inquiry or the prickly issue of the licence fee settlement - but, as far as I can see, since the sun first dawned on the foundations of Birt's Bistro (Wogan's infamous landmark across the road from Lord Reith's gaff, Broadcating House).

And if anybody in the great Corporation is in any doubt about how to bring those words to life in their work, they need to be watching BBC2 next Thursday at 9pm. So too, do the programme makers of every production house and television outlet in the world. The BBC will, as it usually does, show them how it's done.

The Truth About Food effortlessly parades everything we could want from the BBC in a truly brilliant series which will certainly go on to enrich our lives.

I would say that, of course. I'm going to be in it a few weeks from now, illustrating the truth about caffeine and the effect it can have on our bodies (or in my case, a lack of it). But in case you think I'm at all biased, tonight is the first time I've seen any of the series on a post-production screen, and I can honestly say it's the most gripping viewing I've enjoyed in months.

Tonight's episode - the first - tackled the inevitable question of how to be healthy, and did so with remarkable gravitas. The difference between this and programmes like Channel 4's You Are What You Eat (to which it will inevitably be compared), is that here, we enter into the spirit of healthy eating with no moral axe to grind. The world's leading scientists are engaged on a mission to find out exactly what the title implies, and nowhere in the experiments they conduct is there room for Gillian McKeith's sensational guilt tripping comparisons with football pitches full of take-aways or bus loads of sugar.

Instead we're informed by the hard facts of some gripping scientific experiments, like the attempt to take ten obese volunteers back to the diet of apes to see how primeval living may improve their chances of survival. (In case this sounds to you like dull viewing, a further entertainment factor was introduced by the fact the experiment was conducted under convincing jungle conditions... unlike I'm a Celebrity..., which I'm still certain could be shot on an elaborate set on a backlot at Elstree...)

The creative treatment of science kept us watching through a whole hour of experiments. The inspired idea of tracking the progress of a trucker's unusually high-fibre breakfast through his body as Fiona Bruce tracked the progress of his journey ("I can't stop the truck every two hours for a shit", says the trucker); the testing of the old wives' tale that raw garlic improves a man's ability to sustain an erection (which, apparently, it does!); all gripping stuff which leaves us feeling able to make informed decisions about our chosen diet and the effects it may have on our bodies, rather than just a vague guilt as we blindly reach for the next Pot Noodle.

And this, I think, means a lot to people who, in the midst of normal human temptation, are trying their best to lead a healthy life.

It's a great illustration of what the BBC can do so well. Above all, it's quite a brave series too. For example, it's the first time I've ever seen lumps of human poo on my television screen. Granted, Sunday night episodes of Coronation Street often come inadvertently close...

I'll feature alongside Maggie Philbin in the final episode, 'How to be best', on Thursday 15th February at 8pm on BBC2. More on that to follow...

There I am in the car outside Leckhampstead village hall, in West Berkshire, contemplating making the dash between the two. Berkshire was not blessed with the finest weather today.

The reason I'm out in the sticks of God's own county is housing. I won't bore you with details but the Rural Housing Trust are putting up some new houses here, and my word it's tricky finding somewhere to live in Berkshire - if you're on my wage at any rate.

Sadly (for me) you've got to have a local connection to get in on the Leckhampstead act, but there's a bit more chance down at Wokingham, which was my next stop.

It's the same deal there - this "affordable housing", where you only buy a percentage of your home. It's the only way for a lot of people to get on the housing ladder now, I suspect me included.

In case you've not come across it, I'll explain. Say I want to buy a £200,000 house or apartment. At the moment I could rent it, which would cost me £800 or so a month in Berkshire. I can't afford that and it's £800 down the drain each month.

I could buy it outright with a mortgage. Good luck to me trying to find a mortgage to cover £200,000 on my salary. Good luck to me even finding the deposit. Out of the question. If I could somehow do it, it'd be costing me £1,000 per month (we worked all these figures out earlier).

With one of these "affordable housing" shared ownership schemes, I'd only have to buy as little as 25 per cent of the house. So I go off and get a mortgage worth £50,000, which I could certainly do. The housing association buy the rest of the house for me, but they get some rent off me each month.

I end up paying just under £600 a month for my £200,000 house, rent and mortgage combined - a saving of £200 on renting it, and £400 a month on trying to buy it normally.

There are, of course, problems. For example how do you stop living in an "affordable" house once you've started? When you sell up you get your 25 per cent back, but then you're only left with enough to buy 25 per cent of another house.

You can get around that: for instance you could keep buying bits of your house over time, building your 25 per cent up to 100 per cent, and then you're on the housing ladder good and proper - that house is yours. But you can't get around the sheer lack of housing, even in its affordable guise.

I spoke to one man who said he'd been on a six year waiting list, and a woman who'd been waiting three years. It's particularly bad if you need three bedrooms, since housing companies assume affordable housing is for young couples, so restrict their developments to one or two beds each. If you have three children and can only afford to buy property this way, that's bad news.

Also, if you're not a "key worker" (emergency services, NHS, etc) then you're worse off. You can still get property this way, but you're not so much the priority.

In other words I could get an "affordable" house in Wokingham if I wanted to, but it might take me a while to earn that chance, and it's by no means something for nothing (which is, for all the world, how it looks when you're told you can get a house for a quarter of its price).

Having been to that meeting it's worth seriously considering for me. I don't see how I'd do it any other way, not around here at any rate.

The sheer daftness of the situation was summed up later on, back in the BBC canteen. The lady serving food told me her daughter, whose other half plays rugby league professionally, has moved to St Helen's with him. They live in a two bedroom house which cost them :£75,000.

I could spend £75,000 to get a two-bed house here... but I'd only have bought 25 per cent of it.

It will come as no surprise that I have much to add to our current canter on radio station webcams. Whereas Ollie is "no David Sheppard when it comes to obsessive pushing of the print-screen key", I am, after all...

It may surprise you to learn that I have only 698 stills in my collection from the webcams of BBC Radio 2, and I could forgive you for asking what I'd been doing with my time to prevent me from collecting more. The answer is almost certainly listening to the radio.

I recall the first day of the Radio 2 webcam - all the talk of radio becoming television and in-vision fees - and unsurprisingly, can offer you one of the very first shots of that day:

To the uninspired it's a fairly unincredible shot of Terry Wogan in action, addressing the nation as it eats its breakfast, alongside the late, great Pauly Walters as he does the same. But for anybody who's listened to the show with any regularity, anybody who feels they're a part of that world, it's a window on a scene they can instantly recognise. It's a reconciliation of imagination and reality, proof that Terry Wogan does exist outside your speaker, an invitation to join them backstage.

Wogan, Walters and the team cleverly recognised the potential of that window, not as a means of adding the glitz of television as they quipped, but as a way of bringing the listeners closer. Although every bit as accessible as the broadcast itself, the webcam somehow felt like privileged viewing. It became an added bonus for those who wanted it, an extension of the jokes, and very soon we were offered sights like this:

And this:

And eventually, a roaming camera was installed to give us this:

Somehow, the Wake up to Wogan team mastered the art of creating unmissable radio whilst pausing every five minutes for equally unmissable stills on the webcam.

Which is why I've ended up with 698 of the things. How could you not?

Only now that I've spent (albeit a little) time at the BBC does it occur to me, there was almost certainly some management brief being fulfilled here. Producers would undoubtedly have been encouraged to begin fostering an interest in the (then) newly relaunched Radio 2 website, and countless resources would, quite rightly, have been ploughed into cross-platform promotions and competitions to persuade listeners of the benefits of visiting the site and going online generally.

And yet, if this were the case, I'm certain that none of them would have generated the interest that the brilliant Paul Walters managed to achieve with his simple webcam stunts. Apparently effortless, in true Walters style, they took us full circle - exemplary 360 degree programming in current BBC speak - and ultimately enhanced our enjoyment of the original product as well as leading us to the new.

The man was a genius, not least because he had such fun being so.

One of the joys of radio station websites, for me at any rate, is being able to spy on proceedings using the webcams lots of stations provide.

We've already seen David's collection of Radio 2 webcam snapshots come into play in his tribute to Paul Walters:

My personal choice is the 6 Music webcams:

However, I'm no David Sheppard when it comes to obsessive pushing of the print-screen key, so I had to nick that one from the blog of Andrew Collins.

Our station has its own little webcam too, poking out of a corner of studio two from behind the telly. And here I am, whiling away my Sunday afternoon earlier today:

The webcam refreshes every five minutes or so - it isn't constantly streaming, so you'll get no moving pictures. This means there is the potential to become incredibly self-conscious about the precise moment at which the webcam will record its image, lest you end up looking very, very silly:

That's me on Saturday afternoon during our coverage of the ill-fated Reading v Burnley match. Rita, sat behind the desk in the image, drew my attention to it a few minutes later. I have no idea what I'm doing that's made me look like that.

If you'd like to lie in wait for unsuspecting presenters pulling funny faces just as the webcam refreshes itself, you can click here and peer into a little corner of BBC local radio. A prize if you can spot Tiddles...

Football matches postponed at the last minute are a massive hassle for the players and supporters alike. Today, not only did Amy J's beloved Cheltenham see their home game with Scunthorpe called off, but Reading's FA Cup game against Burnley went for a burton in torrential rain at the Madejski Stadium.

Any Burnley fans who'd made the journey down the M6 and M40 cannot have left too happy - particularly as they'll have to do the whole journey again in three days' time if they want to see the match (it's been rescheduled for Tuesday).

But last-minute postponements aren't exactly ideal for radio stations either. Suddenly, at five minutes to three, our local BBC station was left with nothing much to do for the next three hours, as an entire football match plus an hour or so of reaction to the game went by the wayside. We had a bit of warning but essentially, a three-hour gap in our schedule materialised at an incredibly inconvenient point.

Even without the services of Mr Sheppard, lurking like a bad smell lest we need a stand-in presenter for the next few hours, we managed to cope. Thank the lord for the 2006 Sports Review of the Year, which is fairly long and quite interesting, and found itself dusted off for an encore appearance.

The state of the pitch means there'll be no London Irish match there tomorrow either - ironic, given that the two London Irish folk we interviewed earlier in the week sang the praises of the Madejski Stadium and said they were looking forward to getting back to a well-drained pitch.

Still, at least the day wasn't entirely wasted. We got to hear our sports presenter Joel make a brilliant blooper just as the one o'clock news started. In the run-up to the news he'd been regaling us with the story of a rather large spider that had been crawling over his and colleague Tim's notes in the gantry.

Tim had thrown the spider at Joel (you can tell there wasn't too much going on at the Mad Stad at 1pm). Then, as the news began, his microphone at the Mad Stad hadn't entirely been faded down. In the background, faintly audible beyond the voice of the newsreader, we heard Joel's voice:

"Now you've killed the bloody spider!"

Beautiful.

Speaking of things which appear where they probably shouldn't, here's another culprit:

My mobile phone camera finds the dark quite a challenge, so you may well need telling that you're looking at a cat, sat at the end of a pedestrian crossing in the BBC car park.

This, you understand, is a BBC car park guarded by a massive fence surrounding the whole complex, plus all kinds of barriers and additional security measures. Recently we've all been given "Internal Safety Zones" or some such - the general consensus seems to be that this is where we hide should anyone mount a land-based attack on the premises. Given the international monitoring work of our colleagues on the other side of the complex, I think it's probably more to do with them than angry licence-fee payers trying to get at us.

The basic idea is: you don't get in, but that doesn't seem to have fazed our moggy friend. I'm told we're regularly visited by several cats (obviously Tiddles has to get in, but I assume he has a pass). Let's hope nobody has progressed from bombdogs to grenade cats.

"It's amazing what you can download from the internet these days..." says Henry Kelly, inadvertently clubbing the head of today's nail while ribbing his producer yesterday. I echo the sentiment of the last speaker.

Here's the photograph I've waited almost twenty years to see:

I didn't take it - God knows, I wish I had - but I discovered it today among the Suburban Electric Railway Association's fine collection of photographs on their website. Take me back twenty years, and it would have been the best Christmas present I could possibly have received.

Before I tell you why, let's leave behind the notion that what you see here is merely an ordinary train. Trust me, it's not - and if you're one of those strange people who can't be excited by any train, ordinary or extraordinary (I've seen your type grouped along the middle of the platform), let's leave that behind too. Imagine yourself as a five-year-old boy who laps up the mere sniff of any train, let alone one as significant as this.

(As BBC management would say, there's a human story in all this.)

What you see is a photograph of one of British Rail's three prototype High Density units, 'PEPs' as they were known (an acronym of "Prototype Electro-Pneumatic", but dubbed by the press at their launch as "Pack 'Em Perpendicular"). To the layman, these were the forerunners of just about every British-built train you can travel on today - the first suburban overground train with electric sliding doors, the pioneer of the electronic coupling between carriages, and the test bed for dozens of new functions we now take as standard on our trains.

Above, you see 4002 (the second of three units) in a derelict state at the back of Clapham Junction's most unreachable siding; just how I was introduced to it almost twenty years ago. A trip to London with my father to indulge our mutual passion for trains took us to 'CJ' (as we know it) for the first time in 1987, and I immediately became engrossed with a faded old train in a siding we could barely make out in the distance. Legend has it that I spoke of nothing else for days; I made models of it from cardboard boxes, drew it everywhere I went, and worshipped the one photograph my Dad was able to dig out of his collection, albeit from its heyday.

Ah yes, its heyday:

Unsurprisingly, much attention was lavished on these trains when they launched in 1972. They represented a new era in British rail travel, modern thinking at a time when being seen to be modern was everything. Yet, once testing was over, their demise was virtually unchronicled even by the railway press. This little train, with its faded yellow front, taught a young Mr Sheppard a whole new range of emotions; he felt sorry for it, abandoned as it was, and he felt angry that nobody shared his curiosity enough to write anything about it - or, especially, to photograph it.

Most of all, it taught him the art of longing. For three long years, I wanted nothing more than to go and see the PEP up close. I wrote (in PEP-coloured pencils) to the Chief Engineer of British Rail's Southern Region, but received no reply; my letter was probably mistaken for a complaint. Three years which, in recollecting them now, seem like a far lengthier chapter in my childhood - the PEP obsession was probably the most important thing to me at the time.

Those three years came to an end in November 1990, when on one of our many journeys to London to see the PEP (most boys go to see the Queen), something extraordinary happened. My Dad and I were aboard a fast train to Waterloo, and so passed through CJ at some speed. All the same, we could see the PEP was no longer in its distant, unreachable siding, but... crikey, actually moving slowly through the station, and in full view!

My snatched few seconds up close to the PEP as our train thundered past turned out to be the last time I would see it. By the time we could return to CJ on a stopping train, it had gone. Two weeks later, it was broken up at a scrapyard in Yorkshire, characteristically without ceremony. As a young child, it felt like a personal assault - that somebody could so easily destroy something that meant so much to me. Today, it seems no less of a tragedy that nobody, not least the National Railway Museum, cared enough to save such a significant part of our railway history.

It turns out that day was the first time the PEP had turned a wheel in over seven years. It was also my ninth Birthday. What felt then like a cruel taunt from the God of railways (or, the more secular Chief Engineer of British Rail's Southern Region), now seems like a most uncanny Birthday present of a lifetime; a happy coincidence which at least gave me a chance to witness the PEP's departure, albeit for a mere few seconds. After all, I could so easily have been taken to London the following day instead.

So, thank heaven for the internet. Twenty years on, I have the chance to study the PEP up close in a way I never got to do in person. It's lost none of its mystique for me, and it probably never will. This second instalment of my ninth Birthday present is almost certainly as close as technology can take me to actually being there; but again we must conclude, it's truly amazing what can be downloaded from the internet.

Post title in tribute to those many trips to London with my Dad, some of my happiest times and the memories I treasure most. Casey Jones, the 'other' CJ, was a burger chain (named after the legendary American railwayman) with outlets at most of the mainline stations in London, a usual lunchtime haunt. I miss them, too...

Remember Tiddles? He's David's on-air correspondent from a variety of events: football matches, local fetes, foreign postings, the lot. He's also a cat. To the untrained human ear it can sound as though David's simply playing a "strangulated meow" effect from a bank of audio clips on a computer - but all cats, even the barely visible Basil, can understand every word.

Well, we're slowly piecing together more information about Tiddles with every appearance. And today I discovered that Tiddles is owned by none other than cricketing legend Geoffrey Boycott!

I got my first clue at 1:30pm, while reading a sports bulletin. Geoffrey, ever one to have an opinion, reckons it's a disgrace that England's cricketers all got MBEs last year, and now they're being humbled by the Aussies. We had an audio clip of him saying as much - and adding that he was going to give his own OBE to his cat, as it meant nothing any more.

Richard, the presenter on air at the time, punctuated this by declaring the cat to be "Tiddles, OBE". Ah-ha, I thought. So that's where he's been all winter! Every since the football season started and David's Saturday show found itself replaced by live commentary, our feline correspondent's headed Down Under with Mr Boycott to watch some cricket.

But I couldn't quite be sure. As has been widely documented, all BBC journalists need at least two sources for their stories these days. Patience was needed.

My lucky break came while driving home listening to Five Live. It's often the case that the sports scripts and clips we get are from the central BBC newsgathering service, which pumps out material to all BBC radio stations. In this instance, the very same Geoffrey Boycott clip had found its way onto the Five Live cricket round-up that evening.

The moment it had finished, Five Live's Russell Fuller declared Geoffrey's cat "Tiddles, OBE". That was uncanny (uncatty?). Why should two radio presenters, on different radio stations, at different times of day, without being prompted, both plump for "Tiddles" as the name of Geoffrey Boycott's cat? Clearly it could only mean one things - it's our very own Tiddles!

My great fear now is that, unable as I am to distinguish Tiddles' insightful analysis from a strangulated-meow sound effect, I don't know what accent he has. If he sounds anything like Boycott, heaven only knows what we've been unleashing on the feline population of Berkshire.

Oh and speaking of cats on the radio - here is a radio station dedicated to cats.

Finally I should make the point that while both presenters went for the oh-so-predictable "Tiddles, OBE" joke, I took it to a new level, announcing that Geoffrey's cat had been elevated to the Order of the British Em-Purr. I thank you.

From the dross of broadcasting, to the boss of broadcasting; or certainly - as Russell Davies put it in his Radio 2 documentary 'From Broadcast to Podcast' on New Year's Eve - one of its rather talented Uncles.

This week I have the pleasure of working with the great Henry Kelly on his radio show, and although my role is restricted to pressing the odd button on behalf of a regular minion completing his festive holiday, I'm only too pleased to begin 2007 in such a way.

The delights of a morning spent in a confined space with a broadcasting legend like Henry are many. He'll disappear seconds after the start of a record and reappear seconds before its end, clutching two cups of fresh soup, one for him, one for you; he'll regale you with irreverent stories that leave you crying with laughter long after he's regained composure enough to rattle off a (slightly) cleaned-up version for the benefit of his listeners.

But above all, you always learn so much. Did you know, for example, that Henry is the only man in Europe to own a bouncy castle made entirely of PVC leather? Or that Henry launched the highly successful Llama Wear clothes label, whose jumpers and cardigans were critically acclaimed at Milan Fashion Week? No, neither did he...

In today's show, one of Henry's regular technology pundits was extolling the virtues of Wikipedia, a phenomenon which was apparently just as new to Henry as it would be to the listeners. To illustrate, Mr Technology tried to impress Henry by quoting a string of Henry Kelly facts from his page in the Wiki annals, and duly impressed Henry was.

Had that reading of 'facts' been allowed to continue south along the page, I'm certain the result would have been quite different. Later during a record, Henry's producer called through to the studio and demanded to know more about "the Crawford Baptie scandal", in which "(Henry), Bob Holness and Bruno Brookes had (allegedly) spent £10,000 of BBC money at a Liberace auction house in Stoneybridge".

Henry was equally surprised and amused to read about the scandal, just as he was to learn about his supposed ownership of the bouncy castle and his pioneering role in the llama fashion market. The horse's mouth playfully dismissed it on-air as "nonsense", and promptly went back to drinking its soup. Great radio.

Besides, it's not the first time Henry's been exposed to a little online indiscretion, and it's a delight to note that like so many of the broadcasting greats, he doesn't take any of it too seriously. As Henry himself remarked as he pawed over his Producer's lovingly crafted script to introduce today's classical music spot, "It's amazing what you can download from the internet these days..."

See below for Torchwood tonight, but while watching the antics of the cryptic Cardiff crew I was flicking over to Channel 4 for the start of Celebrity Big Brother.

Good of them, I thought, to follow last year's "non-celebrity" ploy to its logical conclusion - by including eleven non-celebrities in this year's list of eleven housemates. Do you know who this lot are?

• Jermaine Jackson
• Danielle Lloyd
• Dirk Benedict
• Jo O'Meara
• Ian Watkins
• Ken Russell
• Leo Sayer
• Shilpa Shetty
• Cleo Rocos
• Carole Malone
• Donny Tourette

I'd have guessed that Jermaine Jackson was something to do with the Jackson Five, correctly. I might have eventually remembered that Ken Russell is a film director. I know who Leo Sayer is. The rest, I'd never have had a hope.

My Celebrity Big Brother dream team, trying to be realistic, would have been:

• Leo Sayer - keep him in, he's good
• Donny Tourette - alright so I didn't know who he was, but good entrance
• Phil Tufnell - nice and topical
• Lembit Opik - give him some more C-list celebs to nibble at
• 'Comical Ali' - the Iraqi Information Minister
• Aled Jones - not too many people have seen him post-Snowman, even if they've heard him
• Dawn French, in character as the Vicar of Dibley
• Sooty and Matthew Corbett - two people, can be voted off separately. Let's see Sooty try to get by without Matthew
• Toni Basil - of "Mickey" fame
• Davina McCall - taste of your own medicine, love

Anyone I've missed? (Try to be reasonable about it, although you can have one or two "unlikelies". I'll admit Comical Ali might be a tricky one to nail down.)

I've had enough. The Torchwood season finale has pushed me over the edge. Let me see if I can give you an idea of the plot:

The lead character and the resident piece of totty end up in 1941 instead of the 21st century. It turns out an old, scary-looking bloke with an old, scary-looking name is messing with time when he's not running his antiques shop. Everyone starts having visions and goes a bit mad, culminating in one of the Good Guys shooting the Main Good Guy dead. Three times over.

Or so we thought. But three days later the piece of totty kisses him and wakes him up, just as Hans Christian Andersen begins to spin violently in his grave. Then he disappears. The end.

Granted, it was mildly entertaining. But when boiled down to the above component parts, it has to be said that the plot is utter shite. I think the nadir came when this gargantuan creature, pretty much the devile incarnate according to folklore, could apparently do no better than scare a few shoppers in downtown Cardiff before succumbing to a bloke we'd just seen shot dead.

Yes, I know I'm skipping over some plot points from previous episodes which make this scenario marginally more understandable, but essentially you need to be licking some remarkably hallucinogenic toads to come up with this stuff.

With this in mind, I hereby form a new group: LOTADROSS.

LOTADROSS - the League Of Television Addicts Demanding Realistic Or Sensible Storylines - exists to prevent this sort of thing happening again.

The plan is that the moment we hear of a scriptwriter trying to come up with something like this, we shut them in a dungeon somewhere below Cardiff. We then shoot them, open a time rift, and send them into it with a 200-foot tall monster. Let them see how it feels, and see if they feel like documenting it in the form of light entertainment when they get back. It's the only way they'll learn.

For many, New Year's Eve carries something of a tradition, and for most, it's a tradition that breeds disappointment. Post-Christmas blues are kept at bay with a niggling suspicion that something wonderful is on the way for 'New Year'; yet when push comes to shove, when January comes to December, when Ben's biggety comes to bong, we're usually too tired to enjoy it. We're not just physically tired, of course, but completely drained of the will to party, and with immunity to alcohol built-up to an all time high, even your warmest mulled wine won't defrost the heart of the weary reveller.

This is partly why I've never bothered with big plans for New Year's Eve. I usually spend it at home with my family, and potter off to my radio around midnight to catch up with the chimes (and, sadistically, to see if the New Year plans of various radio stations have worked out). Ollie and I almost volunteered our services as co-hosts for our station's New Year's Eve show, but with such a busy run up to Christmas, decided we probably couldn't do it justice.

Our reserve plan - if a plan it may so be called, given it was finalised by text message only minutes beforehand - was to spend the evening in a quiet country pub, eating and drinking as the mood took us, and counting down to a midnight full of contentment and calm. We couldn't have got it more right.

Bring on the Fox & Hounds in Christmas Common, on the Oxfordshire/Berkshire/Buckinghamshire border, and conveniently a mere few miles from Williams HQ (thus, even more conveniently for some, rendering me the obvious choice as the non-drinking driver). What luck...

I'd been to lunch with friends in Buckinghamshire, so hopped across the M40 to Ollie's house in Stokenchurch, only to find him clad in full suit and tie and smelling like a coconut tree. Apparently, he'd decided on the outfit moments before my arrival in casual blue shirt and muddy trousers, still drenched from my afternoon walk in the driving rain. Very dashing he looked...

For the uninitiated, the Fox & Hounds is a great little place, quite certain of itself at the upper-end of the gastro pub market, and certainly one of the best attempts I've seen by a country pub to shift the emphasis towards quite upmarket food (a move that can be disastrous if the ambience feels confused, or the food turns out to be naff). We went there for the first time on Ollie's birthday and loved it, largely because the food was good and yet the pub was still allowed to be quaint, and certainly unpretentious.

Just as well it remained thus on New Year's Eve. We arrived - him looking ravishing, me looking ravished - and immediately we began wondering what our hosts would think of their two new arrivals, Chalk and Cheese. We (and undoubtedly, they), settled on the verdict that there was something slightly seedy about our appearance, huddled in the corner, Ollie in a suit and tie, me in a Dayorama anorak. It must, we concluded, have looked as though Ollie was being paid for his company by the hour...

Several courses and many indiscretions later, all pointing to that same dreaded conclusion, the time came to pay up. Having paid a chunk on my card, Ollie opened his wallet and announced that he'd be paying the remainder in cash, producing a sizeable bundle of notes which could easily have constituted his earnings for the night. Eyebrows were raised, red cheeks were covered, and we left ahead of time to go and retrieve some items from Williams HQ.

Still keen on the idea of the midnight countdown, we returned to the Fox & Hounds an hour later for extended last orders, much to the mercifully veiled amusement of all present. I'm sure they'd drawn their own conclusions as to the nature of the interlude. Midnight came, along with the desired calm and contentment, and we decided to complete our party piece by leaving more or less on the... erm, stroke of midnight. No 'overtime' from this client, then.

A final indiscretion came on the journey home when, spotting a parked van on a verge with its interior light ablaze, I questioned whether we'd accidentally strayed into dogging territory. Ollie almost spoiled his suit with laughter as, moments later, the sign for "Stokenchurch Dog Sanctuary" homed into view...

A break with tradition certainly did the trick for New Year's Eve, and brought about the happiest possible start to the year, setting (as my escort said) a precedent for future years. Next year I'm hoping for a discount.

Today, millions of people returned from a Christmas holiday, and given my Dayorama reticence since December 20th, you could be forgiven for thinking I'm among them. I'm here to tell you otherwise.

In fact, I've endured possibly the busiest few weeks of my life, a period for which my little overnight stay at the BBC's unofficial hostel prepared me little...

My bedding down in Studio 1A gave rise to a 72 hour period with only six hours of refreshing sleep, followed by eleven hours on-air in three days, and a similar number of hours spent producing behind the scenes. But that's nothing compared to the self-inflicted labours of the Christmas period. Alongside such pains, I've managed to spread myself across no fewer than eight festive parties, seven different turkeys, six house visits, five go-old rings, four DVDs, three old friends, two country pubs, and a Park and Ride in a Peartree... Interchange.

(Actually, the latter comes next week, when I visit an Oxford-based friend I didn't manage to squeeze into Christmas plans. Must do better next year...)

Anyone who regards Christmas as anything like a holiday is either neglecting their duties as an adult human being, or has mastered the art of organising their Yuletide considerably better than I have. Either way, I salute them with what little energy I have left, as I stumble to my desk to resume normal daily life.

There's much I'm eager to tell you, but there's time enough for that now I've been reunited with my PC (I've actually been away from it since Christmas Eve). Instead, I thought it would be timely to reflect on the closing of 2006 from a personal point of view.

For me, 2006 has seemed one of the more static years I can remember. In so many respects, my situation at the end of the year is little changed from when we welcomed the new year twelve months ago. But then, there's no reason it's needed to have changed; it's the first complete year since childhood where I've not been progressed by subscription to a course of sorts, some structure, be it a Key Stage, GCSEs, A-Levels or a degree course.

For the first time, I've been calling the shots entirely, and having chosen to learn thoroughly the rudiments of my profession at the coal face, I've subscribed to what may be regarded as 'the longer game'. It may not have been the year where dreams come true, but I shall regard 2006 as sound investment in the great game, and perhaps the forbearer of some reward in 2007.

Somehow, I've a feeling 2007 will be an altogether faster year. Remember the Grow Your Own bus which we watched intently as it became a man? Well, just look at how two days outside its watery garage in 2007 have seen it shrink back to its original size...

(Fear not - it can be grown and shrunk as often as we need.)

And dear Basil, surely the most cautious cat of 2006; two days into 2007, and already a much bolder cat has emerged from under the bed for a look out onto the wider world. Here's a photo taken from outside the window of our empty house as I arrived back tonight, which marks a major development in cat confidence.

Of course, he was straight back under the bed the moment my key turned in the front door, but at least we know he was there...

All in all, whatever 2007 brings for us, I hope there'll be some of the little gems which made us smile through 2006, and plenty more besides. I'm delighted to be seeing in a new year on Dayorama.

Alright, look, I promise I'll stop this in a few days when I've exhausted my Planet Earth box set.

In the mean time tonight's animal of choice is the tibetan fox, a strong candidate for the title of "Daftest Looking Fox" in any year.

Look at it! It's bloody beautiful (I do like a good fox), but as even David Attenborough observes, "Why the square head?". Bonkers fox, that is. It also has an amazing way of stalking prey, which essentially involves a strut-cum-shuffle. Imagine Michael Jackson stalking... well, I can't say that, can I? You get the idea.

Sadly for the black-lipped pika, it gets the idea only too well:

The pika, which looks uncannily like it might have been the inspiration for better-known namesake Pikachu, is almost the only item on your average tibetan fox's menu. Analysis of tibetan fox droppings (what a job) reveals that 95 per cent of their diet is black-lipped pika. Never a good statistic for a black-lipped pika to have to live with.

Why's it just black-lipped pikas (pikae?) anyway? Perhaps a pika with a bit of lippy on somehow proves a turn-off. Maybe it's tibetan fox food - maybe it's Maybelline.

I missed the entirety of the landmark Planet Earth series - narrated, of course, by David Attenborough - when it hit our screens last year. That was a mistake. Now I'm lucky enough to have been given the DVD box set for Christmas and there's stunning footage at every turn, like this little fellow:

Well, maybe not that fellow, but one of his very close friends. It's a blind salamander, featured in the episode of Planet Earth dedicated to life in caves. Since it never sees the light it has no pigment to its skin and, more importantly, no need for eyes. It appears that, rather than developing without eyes, the salamander did have eyes to start with. Evolution has slowly but surely taken them away - just one of hundreds of marvels I've enjoyed watching in the opening five episodes.

The other night I ended up discussing what I'd do if I won a substantial amount of money on the lottery (yes, that old chestnut of a conversation - but with a dash of topicality as I'd just won the princely sum of £10 on it).

The answer's simple: I'd set up my own company producing natural history television. I can think of no better way to live life than filming, and talking about, the world around us. Every time I see a programme like this, I think, "Surely it's all been done now." But it never has. There's always somewhere new to go, some new technology to use, some unbelievable new footage to show us. I'd love to be a part of that some day.

Oh, and just quickly: bless the French. In a knowing nod to their reputation for saying "no" to everything, they spent today protesting - against 2007.

From BBC News Online:

"Demonstrators in the western city of Nantes waved banners reading: 'No to 2007' and 'Now is better!'

"The arrival of 2007 did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm. The protesters began to chant: 'No to 2008!'."

I don't think I share their pessimism - after all, I might just end up with that lottery win. If I find myself looking a blind salamander in the cavities where its eyes once were, I'll know the year is going well.