Just a quick one to start the weekend - some of us have been up since the wee small hours conjuring up your sports news, don't you know.

It's been a pleasure, too. This morning, for the very first time, I got my messy paws on that bastion of sports journalism, that legend of internet time-wasting when you're bored and need something to read for five minutes, that doyenne of daily debriefings - the football gossip column.

It's among the highest rated pages on the entire BBC website, getting more traffic than just about anything else. Even Doctor Who can't compete. And today (and tomorrow), dear reader, it is mine. All mine.

Don't forget to play spot-the-gratuitous-Manchester-City-gossip either. I've even thrown in some haircut-related gossip after yesterday's events.

I've never been to Brick Lane before. As you probably already know - or if not, Wikipedia will tell you - the street, in east London, is famed for its cheap and cheerful Bengali eateries (and for graffiti, but I'm less knowledgeable about and less inclined to eat graffiti).

Last night I managed to wander somewhat hopefully from Aldgate East tube to Brick Lane, which isn't far away, but could have been anywhere in the dark. I got lucky with my sense of direction, and even luckier with a little place called Monsoon. I could have ended up in any of 50 establishments but happened to fall into this one when, just as I began to move on, a door flung open and a waiter hissed: "Twenty per cent off the menu tonight!"

Turns out Monsoon has quite a decent reputation. On one restaurant review website, either the Monsoon staff have been writing advertorial with wanton (poppadom?) abandon, or the place has pleased a large number of customers. And it pleased me, too. My murghi motor biryani, which brought to mind an oily carburettor on a bed of rice, arrived as a wonderful, light, spice-infused chicken dish. I wish I'd had the stomach to try more of the menu.

In fact, this was almost a lovely, quiet, undisturbed Indian meal in a busy but relaxed, cosy restaurant. It was almost an evening without incident.

And then a man walked past and tousled my hair.

For several seconds after the act, I carried on as though nothing had happened. The actual moment of tousling came and went so briefly, and with so little fanfare, that it didn't initially seem out of place. But slowly it dawned on me that my hair had been assaulted by the hand of quite a venerable-looking, besuited Indian gentleman, who was making his way out of the door and away.

What to do? Stand up, throw the table to one side, and pursue my tormentor across the street? Engage him in a brawl until my honour had been satisfied? Demand payment for whatever cheap thrill my flowing locks had unwittingly delivered?

None of those options particularly appealed. I'd had some lovely food and a couple of beers, and was in no mood to confront strangers with a hankering for my hair. My one regret was that I wouldn't know why the incident had happened.

What had appealed so much that the gent had been unable to resist a playful fondle? Had he, outlandishly, used a trembling hand to steady himself as he reached the bottom of the stairs behind our table, and accidentally caressed an innocent young man? Was he indulging in the ancient Roman tradition of using a slave's hair to wipe one's hands after a particularly messy meal? Had I needed to use less gel the following morning because the garlic naan was still at work on my roots?

All these questions go distressingly unanswered. However, this is only the latest in a series of restaurant encounters that have acted as early - perhaps far, far too late - warnings that a haircut is overdue.

Lest we forget the time, in a Somerset takeaway, a Chinese waitress subtly suggested I might need a trim.

As I said following that incident (four years ago, doesn't time fly when you're growing hair) - time for a cut, then.

Your debit / credit card is just a bit of plastic, isn't it? Approximately 85mm x 55mm of plastic, actually (I just measured it). And yet, when you think about it, it's a whole lot more than that.

I've just been upgraded - whoopeeewoo - from a "normal" Barclaycard to a "gold" card. Heaven knows why, or what this means, but anyway. However, I've had my old Barclaycard since Oxford days. With that card I will have purchased my finalists champagne, my graduation gown, the furniture for my flat, my first suit for work, endless meals and bottomless tanks of petrol. It's been with me to New York, to Hong Kong, and now I'm just cutting it up with a pair of scissors and replacing it for a younger, brighter model.

Now, before you think I've totally lost the plot (or, indeed, turned into Ollie as I'm sure this is the sort of observation he'd make) it just came to me how much we rely on one moderately small piece of plastic. We may just take it in and out of our wallet mindlessly, but it's always there. It's at Tesco week-in week-out and then accompanies to some fancy restaurant when you're feeling flush. And of course it's 16 digit number is the crux of online shopping and gambling (- a new one on me but Ollie persuaded me to purchase a Euromillions lottery ticket the other night, so I did - watch out for his scam though, he's charging a 5% finder's fee if I win). You can even withdraw cash with it. So, there we are. We may take it for granted but really it is the key to much. Almost everything, in fact. And all in a bit of plastic.

A few years ago, I got into music by Sufjan Stevens. I kind of dipped in and out of it, some songs I liked, some I couldn't really connect with.

One cut through me like a knife every time I heard it. But then I lost the song, and have only just been reminded of it when it played on BBC digital station 6Music a few minutes ago.

I reproduce below the lyrics to "Casimir Pulaski Day", by Sufjan Stevens. It won't take you long to work out what it's about. Casimir Pulaski isn't really involved.

Please, please, find and download, buy, borrow or steal this song. It is one of the most moving pieces of music I've ever heard.

Goldenrod and the 4H stone
The things I brought you
When I found out you had cancer of the bone

All the glory when He took our place
But He took my shoulders and He shook my face
And He takes and He takes and He takes

As most of you know, I'm not one for public transport. Obviously the DLR to work and the tube into town, but I'm the first to get a cab back as soon as it turns dark. A park-and-ride bus at a push. And complaints about tyre punctures and slow trains goes without saying. However, on Monday I caught the bus into Leeds since it was the easiest thing to do from where I was staying. It's amazing - did you know (well, of course you did, David) that many bus stops now have a "text the time of the bus" feature on them? No more waiting endlessly waiting in the rain, wondering if your bus will ever arrive or whether three will all turn up at once. A thing of the past. Simply text your "bus stop code" to a certain number, and voila. A text arrives in your inbox informing you when the bus will arrive. Now, I appreciate I've only used this service once but it was spot on. Fabulous. Okay, so it doesn't stop you having to wait in the rain, but at least you have a better idea of whether you are going to drown or not.

Lordy, how time flies.

I had my first appraisal at work today, which means it's coming up to a year since my job moved to London. It feels like a month, but when I look back, it's been jam packed with incident.

Not everybody enjoys appraisals. In fact, that's a lie. Almost nobody I know takes any enjoyment out of their appraisal whatsoever. I, on the other hand, love them.

I just enjoy the idea of sitting in a room with your boss, telling them exactly where you want to be in a year's time, why you've done everything you've done over the last year, how you rate it, and where you'd like to go next.

Then hearing what they think of all that, and more.

It was a really productive hour or so and there are so many options open that, having listed at least five different avenues down which I could reasonably go, I had to be hauled back into the real world and reminded that I couldn't do them all.

One or two of the possibilities are nothing short of incredible and, believe me, you'll hear about it if they happen. The other three are hardly undesirable either.

It's been a funny few weeks since the Olympics ended. I know I'm not the only one who, having dedicated the last year to all things Olympic, has felt a little as though the rug has been pulled from under their feet now there's no taekwondo, modern pentathlon or sailing on the box.

So it's been a real joy to thrash out my future and work out where that rug has gone, and how to get it back under my feet.

I fully expect to be immensely proud of my rug by this time next year.

On learning of my forthcoming move to the West Country, a dear friend was heard to comment, "Well, it'll save all that commuting you do...".

Such has become the frequency of my little jaunts West that a switch between my first and second homes will be viewed by some as a mere technicality. It's ironic, then, that comparatively few of those visits have involved any great length of time in the City that will actually become my home.

So last week we did some bonding, Plymouth and I. Here are some things about Devon's principal City you're unlikely to find documented elsewhere .

As you can see, it's the capital of evocative transport signs that have miraculously survived beyond their own era. It's surely only a matter of time before these two (from Platform 7 at Plymouth station, and Bretonside Bus station respectively) are retired to my bedroom wall, the place where most other signs from transport history seem to have ended up.

Plymouth seems also to be the world's centre for car-on-roof culture, as witnessed from this Herbie lookalike seeing out its days astride The Fresher & Professor...

... and these Minis (some of them original 1960s Austin models), up the road in the north-western suburb of Mutley.

As any Beetle driver down on the ground will tell you, Mini owners always have to try their best to outshine the obvious superiority of the Beetle, but they rarely win. No amount of garish decoration and chrome-plated plastic grilles can outdo the simple, classic look of just the one road vehicle on the roof of your pub. Subtlety wins every time.

Speaking of The Barbican, how unexpected to hear the throbbing of an old Plymouth Corporation Leyland PD2 echoing around Southside Street. It's owned by Plymouth CityBus (the latest incarnation of the Corporation, who bought it new in 1956), and used for City tours. Add, then, to our growing list of Plymouth's lesser-chronicled attractions, the fact that it's one of the only Cities in the country where you can ride on a vintage bus that's worked its patch for over 50 years. To prove it, here it is at Bretonside Bus Station in Plymouth in 1965.

And while we're at Bretonside Bus Station, I think Plymouth can safely boast one of the UK's only bus stations to be built entirely beneath a flyover...

But if none of this stirs you, the views from The Hoe should provide a tingle in your loins (where are they, by the way?). Complete with Smeaton's Tower, a lighthouse that even New Brighton could dream of, it was a breathtaking sight on a warm September's morning.

And, for that matter, it will make for some lovely walks at dusk. Which is when our final (for now) attraction caught the selector's eye. For anybody who doubts the ability of inland Plymouth to raise a spirit or two, for all its notorious 1950s architecture, there was something magical about Royal Parade at sunset.

If I wasn't destined to be living here in a few weeks time, I'd come and visit more often...

Here's a little psychological experiment to try for me when you're out in town. I've only noticed this over the last few months - see what you think.

I have occasional days when I swear I'm invisible to everyone else on a busy street. No matter where I walk, somebody practically runs me over, rushes headlong into me, or cuts me off abruptly.

But I've uncovered a trick which changes everything. If you, too, endure days when the population tries to walk straight through you, try this.

Walk down the street with your gaze fixed just above the heads of the crowd. Pick a street sign above eye level and focus on that, maybe. Or look at a first floor window of a building up ahead. Anything that lifts your gaze a few degrees upwards. You want to look as though you're focused on whatever's up there, rather than your immediate trajectory.

I promise you, people will automatically, subconsciously, start getting out of your way. It's like a miracle.

I'm no psychologist (I'd love to hear from you if you are!) but I'd guess that since you seem so preoccupied and don't appear to be watching what's directly ahead at ground level, other people's brains react to account for this, and move to one side - as much to preserve themselves as you. If you're looking down at their feet, or ahead towards them, a lot of people seem to bank on you doing the moving. But if you're definitely seen to be looking elsewhere, it's like the Red Sea parting.

I've tried this many, many times since I first noticed it, mostly so I can feel a bit like Derren Brown, manipulating minds. Every time, I've been left with a clear path. I'm sure it can't work all the time, though, and I'd be interested to hear your results.

All I ask is you don't share this tip too widely. If everyone starts gawping at the sky while hoping the rest of us stand aside, there are going to be some almighty collisions. We few mighty individuals must prey on the weak, the vulnerable, the people who look where they are going.

And obviously, don't try it with traffic.

Day One | Day Two | Day Three

Congratulations to David who, as you will have seen, is joining BBC Radio Devon.

Some of us, of course, reached Devon before him. Sam and I awoke inside our VW camper van, Barbarossa, to a beautiful morning overlooking the bay at Putsborough.

Gone was the raging torrent of wind that had rattled the van's carcass like an empty husk the night before. In its place, tiny dots of surfers getting a little morning practice as the sun rose over the beach, all visible through the front split screen windows. I can't imagine a rarer sight than a pristine beach at dawn, viewed from within a classic VW. It was heaven.

The good times did not stop there. We ambled down to the beach cafe to see if there was any breakfast going, only to find it shut. No matter - a gentleman inside the cafe, who had stopped by to stock it up, merrily offered to open up just for us. He cooked up a couple of bacon and sausage baps, handed them over, refused to accept an extra pound coin as recompense for his trouble, then shut up shop once again and drove off. He had opened just to serve us breakfast. Not only was the view sensational, the service was exclusive to extremes.

The van started perfectly this time round, and wound its way back up the hill towards Woolacombe, where we stopped for petrol. Just a little further round the coast was Ilfracombe, a Devon town which surprised me with its bustling, touristy nature. Here, sightseers seemed to have flocked in their droves, despite Ilfracombe maintaining the air of a backwater when I used to live fairly close by.

The plan had been to sail to the island of Lundy, a haven for puffins and other rare birds, but the weather had put a stop to that day's crossings. Instead we took a short 90-minute boat trip out around the headlands of Exmoor. We were joined in the queue for the trip by one of the world's greatest living marvels - Rucksack Dog, He always has your back.

I thoroughly enjoyed the trip, though it did get a little boring from time to time. It turns out there isn't actually much to see! At one point the guide on the tannoy took to pointing out navigational buoys to pass the time, which I felt was a fresh nadir in oceangoing exploration.

Sam had other things on her mind. As if seasickness in her kayak on Tuesday hadn't been bad enough, here she was gripped by the lurgy as a fairly hefty swell sent the boat back and forth. She wasn't the only one suffering, but looked a bit of a picture with her head shoved between her legs, staring for dear life at the boat floor, occasionally coming up for air before plunging back into a sickly abyss.

Sam's preferred technique for combating seasickness involved applying her thumb to a pressure point on her wrist. She'd been doing this for a while when I gently moved her hand to one side to see what this actually achieved. She had pressed so hard that her fingernail had practically sliced through her vein, it was unbelievable.

Now it was time to turn for home. We piled back into the van once Sam had safely discovered dry land in Ilfracombe, and thundered down the A roads back towards Okehampton. This time we found our campsite easily enough, and not only that, it had a restaurant and bar attached.

We made very, very good use of both, as well as packs of cards, and their set of dominoes. When was the last time you had a game of doms, eh? Far too long in my case. I think I lost. By that time things had become a little hazy - I didn't know campsites did such a wide range of cocktails.

What happened next is something I'm saving for the memoirs.

Friday morning brought the sad journey back to base to relinquish our grip on Barbarossa. He had served us remarkably well and made it back in one piece, ready to go out again that very afternoon. Who knows where he is right now, braving the elements with another posse of hardy adventurers on board.

As our very last act, pulled to one side of the road around the corner from base, we signed the guestbook. Previous occupants had gone to lengths like sticking polaroid photos in, so we had to come up with something a bit different. Words by Ollie, illustrations and colour by Sam:

Thanks, Barbarossa. I'll be back.

There's no keeping a lid on anything these days.

The above legend appeared on my Facebook profile a little over a week ago, when I joined the official online group for my favourite BBC local radio station. Within minutes, my phone was alight with calls and text messages of congratulations from friends who'd spotted the news and taken it rather more literally.

As it happens, they were quite right: I am off to BBC Radio Devon!

But I didn't expect to break the news quite like that...

On the week of my little ride aboard The Night Riviera, I'd been invited to attend a test at the BBC's studios in Plymouth. Far from Radio Devon’s loyal audience of more than a quarter-of-a-million listeners, I would be broadcasting to just three people, and was all the more nervous as a result. In fifteen, long minutes designed to test my broadcasting skills to destruction, I conducted an interview on a book I’d never read, and coaxed a suicidal ‘caller’ (played, of course, by a bloody good actress) back to safety. It was memorable.

Something must have gone well, because I’m booked on the Night Riviera again this week to begin the less immediately terrifying process of flat-hunting in the West. Sometime in October, I’ll begin work at BBC Radio Devon on, among other things, a late night show for the whole of the West Country. It’s an ambition achieved for me to work in this part of the world, and to be a part of a radio station with such a great history that is so well loved by its audience.

There’ll be some sadness, though. I’ll be waving goodbye to my listeners and colleagues at BBC Radio Berkshire and BBC Oxford, the most loyal and creative sorts I could have wished to encounter in my first five years on t’ radio. There’s more to be written about them. Plus, it’ll be a bit of a wrench to move away from the immediate reach of family and friends in the South-East, not to mention the buses; but it’s only a very exciting train ride away…

My Radio Berkshire audience and I have a running gag about living in Reading, and only getting a visit from mates when the beer festival comes to town; the rest of the time, Reading's people do the visiting. Something tells me the tides may be different in the West…

Welcome back to the comfy, off-cream seating inside our VW camper van, Barbarossa, for day three of our trip around Devon and Cornwall. (Day one is here, day two is here. Do keep up!)

Unlike Monday night's semi-disastrous foray into a lay-by, Tuesday's sleep was relatively relaxed and enjoyable, tucked up at our campsite in Bude. Our laziness stretched long into Wednesday morning, taking the time for a wash and brush-up before preparing breakfast.

The mackerel we had caught the day before had sat in our coolbox overnight, waiting for their chance to shine. Sam, who used to work on a fish counter in Waitrose, taught me how to gut a mackerel over the washing-up sinks provided by the campsite - who may not, admittedly, have envisaged those sinks being used as depositories for fish innards, but needs must. Here's the finished product, ready to cook:

In case you're not a fish gutting expert and are wondering, here is Sam and Ollie's simple guide to making your fish cookable:

1. Take off all the fins. Have a good old look because those fish are crafty buggers and some of the fins tuck themselves away en route to the afterlife. A couple of good hacks and you're there.

2. Make an incision from the fish's genitalia (not overly difficult to find, have a guess when you inspect) all the way up to the mouth. You'll need to give it a bit of oomph with the knife to cut through various bits. Aim to cut just deep enough that you can prise a finger or two in there and open it out.

3. By this stage, you are going to get fish guts on your paws. Sorry about that. Open your fish up and scoop out anything you wouldn't expect to see on your plate when breakfast is served - that includes the swim bladder, heart, liver, all that jazz. Various bits may need severing from the rest of the fish. At no point did I say this would be pleasant. Remember that your fish is already dead, and no amount of guilt will bring the fish back now, so you may as well eat it.

4. Lop off the tail (as near to the end as possible) and the head (just behind the gills), trying to leave as much meat on the body of the fish as possible. The head will need a decent sawing action to get through the spine.

5. You can try picking the bones out if you like, but you may be there a while. We opted to cook the things and then pluck out bones as and when. Pop your fillets on a plate, wash the remains away as best you can, then leave quickly before someone spots it was you that left fish guts in the sink. Run!

The mackerel were absolutely delicious, served with bread and a boiled egg by the trip's head chef. (And if you think I'm referring to myself, you're clearly a visitor and don't know me at all.)

However, cooking them had left us a little late for our afternoon appointment at a surf school in the well-known surfing village of Croyde, up in north Devon. So we had to hot-foot it into the van and set off up the A39 through Bideford and Barnstaple.

It took the van four attempts to start, which was an early harbinger of potential distress. Then, as we crossed the main bridge in Barnstaple, I noticed third gear was refusing to give me any more juice. Changing into second made no odds, nor first - the van was coasting to a halt, and no amount of jabbing the accelerator was bringing it back to life. This, on an A road surrounded by lunchtime traffic, was not ideal.

By some miracle, the headquarters of South West Water hoved into view. More by luck than judgement, I was able to glide the powerless van into a small gap between the entrance and exit to the building, set just off the A road, and bring us to a stop.

"It'll be alright," I said out loud, primarily to myself, as I applied the handbrake. "I'll just give it a minute to cool down," I added, revving the bastard almost immediately and turning the ignition every seven seconds.

Eventually, the gods shone down on me. After five minutes of "it'll be okays" followed by frantic ignition mashing, the van sparked back into life and trundled merrily on, as though nothing had happened. Skin of a rhino, that van. No amount of my cursing had affected its attitude one bit. It had just needed to take five.

We were indeed late for the surfing, which meant the rest of our group of six had headed down to the beach and were already catching waves alongside their instructors.

This left us in the hands of a boy of about 16 or 17 back at base. He had the blond hair, the physique, the aura of a surfer... but the voice of a chipmunk. God bless him, he'd clearly been told that now was the chance to shine. Here were two clients turning up late and needing a lesson, and this was his moment to deliver. He gave what can only be described as a 15-minute cabin crew safety demonstration of a surfing lesson, interspersed with one-liners followed by frantic pleas along the lines of, "That was a joke! You can laugh!". Oh, the poor boy. Ten out of ten for effort.

The best part? He was called OJ. Such striking similarities, too. And if you're reading this, surfer OJ, you did a fine job, because I took to that water feeling like surfing must be dead easy, and all I had to do was follow your simple instructions, and I'd be fine.

It did not take long for it to become clear that I am the worst surfer in the history of man. On our very first go, as the wave came in behind us, I made a panicky leap for my board, crashed into it, practically collapsed off the other side, and was consumed by the tide. When I regained my balance and wiped my eyes, it was to see Sam a good fifty yards further inland, having caught the wave perfectly. Beginner's luck. Not a problem.

By about my thirtieth attempt, I was starting to doubt the initial courage of my convictions. Sam was by now occasionally standing up on her board above the waves, impressing even the instructors. I had still to even properly get on my blasted contraption, and had spent more time begging the experts for something, anything that might give me half a chance, than I had on the board itself. The wave would hit, I would topple off the board (bear in mind I was only lying on the damn thing, not even standing up), and Sam would f*** off into the distance.

Jealous, moi?

Well you know what, actually, no. I don't think I'd be surprising you if I told you that I'm quite keen on winning in life. I enjoy competition, I thrive on it, but primarily because I always think I'm going to win in the end. If I didn't think that, I probably wouldn't be taking part. I pick my battles and when I find one I think I can win, I throw the kitchen sink at it.

Surfing that day represented the first time in a long time that I've gone into something thinking I would be terrible, proved myself to be even worse than that, and actually come out the other side with a smile on my face and some sort of pride in myself. Lord only knows why, but I enjoyed being constantly battered by waves for 90 minutes, with all the lasting ocean-going success of a gutted mackerel. Watching Sam succeed was suddenly enough to compensate for my comprehensive failure. I wonder if that mentality will actually stick around.

Sam spent the rest of the day on an understandable high, having conquered surfing as much as surfing conquered me. We had dinner in Croyde, then retired to one of the most beautiful campsites in the world for the evening.

Putsborough Sand, the other side of a headland from Croyde, is still a popular surfing beach, but is surrounded by so little in the way of shops, restaurants and amenities, that by 10pm our van was the only vehicle left. You're allowed to park overnight in the car park, so we wound back our enormous sunroof and were able, for the most magical moment, to stand up in our own van, looking out at the distant, gleaming lights of civilisation, listening to the waves, soaking up the awesome darkness.

Well sod that by midnight. I swear a hurricane hit us overnight. The van rocked back and forth and if the wind had picked up much further, it seemed to me, shaken back to consciousness between listless bouts of sleep, that the van would be carried off into the hills.

Sam woke up and asked if everything would be okay. Of course it would, I said. And then I analysed that statement and decided it was the biggest lie I'd ever told. Not only was the wind pummelling the van, it was playing through the holes in the chassis like pan pipes.

I have never known a sensation like it. It was to be another disturbed night's sleep.

So, approximately 10 GCSEs, 4 A Levls, 1 University interview, 3 years at Oxford, 9 Finals, 1 year of LPC, 3 more exams, a few more exams here and there, endless training courses, a few all-nighters, a small amount of travel, some entertaining appraisals, a fvck-up once in a while, several bottles of bubbly, a couple of tears, several smiles and many thousands of pounds later from the moment when I first decided I wanted to become a lawyer... today it's official. Done, dusted, qualified. The big wide-world and salary await.

Welcome back to our VW camper van, where you find me and Sam asleep in a lay-by next to a busy A road, with drivers in the morning rush hour honking their horns to wake us up. Lovely people.

A brief recap of day one's events: we drove down to Okehampton, picked up Barbarossa the van, spent a little too long in a car park trying to find reverse, reached Bodmin, had a Chinese, found every campsite was closed, flooded or simply bloody unhelpful, and opted for a lay-by near what had seemed a quiet road in Sladesbridge.

What followed was the worst night's sleep I can possibly ever remember. The van interior gave a reasonable rendition of the Blackpool illuminations every time a car went past us, and it appears the A road is not immune to the occasional tractor, lorry, or even (I swear to God) combine harvester.

By about 7.30am we'd had enough of trying to grab a moment's kip in our cramped little camper van "double" bed, so I hopped out of the van onto the tarmac. With morning ablutions to be done, I soon realised the only feasible site for this was a churchyard over the road (see pic, below). Skipping between traffic, I hopped over the graveyard fence, and the rest I shall have to account for at the Pearly Gates. I am expecting to have to argue quite hard about that one.

We got on the road and Sam guided us up to Portquin, the tiniest of villages perched on the northern coast of Cornwall. There can only have been nine or ten houses in all, with a beautiful little car park (car parks become beautiful when you've spent the night in a lay-by) in which we had ourselves a bacon sandwich. At least, Sam did. I could barely eat mine through nerves - nerves at driving the van around all these narrow, winding country lanes, which was proving an enjoyable but hair-raising task - and nerves at the three hours of sea kayaking coming up.

I don't know why I was nervous. The sea kayaking was one of the most enjoyable things I've ever done. For the very first time in my life I donned a wetsuit and then, moments later, for the first time in my life I donned a wetsuit the right way round. I was delighted to discover wetsuits do not, after all, make me look like a bloated bin liner. It seems they are the finest human invention for giving the body that little extra support in awkward places. I may start wearing one to work.

We hopped in our guide Sam's jeep, kayaks in tow, and rumbled down to the slipway at Portquin - which Sam himself must have built, given it carries his name etched into the cement! After a brief demonstration, during which I was treated like a seasoned pro for having mentioned that I had once gone sea kayaking before (on a sea so flat, I could have skimmed a rock to Newfoundland), we headed down to the water.

My alleged expertise was soon blown apart as, in a horrible, deeply crushing moment, one of our group of five elected to do a "capsize test" in the bay. He rolled his kayak over, burst out into the salty water, scrambled back, flipped the boat back over, and hopped gracefully back in.

Sam, to her eternal shame, decided she'd be next to have a go, and executed the manoeuvre perfectly. When even the 50-odd-year-old dad in the group capsized his boat and got back in effortlessly, I knew my time was up. They had all turned against me. I'd have to capsize my bloody kayak, in front of a live studio audience, and get back in. The whole point of being in the bleeding kayak is that I am no great shakes of my own accord in water. But no, no, inflict this shame and humiliation on me. why don't you all?

And SPLASH! I'm in the water, salt slapping into the back of my throat, paddle bobbing about my neck, boat feeling like it's a lifetime away. My initial attempt to leap across the boat and flip it fails miserably, because my little legs have wound themselves underneath me and I've no real propulsion. Already, if this were a pit stop, Murray Walker would have been choking back tears that my drivers' championship hopes had ended.

Eventually the legs somehow fired into action and I flipped the boat, but it took another 20 seconds to properly throw myself on top of the kayak, then another 20 to shift slowly and uncertainly back into the seat. "Well done," said our guide, encouragingly, but there was no disguising that I would have been lapped twice by everybody else. Still, at least that'd be the last time I capsized today, thanks very much.

We paddled out to sea, a sea which while not exactly rough, was certainly enough to think about. There had been tremendous wind and rain in the night, some of which still lingered, so there were plenty of waves to work with, which made the trip an enormous amount of fun.

At various stages our guide found us rock formations around the coast, through and over which we had to navigate while judging the swell from the waves. These were great challenges and produced a real fire inside me for the sport - even though sitting on a small canoe in the Atlantic has rarely been a hobby of mine, I love anything that throws personal endeavour, snap judgement and nature together.

In fact, the next three hours in that boat sold kayaking to me completely. We went inside caves, thrown up against their walls by incoming waves, pushing, paddling and praying until we navigated their courses in the darkness, re-emerging a little further down the coast.

At last we reached the smallest and most perfectly formed of beaches, where our guide said we'd be taking a break before heading home. He went first through a narrow rock formation to reach the shore, with me following suit. As I went past the first rock, the waves took my boat and crashed it forwards, slamming me up against the rocks. I'd survived one or two of these before but now had nowhere to put a hand, and no time to jab a stabilising oar down. Over I went, for a proper capsize.

And you know what? It felt good. I suspect it primarily felt good because I was all of seven yards from the shore and could simply push my boat to safety with none of that getting-back-on-the-kayak bollocks, but it still felt good. I felt alive, certainly more alive than at any other time in the past few months. The beach provided the cleanest, most refreshing spring I have ever seen, rolling down off the cliffs above, just to cap off the experience.

On the way back our guide headed a little further out to sea, unwinding a fishing line behind him. I watched as, in less than five minutes, two mackerel succumbed to temptation and were reeled in. We later paid him the princely sum of £1 for the pair, and they became Wednesday morning's breakfast. I cannot remember the last time I saw my food being caught before eating it. It may never have happened. When did that last happen for you?

Sam came up with a superb cure for seasickness on the way home. The swell had increased and while I, the arch-refusenik of any rollercoaster ever, was finding this immensely good fun, Sam was bobbing up and down wearing the kind of expression usually reserved for a wake. Her cure? To fall into the sea. She capsized herself and then tried, valiantly, to float all the way back into the bay, clinging to her kayak. Apparently this helped the seasickness, but she didn't get overly far before having to relent and paddle herself groggily home.

Back on dry land, we picked up our mackerel and headed north along the coast. We stopped briefly at the Arthurian Centre in the village of Slaughterbridge, which is well worth a visit if you're ever in the area. Arthur's stone - which it would seem is not really anything to do with Arthur, but is still bloomin' old and impressive - sits at the end of a nice little walk through the countryside, basking beneath a small viewing platform. Here it is, in the bottom left of the picture:

We also had a good look at the ancient druidic code known as Ogham, of which I'd never heard, despite an alleged education in these things. You can see a bit of Ogham coming into play on that stone if you look carefully. It involves sequences of lines carved into the sides of stones, and is officially now my New Favourite Language. Find out more here.

Having learnt our lay-by lesson, we made finding a good campsite an early priority, and pitched up in Bude at around 4pm, with plenty of light and no rain. The campsite we found had superb facilities, a good view over Bude, and even a mains hook-up point - my reward for having faithfully taken my travel hairdryer along for the trip.

However, things were not entirely simple. We parked up in our designated spot (which is where Sam is in the pic above) and I went off for a shower, but returned to be told by Sam that some people had asked us to move. Apparently this was their spot, even though the campsite had told us to park there.

We moved, but our new spot had no mains cable next to it. So I went back and, in the spirit of quiet British defiance, nicked the cable from the old spot. If you look at the photo, you may just be able to see the orange squiggle of cable underneath the open door. I had that away.

All was well for about an hour, until a big old camper van rumbled up the hill and parked in the spot we had vacated. An elderly gentleman hopped out, rummaged around for a bit, began to look a little energetic about life, and made his way over to our van, where I was now alone, Sam having gone to wash.

There is a knock on the van's back window. I have been trying to ignore his progress across the field.

"Have you taken my cable?"
"Er.... yeah... but, no... but yeah, but no, but WE WERE PARKED OVER THERE AND THEN YOUR FRIENDS MADE US MOVE AND WE HAD NO CABLE SO TOOK YOURS SORRY."
"Can I have it back? It's mine."
"Yes. Yes you can."

As I unplugged the man's cable from the back of my van, I tried to plead ignorance, as this was our very first night in a proper campsite as responsible adults. He turned out to be from somewhere up Lancashire way, so I also found my voice slurring into a decent Bolton accent, as though my case would be helped if I sounded like I lived round the corner from him.

In fairness, he turned out to be a very kind and understanding gentleman. But now I had no cable... or did I? Since, to my horror, I then realised we of course had our own bloody cable, stashed neatly inside one of the compartments. I'd seen it just the night before and thought to myself, "Oh look, we've got a cable, I must remember that". So within 30 seconds of admitting to being a thief, I was plugging my own cable into my van, in full view of my innocent victim. I bet I'm right up there in his estimation.

The sun set on Bude and this time we parked ourselves in a restaurant, not a lay-by, to wind the evening down to a close with a pack of cards and some wine. Tomorrow lay the biggest test of all - can Ollie surf?

Hello again! It's been quite an incredible week. Over the next few days, I present to you The Collected Tales of Barbarossa, the VW camper van in which I've been spending my days.

In today's instalment, the first day's events - the trek down to Devon, taking charge of the van, learning to fly the dragon, and bedding down in an unlikely location.

We left bright and early from the sleepy commuter town of Yateley at 8:30am. "We" is yours truly and Sam, my former colleague in BBC local radio, now to be found doing amazing things to horses at a Hampshire stables. Last seen on Dayorama back in January, in the tale of the Welsh language television debate at Tesco.

I'd slept at her place the night before and we got a good getaway despite Monday morning rush hour traffic in Berkshire, fair hurtling down the M4 and M5. A brief detour took us to a small village near Minehead to say hi to my mum, who took us for a sumptuous lunch at Somerset's finest restaurant, the Smugglers Inn.

At around 3pm we reached Okehampton, home to O'Connor's Campers, the company renting our van to us. What a place this is - a small corner of a Devon industrial estate given over to a camper van aficionado's paradise. All around us, old vans in various states of disrepair lay side by side with fellow veterans who'd been through an exhaustive refit, and now presented themselves for happy campers to pilot into the wild Cornish yonder.

Barbarossa, our trusty steed for the next five days, appeared a little dishevelled at first. He had his leisure battery dangling out of the back, cables everywhere, and doors wide open. Scruffy git, I thought, as I had a poke around while we waited - so many vans were being dispatched this afternoon that a formidable queue of expectant city folk had gathered, in anticipation of their slice of VW pie. But secretly I admired what was a beautiful, exceptional van. Split screen, 21 windows, and enough heritage to dwarf the poor Dodge, who I could see shifting its headlights uncomfortably further up the yard.

A lovely young lady gave us a brief tour of our van's innards. The seat cushions hid four compartments in which could be found everything from a kettle, pans and crockery, through to spare gas, a lantern, and the all-important corkscrew.

A further hidey-hole below the roof contained a tarpaulin (for draping over the van in wet weather, since the retractable, ginormous sunroof had been known to leak). Also in there was a piece of wood which, together with the makeshift table found in the back, slotted in between the seats to form the basis of our rudimentary double bed. Cosy is not the word.

If you've never been inside a camper van before, they don't half pack a lot in. There was even room for a little sink and a small cooker/grill appliance, which remarkably was so simple even I understood how to use it. Then, in the back, we had more storage space and some outdoor chairs, and below that - inside the engine cover - was the mains hook-up, in case we found a decent campsite with electricity on tap.

All that sound a bit daunting? Wait till you're shown how to drive the thing. The gent in charge beckoned me round to the driver's side (Sam hasn't been driving long enough to be let loose on the van) and gave me a thorough breakdown of how the van might break down.

First, the dashboard. There's one large dial on it - the speedometer - on which are marked points at which, as a rule of thumb, you should probably be in a certain gear. There are also a series of little lights: red and yellow warning lights for various errors, and a blue light to show when your headlights are dipped or on beam. That last light doesn't work - the advice I was given was that "if you're on beam, someone will flash you". To compound matters, the dip/beam switch is a small pedal next to the clutch. I lost count of the number of times I thought I'd depressed the clutch at junctions, only to discover I'd lost my headlights.

The gear stick operates with the kind of certainty and precision normally reserved for 19th century British manoeuvres in the Crimea. In neutral it wags like a particularly excitable puppy's tail. I will know I'm in first, I am told, "because the gear stick will hit the radio". Reverse, apparently, is found by pressing down, then going back and left.

At least, that's the theory. Sam, wisely sensing I was like a bull inside £30,000-worth of china shop, took it upon herself to guide me directly from the VW hire centre to a car park less than 300 yards away, to allow myself time to get my bearings. So we parked up outside a butcher's, nipped in for some supplies, then out I came. First mission: reverse the van.

Fifteen minutes later I was still in the car park. The only change was that the van had edged about three feet closer to an alarming drop over a grassy hill at the edge of the tarmac. A narrow piece of kerb was all that separated the van and a deeply embarrassing, incredibly early demise, within sight of the hire centre.

Finally, at the umpteenth attempt, I discovered I'd been trying to reverse in fourth gear, a gear in which the stick wagged convincingly enough that I'd assumed I was in neutral. So, with no little loss of face, I pulled away and we headed out into the wide unknown.

Well, not quite the wide unknown yet. More like the A road down to Bodmin, which was comparative bliss, as the van was never going to threaten any speed limit. Simply get in the slow lane, and put the pedal to the metal in fourth gear, and don't stop for 40 miles. That I can do.

We reached Bodmin around 5pm and parked up in the town centre, following a nerve-wracking jaunt into town during which I discovered the van has no discernible brakes to speak of. Off we went for a nice little Chinese down the road, coming back around 7.30pm to find a little rain in the air, and the sun fast setting. Time to find a campsite.

An hour and one very long climb up a steep hill later - one I could have walked quicker than the van took to conquer it - we reached the nearest campsite. Sam hopped out of our Viking longboat to negotiate terms with the peasants. Alas, the peasants were revolting - they said their campsite was flooded, and therefore closed. No admittance. Sam asked if the chief peasant could recommend anywhere else. No, said the least helpful campsite owner in the history of man, he couldn't.

Off we set into the now very real darkness and rain, pitiful little windscreen wipers scrabbling away at the torrent of water on the windows, lights flipping from beam to dip every time I tried to change gear.

Two hours later, during which time I had managed to cross the same bridge three times, each time with a line of traffic the size of a decent camel train behind me, we realised this was not looking good. No campsites presented themselves, the rain was not about to cease, and there was only one thing for it: a small but perfectly formed lay-by we had spotted near the village of Sladesbridge.

We parked up, made the bed, drew the curtains and settled down. Then the cars began to rumble past, and believe me, rumble is an understatement. The lay-by was no more than an extra strip of tarmac set to one side, opposite a churchyard. Each time a car passed, the air flow would suck the van from side to side, as the car's headlights created a dazzling light show within, accompanied by that all-too-familiar roar of an engine.

And so, our two intrepid six-foot-tall explorers curled up in their four-foot-deep bed, and rocked themselves to sleep with every passing van. It was not, we agreed, the best of starts. But if you set the bar too high, too early, you will only be disappointed. I was sure nothing could possibly go wrong for the rest of the trip.

Why is it that something so seemingly simple can turn into a horrendously complex affair?

I wanted to change the name of my Barclays Account. I couldn't find the facility on the online banking website so opted for telephone banking. But you can't change an account name over the phone, you have to attend a branch in person or write a letter. Okay, no bother, tap out a letter and hopefully bingo. It was never going to be that simple though, was it? Oh no, apparently my signature didn't match their records and thus I had to attend a branch. I was rather perplexed by this – my signature hasn't changed since my account was opened in 1999 so something must have been amiss. Anyway, I trundled to the Canary Wharf branch mid-afternoon (it's hopeless going at lunchtime), eventually got seen and presented my little story. It seems that it wasn't my signature that was incorrect, it was the simple fact that if you change and account name you need to complete a new signature mandate – which, I figure, makes sense. Not applicable in my case, but logical all the same. So this was done and everything sorted etc. But it wasn't, was it? Because once the Bank has you sitting down they try to encourage you to take out a loan, and upgrade to Premier banking and sell you wretched life insurance. And all I wanted to do was run. So I completed a complaints form regarding the inaccuracy of the letter that I had been sent and duly ran.

Ran back to work? Yes, great idea. Only to be confronted by an answer phone message from the Barclaycard fraud department. Oh great. So I dutifully phone them up. Now, don't get me wrong, I approve of all this, but I've had my fill of financial institutions today. Security checks galore – including, "Did you frequent a hotel last weekend and spend £138.00". "No", says I. "In Suffolk?", questions the operator. "Oh yes, sorry, I took my God Mother for dinner at [names country establishment- which, incidentally, doesn't have "hotel" in the short title] – but I didn't connect it with being a hotel". Then there were a couple of other detailed questions (which I don't want to go into because it seems a little foolish but pretty brain-racking questions about my past month's expenditure) and then the operator read through the last month's transactions – yep, seller and price – and I had to confirm if they were legitimate. It was incredibly painful! They all were legitimate – I keep a beady-eye on my accounts – and that was that. Apparently I'd made several purchases online and thus since the majority of fraud takes place online, they wanted to review my account. Well, top marks for Barclaycard and I certainly can't complain. Even though it felt like the grand inquisition.

I then decided to ask for a credit limit increase. This fell flat – but not because of my credit rating, or so it seems. The operator was perplexed and suggested I obtain my credit report from the credit reference agency. We always used to recommend this in the CAB but I'd never done it until today. It's fascinating. I even found out how much is outstanding on my mortgage (perhaps I should have known that…). But honestly, it's worth doing.

And then, just to seal the online purchases, I purchased an i-pod. That's it. I've finally entered the digital-music world. Wonders will never ever cease. Now I have two-weeks of vacation to fiddle around with it. Four more days and I'm off work. Four. More. Days.

It's often said that simple things please simple minds, usually with reference to me.

I'm not yet an expert at living in my own house. With three months' practice under my belt, there are only a few basics I can say, with some certainty, I have conquered.

• Locking the door. I can do this. I can even remember to lock the windows. Security has not, to date, been an issue. I say that while touching enough wood to replenish the Amazon basin.
• Cooking. No, really! I can cook a wide enough variety of stuff that coming home in the evening is not the exercise in gastronomic pessimism you might expect. Meat, fish, er... meat... fish... meat! And fish! And occasionally a little rocket with some mushrooms. Yeah.
• Washing. I type this with mild trepidation since, while my washer/dryer has proved itself a worthy accessory, it has recently been threatening armageddon. There is a point, two-thirds of the way through the cycle, where it lobs a flame into its little Bosch afterburner and all hell breaks loose. The machine itself is the only thing yet to break loose, but it's close. Up till now, however, washing has been a triumph.

None of these modest successes - things you've been doing without much thought for a long time - compares to this morning's discovery.

I have found a tiny box with a dial on it which controls all the heating in the entire flat.

I think people call them a thermostat.

This is a leap forward not seen since the day, aged 12, I drew a map of a made-up place which I decided to call "Aylesbury" - only to be informed Aylesbury already existed.

In the spirit of adventure I have turned the dial up to 24 degrees and, would you credit it, my living room is now moderately toastier than previously. So is my kitchen, so is my bathroom, so is my bedroom. They are all wired up to this thing!

I don't care how much you're laughing right now - I've never lived in a house with this kind of technology. Or if I have, people have kept it very quiet and not let me remotely near it, which on reflection was wise of them.

My previous battles with heating have involved tightening and loosening those little knobbly things on the edge of radiators, to absolutely no effect, then settling down in a fleece for a long, cold winter.

Not this time, baby. I'm cooking in here. Northolt has its first sauna and I'm the proud proprietor.

I'm off on holiday for the week now (no more of this nonsense till Saturday). What are the odds I remember to turn the heating off again?

Platform 5, Reading station, at 0036...

... and Platform 4, Plymouth station, at 0630...

... then onward, to Penzance - the South-westerly tip of the UK rail network - for 0800.

Such is the life of The Night Riviera, the jewel in the crown of First Great Western (who don't always warrant the Royal headgear), and the eighth wonder of the world as far as this night sleeper is concerned.

Not that I get much night sleeping done whenever I go on it. It's not that its coaches are noisy, bumpy or uncomfortable; quite the opposite, since the rolling stock used is old enough to recall an era where, unlike today, these traits were unacceptable to the rail traveller. It's just that it's so much bloody fun.

Granted, I'm something of a train buff. Of course I'd find it exciting to head off in a rake of old British Rail Mark III sleeper stock, headed by what is, essentially, an old Class 47 locomotive from the '60s - all refurbished to an impressive standard way beyond that of any brand new train, by the way - but I defy any non-gricer to set foot aboard The Night Riviera and not be disappointed when it's time to jump off.

"What time in the morning, Sir?", he asked as I boarded.

"Well... I'm off at Plymouth. Don't we arrive at 5.30?".

"Oh yes", he replied, "but we hold the train for an hour to give you a chance to enjoy your breakfast."

Of course they do. The people running this service - and it is, a service - take a great pride in what they're doing. As with its Caledonian counterpart, people have had to fight hard for the continued existence of this train over the years, and there's a sense of that ongoing triumph of quality over economy. Over the years, both BR and First have made numerous attempts to ditch the sleeper arm of their operations, but it's easy to see why the punters gave such resistance to those efforts.

Try it.

Imagine you're travelling the underground or DLR, sitting [comfortably] and reading a book, and the train stops in a station. Fellow commuters pile on and amongst them is a rather largely-proportioned lady. And so that eternal dilemma begins: Is she definitely pregnant and therefore do you offer up your seat? Or is she not pregnant? Or is she somewhere in middle and you know if you offer up your seat and you've got it wrong you're going to be lamped by her oversized handbag (either containing baby books or hundreds of chocolate bars, depending of course on whether she's pregnant or not). Well, some bright spark at TFL seems to have come up with the idea that pregnant ladies can wear a badge, the type you'd find on a birthday card, with the underground logo and a clear statement that the wearer is an expectant mum. Praise be for small innovations – not only does the child bearer get a seat but we are saved from that awful moment of decision which just makes one wish to be thoroughly British, bury oneself in one's novel, and pretend one is oblivious to everything.

Last week, the British Cartographic Society claimed that "online maps" are "wiping out history". Now, I consider myself to be a fan of maps. I've several books on cartology and I could either find my way or instruct on the intricacies of a 1:50,000 or 1:25,000 Ordinance Survey map with the best of them. Given Ollie's renowned Flood Map or Olympic Map, in recent months he's clearly branched into the benefits of online maps.

As much as I love maps, I don't agree with the BCS. Maps such as Google and Multimap are good for driving (they beat a sat. nav.) and yes, perhaps they do leave out the "crucial data people need to understand a landscape" – but were they ever claiming to do this? No, they're providing a means of finding the most appropriate route to get from A to B, generally via road. Now, unless you're cycling or walking from one end of Yorkshire to the next, you probably don't need to worry about hills and if you're in a car, then you'll probably be sorted regardless. As for landmarks, it's all about usage, isn’t it? If I want to find a tumulus, Google isn't going to help – but a 1:25,000 will. If I want to find my nearest pub, which serves food all day on a Sunday and welcomes dogs, then I'd better turn to Google.

It irritates me that the BSC are somehow criticising the online usage of maps – because, in fact, they should be embracing our new-found love for the map. Suddenly, due to the internet, maps have become accessible. Until the day that Google contains footpaths and writes a group's DofE route out for them, ready for them to print (over my dead body, although there are actually computer programs, sadly, designed to do this) there will always be a place for the 1:25,000 OS (or equivalent). In the same way you can't compare tinned tuna to a tuna steak, I don't see how you can compare an online map to the "real thing". "Corporate cartographers are demolishing thousands of years of history - not to mention Britain's remarkable geography - at a stroke by not including them on maps which millions of us now use every day" – oh, don't be so dramatic. "We're in real danger of losing what makes maps so unique, giving us a feel for a place even if we've never been there" – no we're not, for goodness sake, it's just providing a different use and the traditional map will always continue. Embrace it and move on (map in hand, of course).

As some of you may know, I'm a Manchester City fan. It's been a pretty special few days.

For those who have not been following this plot, or don't follow football (and you would have had to be parked underneath Hurricane Gustav not to notice this happening), here's a summary.

The Premier League has a "transfer window" in the summer where players can be bought or sold between the teams. It ended at midnight between Monday and Tuesday this week. As ever, this turned Monday into a bit of a scrap between clubs to sign decent players, since it's their last chance before the next window, in January.

What hadn't been expected was for Manchester City - who always like to be different - to initially eschew this buying and selling of players, in favour of selling the entire club. That morning, it was announced, in a complete shock to everybody, that an Arab consortium had bought out former owner Thaksin Shinawatra.

This Arab consortium must then have phoned manager Mark Hughes, and the conversation must have gone a little like this:

Dr Sulaiman Al-Fahim, new owner, Manchester City: "Hello Mark, how's tricks?"
Mark Hughes, Manchester City manager: "Not bad ta."
Al-Fahim: "So we've just bought the club, and all that. Here's five hundred million pounds. You've got twelve hours to buy the best players in the world. Ready? Go."

And with that, City appear to have started bidding sums of money never before seen in football (no mean feat these days) for every decent player under the sun.

City fans - who had been happy enough just to have City old boy Shaun Wright-Phillips back, in fine form, from Chelsea last week - watched agog as the club entered territory no fan thought they'd tread in their lifetime.

First the club spent five or six hours trying to outdo Manchester United and sign top Spurs striker Dimitar Berbatov from under Sir Alex Ferguson's nose.

When that failed (not before costing Ferguson an extra few million quid in the inflated fee United had to pay Spurs), City phoned up Real Madrid.

Al-Fahim: "Evening, lads. I've got my chequebook. We'd like your entire squad."
Real Madrid: "Um... well, we kind of need to keep some of them. Anyone in particular you're after?"
Al-Fahim: "Ruud Van Nistelrooy would be quite nice. We'll give you the GDP of a medium-sized European nation for him."
Real Madrid: "No, we'll pass on that and make you pay twice as much in January. How about that sulky-looking one sat in the corner?"
Al-Fahim: "Number one Chelsea target and Brazilian ace Robinho?"
Real Madrid: "Yeah, that's him. Yours for more money than anyone has ever paid for anyone in Britain, ever."
Al-Fahim: "We'll take him."

And lo, Robinho signed with moments of the transfer window remaining. One Liverpool fan, who promised on a fans' internet forum to "eat my own arse" if Robinho signed for City, went to switch the oven on and fetch some condiments.

City fans around the world, including Noel Gallagher of Oasis fame, narrowly avoided coronaries. Here was the club whose previous striker of best renown had been Shaun Goater, the gangly and haplessly brilliant Bermudan signed for peanuts. Now, for around 100 times his transfer fee, a young man with 40-plus Brazilian caps was heading for City of Manchester Stadium, now dubbed "Middle Eastlands" by locals.

Gallagher had just been about to go on stage while touring in Canada. He later told the BBC that his greatest delight, in all of this, had been the realisation that - with an Abu Dhabi oli-rich consortium in charge - every time Manchester United fans filled up with petrol, they'd be contributing to City's transfer fund.

In the 48 hours since the window closed, meanwhile, it has emerged that City could have done a lot more damage on deadline day. They are variously rumoured to have offered £50m for Liverpool's Fernando Torres and a blank cheque for any number of Real Madrid players, plus Valencia striker David Villa.

More insane still, Al-Fahim reckons £134m will be enough to lure Cristiano Ronaldo from Manchester United. City fans, many of whom would rather stick complimentary club plastic forks in their eyes than see Ronaldo in a City shirt, no longer care because if nothing else, it serves to rile United fans that this is even possible.

Manchester City, as a club, have suffered more false dawns than Robinho has zeroes in his contract. Chairmen like Francis Lee, David Bernstein, John Wardle and Thaksin have tried to find that something extra to take the club to the next level.

It turns out that something extra is £600bn. It had better be, because if the club can't shift up a gear with owners prepared to spend nine-figure sums on any player in the world "as long as the manager wants them", then we really are in trouble.

As City fans celebrate "Happy Robinho day" and Mark Hughes turns, restlessly, in a sleep littered with the signatures of global superstars, there is suddenly no excuse for that one constant in the career of any City player of the past three decades - failure.

It's Brighton in the Carling Cup in a couple of weeks' time. A tenner says we get knocked out.