Yes! Here we go again. For the next God-knows-how-many months, Big Brother will be on our screens. And as per the last series, I'll do my best to hate it, then surrender and watch every minute.

There were live updates throughout the launch show - start at the bottom of this post then scroll up to read them in order.

22:12 - Carole

That's your lot: Carole, in her fifties, is the Alan Sugar of the house, threatening to go in and "shake people up". Expect her to point a finger and yell "You're fired!" when people get evicted.

This lady seems to bridge the gap between Tracey (share East London accents) and Lesley (share a certain age).

"She's like mum," says Sarah, who will not thank me for repeating that in the public domain. If her mother is reading this, I'm sure she didn't mean it. Carole is apparently divorced and bisexual, says Davina. No further comment from myself or Sarah.

Carole is getting big response from the crowd, and it's all positive. Maybe Nicki isn't the out-and-out favourite? Carole is a winner with Sarah, Davina and the fans, which must give her the early lead. The Big Brother website only has three housemates on it so far - poor effort. No surnames either, Glen, so the stalking reaches a temporary halt.

Hilariously, we're about to go into an episode of Desperate Housewives, which is of course precisely what we've got in the Big Brother house, as an almighty final cheer goes up for Carole. Big Brother is back. No men! Amen! Goodnight.

22:09 - Nicki

Nicki (could be Nikki, or any other variant, missed it again) has Sarah's vote. She chatted religion in her video, which is a first, and was adopted from Mother Theresa's orphanage, which is an unlikely base from which to go on to become a Big Brother contestant.

On the grounds of audience reception and video content, she might go far, you know. She also likes parmesan cheese which can never hurt. She's got that genuine smile, unlike most of the other lot, who are trying to look like celebrities before they've done the hard part.

Over go the twins to the diminutive Nicki - either all the other girls are tall or she's in desperate need of some better heels. By now they must all have twigged there's not going to be any male talent in the house, but no mention as yet...

22:03 - Laura

Ah ha, here's the cute Welsh one we always get! Except... well... let's be diplomatic and hope the cuteness will flow at a later date.

Laura is wearing mildly scary make-up in her video, but has a nice voice. She apparently sweeps leaves at her local graveyard, and her friends say she looks like Peter Kay. Forget Laura, put her friends in the house! They'd sort the twins out.

For a 16-year-old, my fellow Big Brother analyst Sarah is proving surprisingly adept at shaming the Big Brother producers. First she ridiculed the notion of an all-female house, and now she asks: "Will there be a disabled contestant?"

Aside from Tourette's syndrome, we've never had one, have we? Interesting. Very interesting. In goes Laura, to the question: "Are you Welsh?" And they're off, discussing each other's friends from Newport.

By the way, what's Chris Moyles doing presenting the Big Brother sideshows for Channel 4! Traitorous bastard. His leather jacket is a few sizes up on Davina's - see, if she was pregnant, they could have bought them in bulk.

21:57 - Glen, I don't know

Glen has left a comment asking for the surnames of the contestants. Sadly I can't provide this information since I'm only a humble viewer and the Big Brother website isn't telling us. I can tell you Charley is Charley Richardson, I believe, cousin to Man United's Kieran - other than that, no idea.

And Glen - isn't that a tad stalker-ish? Going to Facebook them, are we?

21:55 - Emily

"I'm not a rich bitch," says Emily, which is a disappointment, because if she was I'd be there in a shot.

"I look like Peaches Geldof," she adds, which is a second good point since I'm quite the Peaches man but have never previously revealed this.

"Isn't it about time you put an intelligent woman on the show?" Oh dear. Emily doesn't understand the concept. She also wants "rocker boys" in the house, but the closest she's going to get is the great unwashed pink hair of Tracey.

Emily is in a delicate coral blue number and takes plenty of time to indulge the paparazzi. She looks slightly overwhelmed by it all and is keeping her mouth shut, which is quite an excellent way to go about things given tonight's previous contestants.

Her favourite word is "hoodwink", which impresses both Davina and myself. Going down the stairs she reminds me of Keira Knightley post-Bend It Like Beckham, which was a very good look.

One of the twins has just greeted her in an octave not even audible to dogs. Judging by the 20-second snapshot of the house, Tracey and Lesley have gone off to a corner to chat, which is surprising but encouraging. Adverts.

21:50 - Shabnam

"People think I'm a mad lunatic, which I am." At least the honesty is somewhat refreshing from Shabnam, who apparently has a dodgy ticker, which is a horrible accident waiting to happen.

"I love reading on the toilet," she tells us, automatically earning my vote for the foreseeable future. "I'm passionate about people that like to eat," she adds, earning my vote for the entire series.

Alright I take that back, she's yelled "Cheer me" so often going down the line of fans that I just want her to go away. She's wearing pink, which is going to endear her to the twins.

Sarah does not agree with my verdict that enjoyment of toilet literature is A Good Thing. Anyone else? It's an institution in our house.

Down goes Shabby, screaming like a twin when she enters the house. "You're twins, but you look lovely," she tells the twins, implying most twins look like the back ends of the same bus. Must be careful, there is probably a twin reading this.

21:46 - Chanel

Big Brother contestant in "I'd like to be famous" shock. Chanel tries to model herself on Victoria Beckham and talks at roughly nine thousand words a second - I talk quickly but not, at least, about Victoria Beckham's second-album-which-wasn't-released-cos-her-record-label-didn't-want-to-make-it.

Not sure if that's how you spell Chanel - I missed it on screen and, shockingly, the official Big Brother website is not updating live as these things go on! That's it, lads, leave it to me to carry the nation's obsession.

Down the steps goes Chanel, into the pit of pink. Charley is off to say hello first, and Chanel says the booing made her want to cry - that wasn't half as bad as the reception some of the others, Charley included, got. Mark this one 'fragile'.

21:41 - Tracey

Well, technically there are still no men in the house, but Tracey (why does everyone have a Y at the end?) is near enough to count. If you've ever seen Stargate SG-1, she has the voice of a Goa'uld. For the rest of you, that's a very deep voice. It's also got a very London twang. I've got no idea what she does or who she is because the voice somehow captivated me.

"What's with all the women?" Demands my good friend Sarah. I wonder if Big Brother have entirely thought this all-girl premise through. The teenage female population could get remarkably stressed without a Glyn to ogle.

Tracey has appeared with pink hair and patchwork hoodie, looking like a mop in a technicoloured dreamcoat. "Fucking 'av it," is Tracey's opening gambit to the world.

Now, given the pink hair, the twins should love this... but they seem slightly unnerved by another "'Av it!". Lesley is not going to last long, Tracey will have eaten her by breakfast.

21:33 - Charley

Charley doesn't work - she says she's been fired from all her jobs - and is apparently a South-East London "It" Girl. I already hate her, which is precisely what I'm supposed to do (no point fighting the producers' whim on these things).

"I speak so much, I'm flirtatious, and I'm hot," says Charley. The booing is twice what it was for the twins. Charley looks like any silver screen prostitute you'd care to name. I'm not totally sure if I can be sued for saying that, but really, she's dressed in denim hotpants beyond description.

In goes Charley looking a little underwhelmed by her reception. "Oh my God," she pants as she descends the stairs. Over go the twins like pink clones of the Andrex puppy. "Those hotpants are gorgeous!" God save us. "I'm Lesley," says Lesley, in the kind of deadpan voice employed by Dougal on the Magic Roundabout when things get a bit too much.

By the way I'm taking some flak for changing the Dayorama banner to honour the start of Big Brother. I'm proud to watch this shite. The rest of you can put up with it. Adverts.

21:30 - Lesley

There is an elderly lady! She's Lesley, she's 60, and she can clearly get in a bath unaided because remember, the bath is in the living room and there's no Bath Knight attached.

"The British public will either love me or hate me," says Lesley, who has not bargained on taking a bath in front of them.

Lesley, with short, dark hair, a neat white blazer and dark trousers, gets a warm reception from the crowd, who clearly feel obliged to cheer the token geriatric.

Now she meets the twins... who run over like some kind of bizarre, pink leeches. "Hello, we're twins," say the twins. "It's uncanny, isn't it?", replies Lesley. But the twins have moved on. "Oh my God, is that the only bath?" This will be a long night.

21:25 - Twins

In the never-ending quest for the lowest common denominator, Big Brother has conjured up a pair of young, blonde twins. "If there's only one fit boy in the house, we'll share him," says One Of The Twins, as I shall call them for the rest of the series.

Now if we assume the rumour of an all-girl house is true, and there's no fit boy to share, does that mean they...? Let's not go there.

Their car has taken forever to arrive. Their names are Sam and Amanda by the way, and they're dressed in white with pink Hawaiian skirts, with yellow handbags that might as well be Lego. I've not seen less style since David fell in a river. There is booing and cheering in equal measure among the crowd.

Surprise surprise, they liken themselves to Paris Hilton. Well alright, only one of them did, but like everyone else I'm going to start lumping them together in everything they do. I wonder if they only get one phone number for voting?

They've successfully negotiated the "Push" doors, so maybe they're not like Paris Hilton after all. There is a lot of screaming. They're both in the bath. This will need to remain post-watershed, I fear. The booing outside has reached a crescendo.

21:15 - Diary room

The chair is a brilliant and transparent white, the rest of it is black. It's alright. Could have done better. Adverts: Virgin mobile have taken over the Carphone Warehouse slot. Sorry guys, not the same without Mobli.

21:10 - Budget cuts at Channel 4

They've got Davina operating a handheld camcorder. Couldn't afford the crew could we, boys? "I'm rubbish at home movies," says Davina. Great.

The entrance to the house has gone all white, then you get to a chessboard "vestibule area" (no smoking in it, presumably), and then into a garishly coloured living room.

The table has "Eat" written on it - you can tell the calibre of individual the show attracts to take part - and there are shelves all over the shop. "My jacket is so tight, I can't quite reach," squeaks Davina as she tries to reach the top shelf. This is why we're watching.

The bath is indeed in the living room. One assumes there are no elderly contestants as there is no Bath Knight attached. There is a telephone which looks like a fish - each time Davina asks what something is for, the production team giving her talkback don't bother telling her. It's nice to know those in charge don't even want Davina knowing why they want a telephone resembling a fish on a mantelpiece.

Lots of different beds, including a tiny bed created for the Amy Kennedys of this world. There's then a huge bed, created for the... now I've got a choice of me, OJ or David, and I don't want to die, so I'll move on.

My word, the bathroom is actually quite nice. Given the one constant of each BB series is a housemate crying in the bathroom, this will vastly improve viewing. Davina likes it. She reckons the tap on the sink is "like a river", which suggests Davina hasn't been in many hotels recently, where these things tend to be a staple.

Davina has just managed to film her autocue. This camcorder is a terrible idea, not least because I want a camcorder and she's there waving one about like they're ten a penny.

They've put the oven in the bedroom. They're talking my language.

20:59 - And first in the house it's... Ofcom!

Ha ha ha! I'd read about this but seeing it on air only makes it better. Congratulations to Ofcom for making Channel 4 air a detailed explanation of its ruling immediately prior to the live launch of BB8. Hell, even I don't understand it, let alone the millions of brain-dead teenagers watching, but they'll realise some sort of shit has gone down, and that'll do.

By the way we've already seen Davina, and she's not - repeat not - pregnant. I'm not sure I can carry on watching. It's the not same - no baby bump, no Carphone Warehouse adverts every 50 seconds, no Glyn... Argh!

20:55 - Rumours

Rumours, rumours, rumours. The BBC has already produced a handy selection. Apparently...

• The show will start with an all-girl house
• Relative of Premiership footballer in the house (member of the Barton family maybe?)
• An Islamic contestant will wear a veil
• The bath will be in the living room

But this doesn't address the major issue: will Davina be pregnant?

It just won't feel the same if she isn't. Big Brother is only Big Brother if Davina McCall is on national television about to pop. We know Davina's back, but if there's no miniature Davina in tow, it'll be a crushing disappointment. And with three minutes to go, time for a pregnant pause.

Now, you see I think Ollie was slightly pessimistic about our little jaunt. Many people I spoke to at work yesterday seemed to give up doing anything due to the weather this weekend. Where's the British spirit, eh?! We had the brolly and the fleece all that was missing was the the flask of lukewarm coffee. I suppose it was always going to turn out to be a bizarre day when we rocked up to a very well respected restaurant in jeans. But, money is money. We'd also had an entertaining argument with a Porsche to get into the car park. The driving around also had moments of hilarity. I think it was Ollie's idea to follow the tourist signs. His post neglects to mention our trip to the "Battlefield". This promised to be quite exciting. In all honesty, it wasn't that exciting. There was a memorial to the Civil War, dedicated to Prince Rupert, and a helpful tourist information sign with a map and details of the battle. We could have sat on a bench to admire said battlefield, but it was raining. What else? Well, we saw lapwings, a jay and a woodpecker. That's the ornithology done. My blackberry had its uses: we were able to find out the meaning for why a lapwing is called a lapwing and / or a peewit and also the meaning for "hermitage". Don't ask. You see it sounds boring, but it was fun. And finally, considering we had two sat-navs in the car, we also discovered that all roads lead to Lewknor. Honest, guv.

Right then, so we're back from Norway. Here's a quick fast-forward from then (last Tuesday) til now (this Tuesday):

We left the Lofoten Islands on the early ferry, so had plenty of time to kill in Bodø before the flight back to Oslo. Happily help was at hand in the form of a coach trip to Saltstraumen - a natural phenomenon which creates the world's largest maelstrom, throwing up enormous whirlpools in a narrow channel as water tries to flow both inland and out to sea at once.

We spotted the coach making its way through town before departing, flagged it down and hopped on board. "Don't worry," said the driver. "We'll sort out payment later."

Canny boy, that driver. It cost nearly sixty quid to take this coach the half hour or so to Saltstraumen. Now the trip was quite good, and the audio tour which accompanied it highly interesting, but at thirty quid a person they were slightly taking the Michael.

It was quite a quiet day at Saltstraumen itself, but my mum still managed to get a good photo showing the whirlpools being formed:

Now then, going back to that audio tour on the bus. What a gem this was. Not only did it impart interesting information, but the voice behind the information was truly out of this world. Well, straight out of Yorkshire, actually, with a distinct Norwegian tinge. Have a listen - it's like Norway's answer to Michael Parkinson.

I half thought about writing to the company to offer my services for a new voice-over. But then who'd prefer my voice to that? It's fantastic.

The following morning we flew home - customary ham and cheese sandwich on the way back, do the Norwegians know no different? Ginsters would make a killing in Norway, sandwich variety is at a bare minimum. The weather in England was far too hot! I don't know if it all changed while I was away, but in Norway the pleasant, crisp air had been ideal. Here in Blighty it's gone all warm and stuffy - nightmare.

At the weekend yours truly got to sample Aussie Rules football for a radio report - pics and audio going online on the Berkshire site soon, brilliant afternoon's entertainment and highly recommended.

Then on Monday the one and only Amy Kennedy came to visit. Given the atrocious weather (much more like it) we spent the Bank Holiday driving round southern England in the car. When we reached Stadhampton Amy mentioned something about there being a posh restaurant nearby. We found it:

Avoiding the £45 caviar and £35 duck eggs benedict on the Crazy Bear's menu, we both enjoyed nice steaks, then carried on the pursuit of something, anything, to hold our interest on a damp Bank Holiday. We came up with...

The Maharajah's Well near Stoke Row...

A flooded road which gave the Dodge serious cause for concern...

And a pig farm.

Writing this, it becomes apparent that that's a fairly desperate collection of photos, but funnily enough it didn't feel that bad at the time. We nearly went into the Living Rainforest but were scared off by the ridiculous number of children, and got as far as Newbury before turning round. At least it got us out of the house.

My dad is now back home following his hip operation, which is cause for celebration - he's doing well and is now fiercely guarding the remote control from his new command centre next to the TV in the living room. In the mean time Harry dragged me to the local cricket pitch this afternoon to test his new Kwik Cricket set, and we found ourselves helped by a West Indian far more competent than the ones England are facing - a nine-year-old named Tyler with a mean left-arm seam action.

And in the last few hours I've watched a quite harrowing documentary on BBC4, following a group of youngsters training at a Chinese gymnastics school. Children who can't have been more than eight or nine years old were bullied, threatened and abused by their teachers for an hour and twenty minutes with no narration, just the raw video and audio over a number of months. Then we see them perform and they're amazing, not to mention national Chinese champions. But at what cost? If you ever see this repeated, I urge you to watch it.

Now, either my flat is too small or my umbrella is too big. I have a rather large umbrella. It will appear in one of Ollie's posts, later. And no, umbrella is not a euphemism for anything. But I can't open it out to dry in the hallway / corridor of my flat. It doesn't fit. It hardly fits anywhere else, come to think of it. Time I got a smaller umbrella.

You put "Iceland" into Google. A .com search. What would you expect? I hope I hear you thinking "Iceland, the country". I really hope. But no. What do you get? You get Iceland the supermarket! Thankfully, if you put "Iceland attractions", you do get more than bakery or the chilled cabinet.

One last day here in the little fishing village of Sørvågen in the Norwegian Arctic, and with the weather clearing up a fraction, a chance to venture forth into the uplands surrounding Støvla, the mountain which dominates the horizon.

There is a brilliant lake at the back of the village, acting as a sort of ready-made nature reserve for the local bird life. But we're told that if you follow the paths out of the village you reach a beautiful second lake, hidden from view up above the village in Støvla's shadow.

It's about twenty minutes' climb up a waterfall before you reach the lake, powered by the melting ice and snow from the peak on the far side. Waterfalls are in abundance here - from belting great walls of water to the tiniest tributaries:

And amazingly, after another half an hour or so, we found signs of life up here. Tucked away thirty feet or so above one corner of the lake are a couple of cabins, as isolated as you can imagine:

Imagine owning that. This is the view you'd wake up to each morning:

You'd certainly get fit quickly, having to descend the mountain to reach the two village shops. Although that said, the local Norwegians don't seem overly fussed. While we were puffing and panting at the top of the climb, a Norwegian lady wearing a head-band bounced past us in a brisk jog, accompanied by her dog. Then as we made our way back down, the pair flounced back down the waterfall to lap us.

So this is it: our last night in Sørvågen. You can see where our cabin is if you look at the photo above - I've put a small, white circle around it. I can't recommend the village and the island highly enough, there is plenty left to do that we simply haven't had the time or weather to properly accommodate. Frankly it's a wonder my mother is leaving without having bought a cabin. We're going to have to disconnect her internet when she gets back home to prevent a financial disaster.

Tomorrow we catch the early (indeed, only) ferry back to the mainland, then the late flight back to Oslo. That leaves us with a few hours to fill, and we'll see if there's any interesting ways to fill them.

Ok, Ok, let's not get ahead of ourselves here, I'm still blonde. But, I analysed my monthly expenditure this weekend. I'm an adult. It goes on cars and insurance and DIY and other such things. It also goes on alcohol and food and clothes. But, agh. I mean, this weekend: petrol, car tyres (eeek), IKEA (yeah, really good decision to go on the Sunday of a Bank Holiday), and anti-virus protection. All those things your parents bought you for years. All the little things you took for granted. And they hit me now. I think, perhaps, I'm finally growing up. That said, still take my washing home to my Mum... so I can't be too old, yet.

I've just agreed, offered almost, to be a passenger in Ollie's car tomorrow. Heaven help me. Await photos of our aslightly weather-doomed day out!

Now, so far, you may have gained the impression that the weather here in the Arctic has been surprisingly good - and you'd be correct.

Today the Arctic chose to put that right. Things looked ominous enough on the bus to the Viking museum, a two hour journey across the island to the exposed North coast...

But only having been dropped off in the village of Borg by the bus driver, who couldn't quite believe we were disembarking, did the true horror become apparent:

It then took us half an hour to establish where the Viking centre was, in driving rain and wind the likes of which I may never see again. This despite the building being a reconstruction of the largest Viking building ever built, a chieftain's hall that stood here in the ninth century.

My mother is now insisting that I write nothing bad about the weather because we don't want to give the impression we didn't enjoy it. And she's right - we enjoyed every minute, despite the weather. Here's mum enjoying the weather once we'd found the Viking centre and sheltered in the entrance:

I'm afraid we have no photos of the exterior of the building to offer you, because neither of us were going to risk life and limb hanging around to take photos in that.

But inside, it was pretty good, not least because of the roaring fire warming the main chieftain's hall. And there we found a young man sporting ninth century clothes with an impressive command of both the English language - he used the 'consternation' at one point, and I have to confess I don't know how to say 'consternation' in any other language - and Viking history.

We don't know his name, so I shall call him Tobin, which is a good Norse name. Tobin's job is to stand inside this reconstructed Viking building all day, welcome visitors, and explain what would have gone on - and what the other people hired to prat about in silly ninth century costumes are doing.

Tobin's knowledge of Viking history was actually very useful, since I spent my degree studying all these things from the Anglo-Saxon point of view, which goes something like:

"Everything was lovely and we were just getting the hang of Christianity when over came the Vikings, who destroyed the lot, and we threw a bit of a tantrum and decided to stop writing for three hundred years."

According to Tobin, the Viking side of the story goes something like:

"We never bothered writing before and we certainly don't like the look of all these Christians with pens, so we'll go over and slaughter the lot before they can open a Parker shop in Oslo."

Well it was possibly a little more sophisticated, but the gist of one theory seems to be that the Viking attacks on England were pre-emptive strikes to stop all this Christianity nonsense getting to their homeland. It may also have a lot to do with the Norse gods - apparently the followers of Odin had a war with the followers of Thor, and the end result may have been, to quote Tobin, "lots of angry young men with big swords", with not much better to do than invade England.

Not that those two were the only gods. Can anyone spot the gods of fertility in the room?

Apparently the gentleman on the left was known as a good warrior god too. Well, if you're going to start swinging that around...

After an hour or so dominated by the enthusiastic Tobin and his Viking history, we decided to brave the outside world once more, with an hour to go before the bus back home.

Alas, we discovered that the Viking centre hadn't bothered to open its cafe. Happily help was at hand in the form of a roadside cafe just across the way. We got in, gazed at the menu and each ordered a healthy lunch, only to be told the cafe was closed and wasn't re-opening for some hours yet. Quite why cafes close for lunch in Arctic Norway remains a mystery. We were able to purchase a large bag of crisps, a Bounty, and two Cokes.

Here's my mother enjoying the weather again, this time huddled in the small dry patch afforded by a table outside the shut cafe:

Still, at least with our cameras we found a way to pass the time until the bus came:

Typically, it was the same bus driver who picked the two drowned English rats up from the side of the road, and merrily chirped "Back home?" as his fingers danced across his ticket machine. Good of the Arctic to remind us precisely where we are.

It's just gone midnight as Saturday ticks into Sunday morning here in Sørvågen, on the southernmost tip of the Lofoten Islands, and as you can see the sun has yet to properly depart. Remember. we're so far north that the sun never really sets - which is brilliant because you can go out walking late in the evening, as we've just done.

We've had a day of walking. This morning was about exploring our home village of Sørvågen.

We found the local shop and stocked up on a few essentials, plus a couple of treats, including some intriguing sachets of local fish soup. Then we walked the mile or two down the island to the village of Å.

Å, one of the less taxing town names for the signwriting fraternity, is as far as you can go before you hit the ocean - it's the Penzance of the Lofotens, and again it's another village built around its fishing.

Steinar, the man who's renting our cabin to us, owns a museum of fishing here, plus his family own a couple of local fish factories. And nearly every house has these odd-looking structures outside, which look a bit like large nets or piers from a distance:

When you get closer, you'll find the reality's slightly different.

It's row upon row of headless cod, left to dry before being processed in the factories. There's a factory just a few yards down the road from this cabin - not in the sense you might expect of an enormous monstrosity, churning out fish products, but a small industrial unit by the harbourside where they take in and store the local catch. It's all a family affair around here - people buy and sell fish from their brothers' and sisters' boats, while older members of the family run the factories.

Steinar is a bit different. He's branched out to open his fishing museum, where he produced some freshly frozen 'coalfish' (no, I'm not sure, either) for us to take home. He even had spare flour going, which is vital to the recipe he proceeded to dispense, although since he did it orally we're unlikely to get it spot on when we try. Steinar is a man of many facts - not least his stunning revelation that most cod are infested with worms at this time of year. Enjoy your fish and chips, won't you? (He insists the worms are 'harmless', but even so.)

He also tells us he's waiting for a Polish lady to turn up to help with the cabins this summer, which interested me. The influx of Polish workers into the UK is often painted by our media as some kind of apocalypse unique to Britain, as though the exported Polish talent bypasses every other European nation in favour of hacking off Daily Mail readers.

It would seem that in actual fact, Poland's finest are prepared to try their hand in all manner of different places. To have gained a work permit for the Lofoten Islands, and to be prepared to pick up a smattering of Norwegian, can't be an easy task if you're from Poland. English tends to be a useful language to learn so the attraction of coming to the UK is there, but Norwegian? It's not much use outside Norway.

Tomorrow - well, later today (you forget it's one in the morning when it's still dusk ouside) - we're going to the Viking Museum, two hours' bus journey up the island. And then maybe the fish soup. Once I've checked for worms.

Welcome back to our tour of Arctic Norway. Lack of internet access means you're only now getting pictures from last Thursday. In reality we're now back home, but for the next few days, you'll have to imagine we're still there.

We left Bodø on Thursday by boat, bound for the Lofoten Islands off the Norwegian coast.

It's a four hour journey across to the southern harbour of Moskenes, although it's important to stress that none of the settlements on the island are really towns - they're fishing villages at best.

There's not really much room for towns when you consider the Lofoten Islands are essentially a wall of mountains rising out of the sea.

And that sun was still shining so temperatures remained decidedly un-Arctic for most of the voyage. That is until we got close to the coastline and I ventured onto the right hand side of the boat, in the shade - where the heat vanished and I was left barely able to hold the camera after 20 seconds.

At Moskones we were met by Steinar, the man who owns the cabin in which we'll be staying. Steinar's opening gambit was to explain the origin of his name, which apparently means something akin to "stones" in a certain Norwegian dialect he referred to as "new Norwegian". I'm very keen to learn Norwegian but if you're going to start throwing dialects at me, I'm going to be in a lot of trouble.

Steinar drove us the couple of miles south to Sørvågen, a tiny community of some 20 or 30 cabins arranged around a neat little harbour. As I write fishing vessels are bobbing up and down outside the window, beyond which rises an immense snow-capped peak. Look out of the front door and all you can see is a chain of mountains stretching beyond the horizon.

Steinar has lived on the Lofoten Islands all his life and, as you might expect, his family have longed earned a crust from fishing. His father was a fisherman from the age of 14, buying a landing post when he was 50, then setting up business trading and exporting fish. Steinar, however, reserves fishing as a recreational activity for when the lakes above Sørvågen ice over in winter. His wealth derives from these cabins and his museum, which we'll hopefully visit later.

The cabin is a beautiful detached, wooden affair set one row back from the sea front. As you enter through the front door there is a small toilet and bathroom on your left, a small room on your right, and then the main living area is ahead of you, with a kitchen, fireplace and living space.

But the best bit is probably the bedroom. Perhaps the draft is quite nippy on ground level, or maybe the occasional bear comes by and you need a little height advantage - either way, the beds are located above the entrance in this cubby-hole:

Access is via a terrifying wooden ladder, the intricacies of which I have yet to master. Thank the lord for the mattresses, because I need a good lie down each time I attempt to get up it.

It's now our first morning in Sørvågen and our priority is shopping. A slight absence of thought left us with two Jaffa cakes and a packet of brownies for both last night's dinner and this morning's breakfast, so foraging for fresh supplies is a must. Then we'll walk down to Steinar's place in the delightfully-named village of Å (pronounced "or") just down the road.

Finally, my mother wishes to contribute to the collection of foreign food which English people might find amusing. She found these in a fridge on the boat:

She insists "to urge" is a different way of saying "to vomit", although I've never heard that before. You be the judge.

It's always a good idea to leave when you think your town might be on fire:

At just gone 7am we were already on our way back to the station when we saw the above, replete with bands of firefighters just around the corner. Not a great start for someone on Norway's national day - as we left the hotel a brass band was already doing the rounds, pumping out traditional anthems to the inhabitants of Trondheim.

But for us, another train ride: hundred of miles north into the Arctic Circle, to the town of Bodø.

I'd been expecting a small two-carriage affair but the Norwegian state railway came up with this heffalump to drag us north. It took nearly ten hours to wind along the coast, through the uplands, deep into mountain ranges and over vast rivers. This is not the view you get from Reading to Paddington:

About two thirds of the way through the journey, on the Saltfjellet plateau a couple of thousand feet above sea level, we passed the boundary of the Arctic Circle - as denoted by this barely visible monument in the foreground, tricky to photograph when passing it at 80mph:

This being Norway's national day, the train company had clearly felt obliged to lay on something a little different. On two or three occasions during the journey, a lady's voice came over the tannoy. She said something in Norwegian, laughed a bit, then proceeded to sing:

Naturally the train reached Bodø on time, at 5:25pm.

Forget Arctic conditions - the sun was beating down and though there was a definite nip to the air, it could have been a cold day in Berkshire. Even this morning as I write, the sun remains - and it's been there practically all night, since we're just days away from the midnight sun, where its top arc never sets below the horizon at points this far north of the equator. By midnight last night it looked like 5pm back home.

We went for a quick look around Bodø and of course, it was still the Norwegian national day, so festivities continued apace with a fairground and dozens of people in traditional Norwegian attire. Down on the dock, we couldn't decide if these were naval officers or kids who spent £5 extra on rent-a-uniform in Moss Bros:

Today we're travelling on to the Lofoten Islands and a fisherman's cabin, which will become home for the next few days. One suspects the cabin is not wi-fi enabled so expect reports to dry up while we visit the Viking museum, go off on boat trips and maybe try to canoe ourselves somewhere without getting sucked into the world's largest maelstrom, which sits nearby.

Finally, I note with immense disappointment that I am not the most northerly Arctic-based BBC journalist at the time of writing. Science correspondent David Shukman has gone to Resolute, in the Canadian Arctic, and in a couple of days he's aiming to be on the Ayles Ice Island, an enormous block of ice calved off the Ayles Ice Shelf at the top of Ellesmere Island.

He's providing daily updates here and promises video to go with it. I knew I should have bought that bloody video camera in Trondheim. Sometimes you just have to admit defeat.

A few months ago David presented a selection of faux tube signs from around the globe. I'm proud to announce I can add to the tally:

Trondheim is the third largest city in Norway, sitting roughly midway up the country, before it turns into a narrow outcrop between Sweden and the sea (which is what we'll be travelling up tomorrow). The small tourist guide the city offers tells me it is twinned with the Palestinian city of Ramallah, although I've little doubt which of the two I'd rather be spending time in.

Not that I've spent all day here - it's a seven hour journey here through breathtaking scenery...

... Made even longer by an unscheduled half-hour stop in a mountain pass:

One wonders if people in grass houses are allowed to throw stones.

The trains here don't appear very large, and it seems you only get a seat if you book in advance - none of this British last-minute nonsense. Our 08:07 service from Oslo to Trondheim had four carriages, tomorrow's marathon run from Trondheim to Bodo will be undertaken by a train of just two coaches. Platform length in Norway is not an issue.

Our hotel is just a stone's throw from Trondheim station (it's not made of grass so we're safe), and only a few minutes' walk from the many and varied shops, plus the cathedral. This building is nearly a thousand years old, and I've seen few facades as imposing as this exterior:

Those Vikings, eh. Culture vultures. Admittedly it's seen its fair share of restoration in the ensuing near-millennium, but Trondheim Cathedral is a fine sight. It's a shame we couldn't go in, but then Norway is really only just opening up after the winter - this time last month Trondheim lay under a blanket of snow, and I'm in no doubt that the snow will still remain over much of tomorrow's route. Before May the cathedral only sprang to life on Saturdays - at least now it opens daily, if only til 3pm, when we were still on the train.

Tomorrow's nine or ten hour trundle into the Arctic Circle will take place on a train with no buffet car and, although there apparently might be a vending machine, we've no desire to sustain ourselves on a Bounty and a Pepsi Max from 7am til 5pm. So earlier this evening we ventured out in search of food, and thus I can now post the obligatory photo of foreign food that looks funny to English people:

We are now armed with the Norwegian equivalent of Jaffa Cakes, bread and cheese, blueberries, apples, crisps, and drinks for the journey. Plus Travel Scrabble and some card games. But I'm hoping it's the scenery that will make the ten hours fly.

Funnily enough tomorrow is the Norwegian national day. It seems a bit odd to be spending it on the train - one of the very few services actually running on this Bank Holiday equivalent - but it beats the usual humdrum tourist photo op as the usual suspects parade down the streets in national dress with marching bands. Perhaps there's nothing better to do on a country's national day than try to see as much of it as you can, travelling half its length by train.

So far I've been blessed with a bit of luck as regards wireless networks. The hotel in Oslo had a wireless hub on every floor, and Trondheim is proud to boast that it was one of the world's first fully wireless cities. But up in the Arctic Circle I suspect things will get a bit trickier, so it might be this time next week when I resurface. In the mean time - wish you were here. There's no finer scenery on Earth.

Welcome to Oslo.

We landed at the airport on a glorious day, quite unlike the weather when we left England, and apparently unlike the weather anywhere else in Norway. The Norse gods had preserved a patch of sunlight for my mum and I to start our week's tour of the country in its capital.

Oslo is a brilliant little city, nothing like the size of somewhere like London and all the better for it. The streets are humming with young people in dazzling, unique shops, along tree-lined boulevards punctuated by marvellous fountains like the above. Everywhere we go, people are smiling.

Not only that, but everywhere we go, they speak English - the swines. I'd love to improve (alright, start) my Norwegian, and I've got a few basic phrases to my name, but what's the point? The moment you say "Hi!" (works for both Norwegian and English), they can tell your nationality by your inflection and swap language accordingly. We've spoken to at least twenty people and not one of them has been without a robust command of English far beyond my command of, say, French, let alone Norwegian. It's embarrassing even trying.

Of course it's difficult to complain for too long given how much easier that makes life in a foreign city. And talking about making things easier, what a brilliant idea this is:

These bikes live in special cubby holes all over the city. You register at a corner shop then use a special card to unlock a bike for use. Pedal it to wherever you want, leave it at the nearest cubby hole, then pick up another one as needed. Environmentally friendly transport for the masses at dirt cheap prices - ingenious. Except in London would they be vandalised to hell within minutes?

We've walked right across town to a beautiful converted shipping district, now a shopping centre by the name of Akel Brygge, then back again. On the way back my mum, who's learning the saxophone and proceeding apace by all accounts, bumped into this busker as he struck up for the first time:

There's live music all over town, and not just on the streets. As we reached the hotel in the early evening a rock band were giving it their best shot in the rooms above a nearby shop. I wonder how dispiriting it is for them that Norwegian radio is packed full of British hits (Girls Aloud are on heavy rotation).

Norway's reaching the stage of the year where the sun never sets:

It's taken til gone 10pm for it to even think about going down over Oslo, and by the time we get above the Arctic Circle I imagine it'll barely kiss the horizon. Not that it looks like we'll be seeing much of the sun for the next two days - rain is forecast as we make our way north, but since that involves two train journeys totalling nearly 16 hours, we're protected from the elements.

I'll try to write from Trondheim - the halfway mark - tomorrow, before we press on to the Arctic town of Bodo and beyond.

I can hardly compete with Ollie (I believe he's currently posting from Oslo), but I can rant about my diary issues. I needed a new diary: a) I'm stuck on an academic diary still; and b) my current diary was getting messy. So, I've been looking for a diary. Bear in mind, I have my diary on Outlook at work, then have to reconcile my hand-written appointments diary; find it much easier to write things by hand. Well, I seemed to lose my diary at the same time of thinking of buying a new one. Over the weekend / the beginning of this week I found myself in some form of vortex, without a diary. Most odd. So, I was unable to confirm the trip to the Black Mountains, because I couldn't find my diary. I discovered it, much to my relief, this morning in my wardrobe. Goodness knows how it got there! I then bought a diary at lunch - but it doesn't bloody start until July. Damn. So I've had to convert the year planner for May / June 2008 to 2007 and start that way. Also, no where sells diaries at this time of year. I've settled on some stupidly priced multi-coloured option from Paperchase. Grr. All in all a diary disaster, really. Ho hum.

Stuart Pearce has been sacked as Manchester City manager. Sighs of relief all round.

BBC journalist Chris Bevan, himself a City fan, has written an excellent article on Pearce's sacking here:

As a Blue I can speak from first-hand experience about how painful it has been to watch City this season.

Defensively we have been sound but there has been no creativity in our midfield and zero cutting edge up front. I am used to being frustrated watching City but it has rarely been as bad as this.

Even when we did score goals and win games it was through a war of attrition and that seems to be the only way Pearce knows.

Apparently Gerard Houllier, ex-Liverpool, is interested, and it can't escape notice that Paul Jewell has resigned as Wigan manager today. I'm not sure either of them inspire me but I'll lay off the speculation. Bevan wants Derby's Billy Davies in, which is the equivalent of Everton appointing David Moyes a while back, and that's done them no harm.

I remember meeting Stuart Pearce 18 months ago, when he was fairly new to the job - you can read about it on Dayorama here, and listen to my full interview with him.

Back then the atmosphere at the club was very positive. Pearce was still being hailed as the club's saviour after a brilliant run once Keegan had gone, and on a bitterly cold morning at the club's Carrington training complex, he was all fun and games.

I had gone to interview him for my broadcasting postgrad and had sat nervously at the back of the entire press conference, not saying a word. Once that had finished, Pearce stood up and - in front of the assembled journalists - pointed his finger at me.

"Oi!" He said. "You! I hear you've got some questions for me."

What do you say when Stuart Pearce says that to you? I can't even remember what I said but it wasn't very impressive. We went off to a tiny media booth at the back of the room and Pearce rested himself up against a table. There was a cream handbag next to it. I saw my chance to level the score.

"Is that yours?" I asked.

What was I doing? I'd just implied to the man dubbed Psycho, face to face, that he carried a handbag.

"Nope. Mine's the black one," replied Pearce.

In the ensuing eight minute interview he was nothing but honest, thoughtful, and frankly interesting. So many football manager will spout on til kingdom come without really saying much, but even when Pearce didn't say something, it meant something.

I remember asking him how he felt about missing out on a World Cup medal as a player. He'd been honoured by the Queen - would he swap that for England honours?

Pearce replies: "I don't know," with incredibly thoughtful intonation, and then he thanks the Queen. There's just enough pause in his reply for it to be clear that even Stuart doesn't completely know the answer.

Perhaps what sticks out now, in retrospect, is the way Pearce talks about football management. Back when the interview happened there was absolutely no danger of him losing his job, so he was looking at things from a very healthy point of view. But even then he knew it was never likely to last:

"Football management's very tough, no matter whether results are going well or not so well. You have to have a long-term goal and also win your short-term battles.

"I'll never enjoy management as much as I enjoy playing. I miss the camaraderie between the team - management gives you a second place to that but make no mistake, when your team win and you've put your little bit in... you can never be one of those players again."

So, I met with two friends from Oxford earlier today. It's always rather fun when you haven't managed to catch up for two years, then manage to spend a very quick, enjoyable four and a half hours chatting over a few pints. We went to Greenwich, which I do think is one of my favourite places in London. Unfortunately it was raining though, so we had to spend longer in the pub than intended. Shame.

We were all going to go to the Lakes earlier this year, but I got held back with work. We're trying again for another trip. We've decided to ditch the Lakes, on account of it being too far North and a bit touristy. Our choices were Exmoor, Dartmoor, the Black Mountains and the Peaks. We couldn't decide. There was an inkling for the Black Mountains, but we were still undecided.

So, a page was ripped from a diary. The four options written on different bits of paper. The four bits of paper put in the middle of the table. The theory being, we each picked one and the destination on the remaining paper was the venue we were going to choose. Fine.

Exmoor remained.

We all looked at each other and, despite being unable to decide earlier, unanimously said: "Nah, lets go to the Black Mountains."

It just goes to show - sometimes, when you are forced into one path, you suddenly realise exactly what it is you want. Logic and prior planning fly out of the window!

For the final day of Premiership football in the 2006/07 season, I was sat in front of a PC at work while all around me Five Live and BBC local radio descend into a commentary frenzy.

Here's what could have happened: two of Spurs, Bolton, Reading and Portsmouth could claim the last UEFA Cup qualifying spots. And one of West Ham, Wigan and Sheffield United would go down. What better way to pass the time than keep tabs on the frenetic, violent, often hilarious atmospheres of each team's unofficial fans' message boards? Start at the bottom of the post for chronological order.

16:56

Nothing doing. Reading draw 3-3, a thrilling game to listen to, but no European reward. I'd better go and write the match report. Football's a pretty bloody good sport.

16:49

I have just run nearly the length of the radio station as Reading put the ball in the net a fourth time... only for it to have been ruled out by the referee. For God's sake... but Blackburn have just had a goal disallowed too. This is a very valid sentiment:

"Did anyone think at the start of the season we'd be one goal away from europe? Well done Reading! Whatever happens."

16:43

You know what, sod the message boards, it's too exciting in this newsroom. Reading are level at 3-3 and Villa have just equalised. If either Reading or Villa get another goal, Reading go into Europe. Portsmouth could still ruin all of this if they win and Reading and Bolton draw. Jesus.

16:38

Someone on the Reading message board seems to have a collection of Steve Coppell photos. Every time a goal goes in during any match, a photo of Steve looking suitably vexed appears on the board. Of course it doesn't matter if the goal is for Reading, Blackburn, or indeed anyone else - Steve's expression does not change.

Tell you what, I bet the expression just changed then. As I type, Brynjar Gunnarsson has rifled the ball into the net and it's 3-3. This is pant-wettingly exciting football. Come on Villa.

16:35

By some miracle, West Ham are still ahead at Old Trafford and therefore staying up with room to spare.

"We're close now men! 20 minutes from rewriting history!"

Not sure what they teach the kids of East London in history lessons, but it would appear the textbooks of Plaistow are in for a bit of a tippexing at this rate.

16:31

Sheffield United fans are now in "heart attack alley" according to one Blades fan. They're also going down at this rate. And there'll be no Europe for Reading - Bolton are still winning and the Royals are now 3-2 down, plus there's a scrap going on at Ewood Park. Oh dear oh dear.

16:24

The madness continues. Reading have equalised again through Kevin Doyle but Bolton are still ahead, so Europe is still off. "I'm gonna have a coronary," says one Reading fan. No change at the bottom.

16:16

Blackburn go 2-1 up over Reading and there's all sorts of claims about offside - but Bolton are 2-1 up as well now, so it looks like it's all over. The Reading message board's swear filter replaces swearing with the name of their old local rivals. Most messages on it now simply read:

"Oxf*rd!"

16:08

A Bolton fan (remember, challenging Reading etc for Europe) has posted a "wanted" list:

"A hat-trick from Anelka
A double hatrick from Cristiano Ronaldo or some other Man U player
Sheff Utd v Wigan - no change"

You get the feeling not many people want West Ham United to stay in the division. This doesn't matter to their fans:

"45 minutes to keep a clean sheet and win £35 million!"

16:05

All the games are about to get underway again. "This is terrible," says one Sheffield United fan. "Don't give in!" Says another. "Give 'em hell!"

15:50

West Ham have conjured up a goal and that'll keep them up in style at this rate. It's half time almost everywhere, but Wigan have got a penalty. Can they score? YES. Sheffield United now going down. There is a ridiculous amount of action this afternoon.

15:40

Jesus Christ it's all happening. Villa have equalised at Bolton so if Reading get a second, that'll put them into Europe. City have got a goal back at Spurs. But more importantly, Sheffield United have equalised against Wigan and as things stand, Wigan are now going down. Who - who - would be a football fan?

There were rumours before these games that Sheffield United and Wigan would conspire to send West Ham down. The West Ham fans are starting to think this is unlikely:

"Sheffield United now know how it feels to be in that drop zone on the last day. They will not want to be back there. F*ck helping Wigan out."

15:37

Seol Ki-Hyeon's equalised for Reading. Maybe it's not all over yet - come on Villa. That goal timed at five minutes after one Reading fan posted the following analysis:

"Seol is a tosser."

One minute after the goal:

"I take it back. He is a bit of a tosser."

15:33

With the European dream being cruelly ripped away from them, Reading fans are descending into a little in-fighting, replete with the sort of sarcasm you can only find on internet message boards.

ddetisi: "It's Paul Merson's fault! He tipped us for Europe!"
nivek elyod: "I think it's probably our fault because we let the ball cross our goal line."

Bolton have just gone a goal up against Villa and Spurs are 2-0 up over Man City, so there's really only one European spot up for grabs and at the moment it's comfortably Bolton's. Sheffield United are currently going down but if West Ham go behind at Man Utd, it'll be them instead.

15:28

West Ham fans want Sheffield United to win, which would keep them both up at Wigan's expense. Sheffield United look more likely to field Elvis and Shergar as second half substitutes. Anger ensues from the West Ham camp:

"Colin's lot look like schoolboys."

"Emile Heskey in 'good game' shocker. Of all the days."

"Colin" is Sheffield United manager Neil Warnock. It's an anagram. Work it out.

15:24

Blackburn have gone 1-0 up over Reading, which is the equivalent of lightly tapping the first couple of nails into the coffin of Reading's European dreams. God, what a sentence that was. Marcus Hahnemann got thwacked over the head in the build-up and he'll have to go off.

"Blackburn 1-0 GAYNESS!" Exclaims "Kitson12" on the Reading board.

I didn't know Gayness had a team. They must have some incredible chants.

15:20

"Could have done with a favour from City," says young Borat-face the Reading fan, which is like saying I could do with Jennifer Lopez underneath the desk. Enjoyable thought, phenomenally unlikely.

15:16

Wigan are a goal up. The swear filter is replacing entire posts on the Sheffield United board with asterisks. Over on the West Ham board, they're all repeating the Wigan score to each other. If Wigan win and West Ham lose, it's curtains for the Hammers.

15:10

Man City are already behind at Spurs, which definitely doesn't help Reading's European chances. Of course, being a Man City fan, this result could have been predicted months, nay, years ago. Still, it's annoying to see it happen.

West Ham fans are giving each other "online hugs" on their message board. Meanwhile, on the Bolton board, one fan is verging on pessimism:

"We will lose by 12 goals to nil. All scored by Thomas Sorensen."

15:05

"cmonurz", Reading fan with small picture of Borat next to his name: "Legia Warsaw here we come!"

No one has scored yet. Slightly premature from the Borat fans.

14:55

Steve Coppell on BBC local radio, Five Live discussing the weather for Sheffield United v Wigan.

Pursey, on the Knees Up Mother Brown forum (West Ham): "F*ckin' do it."

Unlucky, lads. Once again the small technicality of the United Kingdom being almost universally despised across Europe proved a minor stumbling block to Eurovision domination as Scooch, the pretty-terrible-but-never-worse-than-Serbia UK entry, crashed to joint-second last.

Instead the asexual Serbian entry romped home as 327 Eastern European states each distributed points evenly among their near neighbours - a form of musical collectivism.

So let's not worry that you have to get to 17th place before a country you might call Western European (and even then it's Finland, which is borderline) appears on the grid.

Instead, we should be asking some pretty severe questions of this lady:

That's the Lithuanian entry, 4Fun, otherwise known as Julija Ritcik. In a competition where every nation east of the old Iron Curtain had cause to cheer - for God's sake, Moldova made the top ten - Lithuania somehow contrived to finish in 21st place, just above the UK.

This must be cause for a public enquiry back home in Vilnius. Neighbours Latvia and Belarus clocked up a healthy 54 and 145 points respectively, but the Lithuanians were ostracized by their fellows, ending up with a paltry (by Eastern European standards) 28 points.

Latvia chucked them a consolatory 10 points (without which they'd have been below the UK), and the supremely generous but hopelessly last Irish gave them an unprecedented maximum 12, but there were only a few scraps after that - 3 from the UK, 2 from Belarus and a wooden spoon 1 from Andorra. 1 point from the musical powerhouse of Andorra. You'd rather have nil, wouldn't you. As for the Irish, their sole donation came from the Albanians, of all people.

Not that looking through the UK's list of benefactors is any more pleasant. Just two countries bothered to throw the Brits a bone: the Irish, shooting themselves in the foot, gave us 5, and the Maltese somehow came up with a whopping 12 points to lend if not credibility, then a smidgen of substance to our score.

Can you imagine the horror in Malta as the country's 27 voters realised they had bestowed chart-topping status on an act 41 other nations had seen fit to ignore entirely? Almost every Balkan TV presenter, popping up for their 15 seconds of fame, could be seen to wave a metaphorical middle finger at the Union Jack as they rounded off with 12 points for the comrades next door. The Maltese had to grit their teeth to deliver their shameful verdict, lest the words "Oh, shit" creep out.

And to finish, the UK vote. "Ah, I know this girl!", proclaimed Wogan when Fearne Cotton appeared, but by then Wogan's credentials viz-a-viz recognition had been sorely tested. When the Finnish presenters announced Andorra in French - "l'Andorre" - Sir Terry thought they'd said "London" and ridiculed the Finns when the Andorrans appeared in place of Miss Cotton.

At the second time of Terry's asking, there she was, and the UK had given Turkey the maximum 12, almost certainly because of Wogan's repeated insistence that their backing dancers were all British. Intriguingly Turkey also got the maximum from France, Germany, the Dutch and the Belgians, with 10 from the Swiss, Danish and Austrians, which suggests a mentality along the lines of "we're not voting for any of our shitty Western European neighbours, and we're not voting for any of those shitty Eastern Europeans, so we'll vote for the shitty Turks because they're neither Western nor Eastern".

Ah, Eurovision. Til next time.

I've spent the day in a very windy feild in West Kent. Yes, DofE related. An "extreme" sports event. I'm on my way out, but currently look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards, and I'm knackered!

Anyway, we all know that mobile phone operators have been trying for ages to disguise mobile phone masts. This website even suggests they have been disguised as a crucifix. Heaven forbid. I'm utterly benmused by a so-called "disguised" phone mast on the side of the M20. For starters, I don't suppose anyone would really notice a mast if it just looked like a mast, since it would be sitting on the side of a motorway, on the edge of a wood. So what. You do however recognise this rather alien tree... There you are, driving along, conscious there are woodland areas either side. But wait, what is this giant brown pole. With "twigs". Oh, and a spike out of the top of the trunk. Honestly, I wish I could have pulled over and taken a picture of it. It's madness! Just call a spade a spade and leave the mast as it is. Or, preferably disguise it properly i.e. actually disguise the damn thing! I think the person who designed it must have been the same person who thought it would be a good idea to create wallpaper for wheelie bins. You've seen it... cover your wheelie bin in floral plastic wallpaper. Yes, that ill disguise it. Not.

A brief warning that, this coming Tuesday, I'm off to Norway for a week and a bit. In fact I'm off to some of the very top bits of Norway, in a geographical sense - I'll be inside the Arctic Circle by Thursday.

The plan is to bring you photos and tales of derring-do from the journey and the Arctic itself, but this relies heavily on me finding a way onto the internet, which is far from guaranteed. So with Shep also on holiday you may be left with a rather quiet Dayorama for a week or so (OJ, OJ, wherefore art thou...).

This time next week, I'll be asleep in a fisherman's cabin (minus fisherman, we've hired it) on the Norwegian Lofoten Islands. That is an incredible thought.

It can be difficult for broadcasters to fill Bank Holiday schedules.

Many local radio stations, for example, will air a totally different line-up of presenters on Bank Holidays - not necessarily lesser lights, but regular presenters filling different slots according to need, since others are off.

TV is trickier, especially for smaller niche stations. And as BBC Parliament's editor Peter Knowles explains, his channel is "the narrowest of niche channels"...

"You’d have to travel down the channel listings as far as Discovery Ironing +1 before you’d find something more niche. What it says in the lid is very much what is inside: Parliament.

"So, over a bank holiday weekend where the weather was less than inspiring, the channel made use of some surprising resources."

"From the archive, ten years on from New Labour coming to power, BBC Parliament showed in entirety the election night broadcast and this ran all day across the rainy bank holiday Monday.

"We’ve been told that many participants in the 1997 election stayed glued to their sets, throughout the day. (Next stop in our tour of the election archive:1987, which is showing 5 October)."

[source: BBC Editors' Blog]

And by now you'll have guessed which sad idiot watched almost the entire 14-hour repeat of the 1997 election. I couldn't help it. I was only channel-surfing and there, suddenly, was Dimbleby, about to cross to Enfield Southgate where he was told Michael Portillo could lose his seat.

The moments passed in blurs: Tony Blair speaks to his constituents at Sedgefield, William Hague goes on air refusing to speculate on who might be next Tory leader, Portillo's seat goes, other leading Conservative figures drop like flies around the country, Taunton goes Lib Dem (I remember that!), John Major leaves Downing Street, Tony Blair arrives, all with the man Dimbleby somehow keeping his eyelids prised apart throughout.

A few people have left comments on Peter Knowles' little article thanking him for the repeat, since they were too young to fully understand it when it happened first time around.

I know exactly how they feel - so was I, and this was a brilliant second chance to relive a defining political moment (there's not been an election like it) from a time when I would only have been 12. I can remember, at school the following day, OJ and I adopting staunch pro-Conservative stances and generally acting upset, simply because I don't think either of us had been introduced to the concept of not being Conservative. (OJ still hasn't, whereas I've adopted the position of being nothing in particular and a dead, non-voting loss to society.)

It must be said that the 1997 broadcast was a high water mark for the use of graphics. They look good even by today's standards. Peter Snow's swing-o-meter has never since reached the highs it did on that night, thanks mainly to the gainful employment most Labour candidates were able to offer it. I think this was the last election to have just enough graphics capability to look good, without over-egging the pudding a bit.

I'm now counting down the days til the 1987 election's repeated - one I definitely don't remember. But then I can barely remember what happened in 2005 now. It's a good job the local elections were last week, otherwise I'd have turned up shocked to discover it was Labour taking a hammering, having just seen John Major fighting back the tears as he left Downing Street for the cricket.

Come on, Gordon. Get into power and call a general election. We need another exciting one, I can't wait til October.

You'll recall I got drenched in champagne at the end of Saturday's play-off final. Here are the brilliant pictures:

Step 1: Enter pitch to conduct interview during celebrations. Hear manager say, "Fetch the champagne," just as the interview starts. Hear unpopping of cork. Feel icy sensation of champagne all over hair, neck, and expensive microphone.

Step 2: Look like a complete gimp while Maidenhead manager swigs from newly-acquired bottle of champagne. Check microphone still working. Try to carry on with interview.

Step 3: Recover composure and give chiselled look to camera, far, far too late to erase memory of gimp look. Maidenhead manager inspects bottle having apparently downed it during course of interview.

With many, many thanks to Nigel Keene, the photographer who captured these images. They'll probably never leave my portfolio (barring the gimp one). Click here for his full selection of photos - he's incredibly good. As a bit of an aspiring sports photographer myself when I get the chance, I clearly have much to learn.

Why is it that a tunnel gets wet inside? I drove through the Blackwall tunnel earlier. It had been raining quite heavily, so the road surface was quite wet. You could certainly see the film of water. So why is it also wet inside the tunnel? I know that car tyres must carry a certain amount of water, but surely not enough to make the road surface in the tunnel wet as well? Not for the entire distance, anyway? And it isn't as though it can ran in the tunnel. Lets hope it wasn't a leak.

My second random musing is about our very own tunnel vision. I've been writing an application for the last week or so. I've finally reached a draft I'm happy with. A good thing really since it has to be in tomorrow. It's amazing though, how we re-read our own work, without necessarily seeing the wood for the trees. It is easy to add emphasis, or read a word that you think "works", but only because you want it to work, or you think a certain sentence has the correct emphasis when indeed it doesn't. It is also so very easy to be negative. You may not mean to, but who wants to say "I will do this" or "my enthusiasm will" get me somewhere, rather than settle with the rather more comfortable, "would". It is also so easy to put "I believe that I am...", rather than simply, "I am". Such ls life I suppose. Now, the application I'm writing was hardly a poor effort, but I'm still very pleased I had Ollie to sort out all my misfits :o)

How many commentators end up being doused in champagne at the end of their first game?

It was a privilege to be yapping away to what was no doubt an incredibly small but passionate audience back home as Maidenhead United wrapped up promotion to the Conference South, beating Team Bath 1-0 at Twerton Park, in Bath, in the Southern League's play-off final.

For the first time I'd had the chance to discover how hard it is talking for two periods of 45 minutes - with the fantastic help of Steve, one of the Maidenhead directors (and press officer for the club), who provided valuable insight all along, such as who the hell scored Maidenhead's goal (Errol Telemaque, but damned if I knew at the time).

But what a result to start with. The first half was fairly dismal with barely any shots on goal registered, but with forty seconds of the second half gone, Maidenhead scored. The tempo immediately leapt and we had a game on - so much for having to find 45 minutes of chat, the rest of the game flashed by as promotion crept closer.

After the final whistle there was a pitch invasion and, with the Maidenhead players gathered in celebration, I went down with my microphone to interview their manager, a very happy Drax Hippolyte.

As I was doing the interview the players were given bottles of champagne. Within seconds the pair of us were being showered in alcohol, which you can hear dripping fuzzily into the microphone as the interview continues:

I'm fairly sure there's a quality photo of the interview somewhere - I recall seeing a photographer in front of us as the champagne dripped. What a job, eh? You can't buy that sort of moment. Who wants to be a Premiership reporter? Try getting onto the pitch for their celebrations. A brilliant day.

I don't often mention work, but over the past few days a colleague and I have probably spent the best part of 50 hours between us trying to research and conclude the answer to a particular, seemingly simple, point of law / scenario. I've two observations: i) there is no way I can qualify into the Litigation / Arbitration departmnet. It would drive me insane; and ii) there is something wrong with the legislation in this country when we have a good called something along lines of the Export of Goods Act... and we don't define "export" or "goods". This leads to endless headache, trust me. Agh.

That there is the Maidenhead United manager, Johnson Hippolyte, training with his squad ahead of Saturday's Southern League play-off final at Team Bath.

If Maidenhead win they're