It's like when all the buses (I nearly typo'd nurses not buses there) come at once (oh God, did I really write that). Sack the script writer.

In other news, I have the pleasure of the Kat as a guest for a couple of weeks as of Monday, possibly followed by a less temporary mad woman. Alles ist gut.

This is what I am gladly putting up with at the moment, and loving it, just as a stabilizer from the previous post:

I feel like a teenager. But I couldn't eat a full one.

I'm feeling contrary today. I get like this whenever I get a cold -- snotty would be too much of a pun for me to stomach.

I just watched the 1 o'clock news. There were a couple of things that *really* narked me.

The first one was Ian Hislop testifying at the Levinson Inquiry. Murdoch may be a t**t of the first order but smart-arse jocular commentary given as evidence will not help anyone. Yes Ian, we know you're a clever guy. What you are not is the messiah. I'll award that round to Paul Merton.

The second was a report on the grading of schools. Regardless of the content, the footage that accompanied it was infuriating. Kids sat in exam halls with calculators. What the hell is up with that? It is no wonder that exam results improve year on year. It will not be long before you earn your degree by Google.

Finally, Scotland, not content by ruling the UK from Westminster, having their own devolved parliament yet a sweet deal on public money, if you want complete devolution/severance from the UK, just go ahead and do it. Adopt the Euro and join the ever-growing list of f*еdcountries.com.

Yes, I'm in a bad mood. I'm allowed one every now and again, especially when I'm expectorating gallons of phlegm a second.

I find myself apologizing again for lack of updates. Facebook seems to be my MO at the moment.

I thought I would bob on here to let you know that I'm a bit discombobulated (which, incidentally, was 5D in a recent crossword). Someone from my very distant past has appeared on the horizon and I have completely fallen for her. As soon as my France Telecom shares have been sold, I'm off to my old stomping ground of Middlesbrough.

I feel like a schoolkid again -- not used to "courting".

In other news, I'm off to France again soon. I've not decided on a date yet, but I will be in Valenciennes with Kat soon to see Louis.

'Tis all. Again I promise I will try to write something vaguely interesting soon.

Apparently it is nearly Xmas...

Not sure how festive I feel just yet.

There is talk of me and a certain Waaart going to Sin on Xmas Eve. I'm not too sure whether that is going to happen or not.

In the meantime I'll be the grumpy guy in the corner.

And dream of sheep

It's well late but I'm still awake. Kate Bush's new CD has rocked my little world and I cannot get off track one. If you have a decent set of headphones, plug them in and listen to "Snowflake". It is the stuff that makes your knees tremble.

"I'll find you" hits like a hammer. Three days ago, I was all Siouxsie and the Banshees. Kate Bush has scuppered that one. It is truly the most sedentary piece of music you will ever hear.

'Tis all. It is so exquisite I am lost for words.

Mr and Mrs Mo moved in a few weeks ago. I laced the place with poison. Their response was to tap-dance around the living room with top-hats and elaborate Northern canes. My response to their response to their response is quite simple: "You start fixing shit around here so more of your mousy nonsense cannot get in you can stay, as long all of you are neutered." I think that's a reasonable response, don't you? (Hell, I would never keep my side of the bargain but they don't know that). Thus far, all I have got is a squeak from the corner.

First up, I have just bravely and singly done battle with what was probably a day old beast. I chased it onto the glue pad armed only with a torch, so there it now in situe. Its siblings look like foul little eels, jet back and still wet. It is the single most disgusting thing you have ever seen (re: late great Peter Cook, The Frog and Peach). It could be that there are two or more.

We noticed yesterday/last week that the poison was probably inappopriately positioned. Bec repositioned it to the back of the sofa where it has obviously been a great hit. When we got up this morning the cheeky buggers had moved it to about 2 feet of the fridge. E1 was shocked. E2 was nonplussed. I screamed for assistance: "The bloody thing is so immune to the blue grains of death that it wants a bloody second helping." Honestly.

At the moment I am hearing loud squeaks to my left every few minutes. These are closly followed by high pitched screams from me. The neighbors might have called the police, I don't know. If I die tonight, you can pretty much dispense wondering why. I am assuming that there is one squeak per slimey black sack of disease. By that token we are now on eight but one has been "retired". I think we bagged lard-arse early this week. He was holed up with an golden nose stud. God, they are ugly and putrid. They also clamber around the place like they have hooves. Two of the smallest that I have seen have bodies the width about half that of a pencil and as long as a usb connector. How many more synonyms could I possibly come up? Humor me and hit the Thesaurus and you'll still be reading at the weekend, which I would not advise, but I am not God so I won't. Or am I?

Prepare to have said hello the world, meeses, and then to quietly and politely f*** off back from whence thy came.

I am doubling the defense budget as result of this invasion. There will now be a full £30 allocated next year, subject to not having to bite into any contingency we have this year. Greece, Italy, Portugal, Ireland, Spain -- don't even think about doing the same.

Toodles and, once again, it has been nearly a month since I bitched about something. I vow to scream every time I either see one of these mice or when I've bagged one for the greater good.

I feel compelled to let you all know of the horrors that have befallen me over the last few days. They are numerous.

The first is that I have a mouse. The thing is jet black and has an arse the size of a small football stadium. I have laced the house with poison but it appears unattracted to said tasty yet lethal manna.

The second is that I bucked trends by going out with my old drummer, Mr Gilman on Saturday to attend something called Sin City, a retro 80s night where I found my legs again and actually danced. Unfortunately my legs failed me while walking back to Piccadilly Station. John and I were, quite frankly, utterly lost. Within two minutes, we had been approached by two lasses offering "services". I wanted to run but the legs are not quite that good yet. My gut instinct in these situations is to throw money at them and tell them to go home, pour a nice glass of wine, get in the bath and forget their predilection for anonymous sex for cash, just for one night. Thankfully John dealt with them with a gentle "No thank you". I came home and had to bathe. It's quite strange that in any other circumstance, I would never have pegged them as being hookers. 'Tis a brutal world that they live in and my heart went out to them. But that's just me; show me a cute lass in trouble and I fold. Thankfully I didn't on this occasion.

There's other gubbins going on but it's not appropriate for me to elaborate, so I'll leave you at two.

The guys in Leeds need pies so I am off over there tomorrow. Shout if you need a chunky steak pie or a custard.

Well, look at that. It's been damned near a month since I was last on here. I have excuses but I'll not go into too many details.

Today has been horrendous. From my Facebook status:

"Waxing [my legs] would have been less painful than being beaten by goals by a bloke who sounds like a type of pasta, a bloke who sounds like a type of Seat car, a bloke who sounds like an insurance company and a bloke who sounds like a cockney precious metal."

I am not accustomed to being battered 6-1 by the blue half of the city. If I had a gas oven, I would have had my head in it by about 80 minutes. As it happens I have an electric one. By the time full-time came around, I was quite willing to try sticking my head in that, just in case I missed a physics lesson that was pertinent to these circumstances.

On the upside of down, I have been through some serious druggage over the last few weeks which has rendered me either asleep or too dopey to think. I started off on some mood stabilizers (nothing to do with the football) which were the equivalent of a 'sync; sync; halt' followed by a slow boot up. They blasted me from here to outer space and back. By the time I had finished my course of benzodiazipines, I was a jittering wreck. These have now been replaced with beta-blockers which are God's own creation. I have never felt so calm and surprisingly, my legs appear to have started working again. I'll not be playing for Utd any time soon but there is a marked improvement. The doc is baffled about the legs.

While all this has been happening, her Katness has moved house from the People's Republic of Red Salford back to Farnworth. This is slightly closer to Wigwam but still not close enough. Each night, at silly o'clock, she texts me telling me she is missing me. She's even asked me when we are getting married, bless. I fully intend descending on her new house next weekend, probably for the whole of the weekend.

Anyway, I have some football grieving to be done and some shirts to be ironed before the very last episode of Spooks is aired, so I must love you and leave you. I promise to be more diligent in updating you on the mundane nothing that is my joyful existence. Before I do, a plea: please do not try to outbid me on ebay for Gaddafi's wardrobe -- that is all mine.

It appears that I am rubbish at making decisions. Where else would I whinge other than here?

It has been an awful day. I made it down to Bristol last night and ate a hearty meal. This morning I awoke at 02:30 and then never got back to sleep, instead preferring to have a tactical vomit every hour or so. The last time I was so ill in a hotel was in Chicago -- Nski sent me some flowers -- bless. This time I have no-one to send me flowers.

I'm having Macbook problems too. While I'm typing the volume keeps going up/down/off depending on which keys I hit (and they are not the function keys). A google has not helped me at all. Any ideas? This started a while ago but I've still not managed to work out what the hell is going on. Kat has something similar going on with her Macbook too -- her bnm,. keys are not working at all.

Anyway, I am going to have to eat something so I'm off to grab a sandwich. Let us hope that the stomach issue disappears.

Tomorrow, I have to attend the funeral of an old friend of mine. I say old, but I mean he was 44. Other things have been happening too but I am at a loss as to how to describe them.

With my tenth anniversary of bloggage under my belt, I have decided that this will be the 'Last Post' (Cue bugle).

In a semi-humorous send-off, please accept this as my little gift to you all. BNL always made me smile.

Take care of yourselves and have one for me, whatever "one" is.

I'm going to start off with something that is far more important than the second part of this post.

I've spent hours watching the 9/11 memorial service from both Ground Zero and from Grosvenor Square (or Little America as it is known). There's a little dig that us Brits have at our cousins every now and again -- you're allowed grief and sentimentality...okay stop it now, you're not American. Today we can toss that one right aside. To say the memorial is touching is an understatement on a biblical scale. The reading of the names brought a tear to my eye. And the reflection pool is possibly the most beautiful design I have ever seen. If I ever make it back to NYC, it will be top of my things to go and visit.

I went to the WTC in 1994 and was awe-struck at the size. I remember it well because I dropped a rookie bollock in a meeting with a high-ranking bank official. People say the City brings out some very smartly and some very eccentrically dressed executives. The WTC blew it away. Everyone was smarter than smart. I felt like the working class lad that I am, in my cheap suit and even cheaper shoes.

The lady I met with at the bank was amazing. She was sharp-dressed, wonderfully quaffed 30-something who was VP of the bank (I think it was Morgan Stanley) and had a razor-like mind. For fun, she had been trying to crack the encryption on our software. She asked me about it quite openly. It was one of her interests and it was the first time she had failed. Obviously I couldn't tell her how it worked for professional reasons but I did give her a sneaky, albeit very vague, hint while the salesman was in the restroom. She beamed at me. She emailed me a week later -- job done. We spoke for quite a while after that.

At the time I had no idea what I was walking into. I got up in a nasty motel in Trenton, NJ knowing only that I needed to be suited and booted to go to a bank. We took the rattler commuter train into NYC and suddenly I was faced with this gob-smacking entrance and spent ages in a lift getting to the plushest suite you have ever seen. It was a world I had never seen before.

In some ways I am glad I got to go there. In others it probably makes its destruction and the associated loss of life even more horrendous -- you can't help but ask whether any of the people you met/passed/greeted were among the victims.

Watching the footage on that morning in 2001, I remember every move I made for the next few days. And then I remember catching one of the first flights after the no-fly days to DC, much to the consternation of Nski. By that time the Reserve Guards were swarming all over anyone who wasn't a US citizen. The change was palpable. No flashing your driver's license anymore.

I've recently watched Flight 93 and Sky's The Path to 9/11. Initially I was disgusted by the thought but, to be fair, they were both very well done and extremely evocative. Anyone who is old enough must still think about 9/11 on a daily basis.

I think what I'm trying to say is that day fundamentally changed a lot. It certainly changed me. My tree-hugging, bed-wetting liberal credentials evaporated. Watching these memorials has reinforced my views.

It's trite, but I still consider myself half American and today I am 100% American.

--

On a much less important note, I've been a bit off color for the last 3-4 days. I rang the incomparable Dr Jones on Wednesday morning who instructed me to get back from Bristol and told me to pick up a prescription she had left at the local chemist for me. I did. The first night I slept 13 hours. The second I slept 12 hours (I had an appointment to go see her the following day). After the consultation on Friday I got some different drugs. So Friday I snoozed all day and then slept and sweated for 14 hours. Last night, while interrupted, another 13. Tomorrow I have to get to Bristol and am stressed about it. Remind me not to forget my meds.

Bec, bless her, doesn't want me to go. The girl worries. If I had a choice I'd sooner be sat at home being nursed and waited on hand and foot by Bec, but deeds must. All I can say is that if I drop dead while traveling, at least she'll have the money for a deposit on a house, and someone at work will have a terrible conscience to live with.

I'll try to be a bit more diligent blogging over the next few days.

All I want to do is curl up with a book. Malheuresement, it's not happening -- a curry is de rigeur.

I had an absolutely fabulous night last night with my old homeys, John Gilman, Lisa and Diane Farley. I felt positively young until the alarm clock went off at 05:30 this morning. A day of scratching my head, wondering what I am doing in Brizzle followed. I guarantee I will be in bed by 22:00. Buggered.com does not even cover it.

You'll not be interested but my scanner at home was not playing ball last night. John and Lisa brought all sorts of photos from when we were all young. I planned on scanning them but the HP gremlins decided they were feeling antsy.

Speaking of HP, I have some work to do with HP containers. I am baffled. No big surprise there really.

One last thing before I go meet my compadres -- having an acute ear is not the blessing you might think it is. I am sat listening to a very high pitched whine from the modem in my hotel room. It is going to drive me nuts.

Any suggestions on the curry?

There may be a boat-load of 80s photos appearing here shortly. You might see pictures of me when I was cool.

Well, another game of two halves. I've had the Kat around for a couple of days. As usual, she was amazingly fun. I demand that someone clone her and move her in with me, but alter her tendencies away from being Libyan.

This morning we had to make it down to my grandmother's house to pick up some things, the most notable of which is a writing bureau that was purchased for my mother when she was at grammar school. Between the two of us, we managed to get it downstairs and into my car. Seeing I was feeling macho, I carried my golf clubs out too.

Bec, Furlong and I have installed the bureau in the front room. I love it. When the light is better and we've populated it, I will take a picture. It is gorgeous.

The downside of this, and two days of having people around, is that the back room is absolutely stacked full of stuff. It looks like we have taken the contents of everyone's wardrobes, golf clubs, a music shop, a computer shop, a second-hand furniture shop and a greasy spoon cafe and just thrown them around à la Jackson Pollock. Tomorrow night is going to be hard work.

It was truly awful walking into the house again. I know I have to do it at least twice more. Once to pick up some pots and pans, and once to move the bed. The house is a shell and it is heart-breaking to see 85 years worth of life boxed and bagged.

The final goodbye is on Wednesday. It is very sad that the internment of her ashes will be attended by only Mater, Pater and I. Kat has said she will try to make it too, bless her. She improves my mood more than anyone I know. We may bicker and bitch like a married couple, but I wouldn't have it any other way. She is gold-dust. I'm not sure what I would do without her and Bec at the moment.

Well, I have Die Führer's chair.

A permanent reminder that she's left us for good. I've just had a conversation with Mater about her. We found a doodle on a piece of paper on her table that was a woman in a chair with her head cocked slightly to one side and her arms crossed. Exactly the same way that we found her. Gutting. She was a canny old bugger. She used to annoy me by being an expert in everything, thanks to t'bloke on t'radio. Now I really miss being told how stuff works, albeit batshit.

On the positive side, Bec and Furlong will have a bigger seat to sit on because that, right there, is the captain's chair. Just imagine how much slobbing I can do in that recliner. I fear I may never leave the house again.

Today I am going to inherit a chair. This may seem like a little nothing but, to me, it's a big deal. When Die Führer bought her last suite, she purposely bought a reclining chair for my use. The good Mr Furlong and I wrestled with the two-seater sofa last night, to get it into the dining room (where, incidentally, it looks pretty good) so there is room for the new "captain's chair".

It will deplete the capacity of the front room by one but what the hell. It's not like I do a great deal of 'entertaining'. Having the dining room with a sofa means Bec can do her own thing when she wants. If I wire up the Linux box in there, she has her own interwebz connection/DVD player too.

In Die Führer's words, "alles gut".

In other news, I should be seeing the marvel that is Bob Walls tonight. And Friday will see Kat here, which always cheers me up.

'Tis all. I need to get down to Vegas. Given the rain/baldness ratio, the flat cap will be deployed. I'm so Wigwam it hurts.

On Friday I was feeling deeply miserable. In a fit of self-loathing, I booked next week off because there is not much happening at work and I fancied doing a Leaving Las Vegas somewhere remote. Unfortunately it isn't going to happen. So having filled in all the relevant forms, set up my out-of-office and generally advertized the fact that I will not be there next week, I am now going to be sat in Wigwam.

The Beckernator is away until Monday with her beau, so I'm rattling around doing bugger-all squared. Thank God for the Universal channel and FX. I am on a Law & Order marathon today. Tomorrow it's the Charity Shield so I should be okay. Gemma has offered to come around at some point, which will amuse me no end. Monday, I have some admin things to do. After that there is nothing planned. I guess there will be a lot of time for mindless TV and a bit of writing.

Happy days.

I was meant to be staying home and having a quiet one last night, but the prospect of being amused by Bob Walls and getting some revenge on the pool table tempted me out. Too damned entertaining.

Favorite line thus far: "I'm so punk I shit safety pins."

In other news, I smuggled some pies from Wigwam over to Leeds today. I fear I may have set a precedent -- given the response the lads had to them, I am going to be battered into bringing more, probably on a weekly basis. I am my own worst enemy.

Oh, and I just went to call Die Frau Führer, out of habit. Talk about a sinking feeling.

Apologies for the silence. Events have rather overtaken me this week. After Sunday's horrendous news, I have been left reeling a little. I'm not quite sure whether I have fully absorbed the fact that the Führer has gone. It feels a cold world without her.

I'm not good at grief. Most people mope. I let loose. The reminder of your own mortality and the inability to cope with losing someone you love so much makes me want to make the most of what time I have left.

To that end I went out with my mate Lauren last night, just for a couple of hours. We met up with one of her mates. Can I give it a wow? I think so.

I have a rule. The first ten minutes of meeting someone will literally define my view on them, be that good or bad. It took less than two minutes for me to be utterly, utterly in love with this girl. I must have looked like a moonbat all evening; I literally could not take my eyes off of her. [Gemma, if you read this, it's all a work of fiction aimed at pleasing the friends who love to live vicariously through me, so I exaggerate.] I have pictures which I will duly place on Facebook and, once the Beckernator has surfaced with my laptop, on here. She sat studying the music on my iPhone and whooped with glee at the amount of eighties stuff on there, then proceeded to tell me she was marrying me for my musical taste. [Easy there, tiger -- Ed]. With all the wit of Edwina Curry I hurriedly pointed out that my track record on marriage was not exactly sterling. [Idiot -- Ed].

Update: The pics are up on Facebook but I chose this one to publish Bob Walls.

Let us just leave that one as a massive wow. And she's not Libyan (for once). Wow.

Back to reality. Die Frau Führer's funeral is set for Tuesday. I have the daunting dilemma of whether to go and see her in the Chapel of Rest or not. In my experience people seldom look like they did so you are visiting a shell. The smell of formaldehyde knocks me sick, too. I think I would be too emotional and nauseous if I went. Kat did offer to come with me but I'm afraid I will have to say my goodbyes on Tuesday. We'll see.

I suspect you are going to hear a lot about the Führer over the coming weeks as I try to come to terms with the loss of one of my best mates. 4'10" of utter attitude has left the building. On a positive note, Gemma has entered the building and she is a bit taller but with the same level of attitude.

Equilibrium is restored.

Die Frau Führer reunited with Richard Whitely...

My grandmother passed away sometime during last night. She died in her sleep, aged 85. She looked very peaceful.

I got a call from my mother's mobile at about 12:45 asking whether I had picked up my grandmother to take her for Sunday lunch. I was quite shocked because I didn't remember saying that I would. Anyway, I said I'd go get her anyway. Mater responded that the reason for asking was that she could get no answer at her door. I only live a mile away and I have keys in case of emergency so I drove up there. The blinds were closed. My heart sank.

Sure enough, we found her in bed, seemingly asleep, but quite obviously dead. From her temperature and the color of her lips, she had been dead for at least a few hours. My mother is now an orphan.

The ambulance team, the policeman and the funeral directors were all marvelous.

Let me list what she has done for me, to give you some idea of what a fantastic woman she was. She could be awkward and obtuse but can't we all (I got that streak from her). I used to mercilessly tease her about her Germanic origins, hence the Über Gruppenführer references. Anyway, this is by no means an extensive list of her kindness:

-- she was the only member of my family to come and visit me during the years I was in the US.

-- when I arrived back from the US with my arse in rags, £30 to my name, she put a roof over my head, bought me a laptop, got an internet connection to her home and paid for everything for me.

-- as I was breaking down during the divorce from Nski, I was living in Leeds alone. When I hit rock bottom, it was she who made the arrangements for my hospitalization. When I came out of hospital, she moved me back into her house and nursed me back to health over months. See missing archives -- that is how long she worked on me.

-- when she got the compensation payout for miners' deaths, she gave me £5000 of it.

-- when I was in hospital last year, she got two buses each way from her house to the hospital to see me and bring me goodies every day, and to make sure they were looking after me to her satisfaction.

-- more recently, she has helped me out of a couple of short term cash problems.

We were more like friends than grandparent/grandson. We laughed together. We were outraged together. She loved the fact that I am the only member of her family in England who liked her cooking (old-school Austrian/German). I loved the fact that she loved making it and would quite happily eat as much as she could throw at me. We'd do daft things like drive to Southport, just because. I built her a pond, which she adored, while she was in Österreich one year (or "invading Poland" as I used to refer to it) and you have never seen a happier face. We were really, really close friends.

I have the task of notifying the family in Austria in broken German. I have only managed to get hold of one by phone.

I'm still numb. I cried for a couple of minutes when we first discovered her but then realized I had to take over and start doing things while my mother composed herself. This will hit me like a truck when it sinks in.

I can remember how to do a decent schnitzel. I can't remember how to make *that* cake. I had the recipe written down in America which was meant to be sent over along with other things but none of them ever turned up, so I am going to have to experiment. I'm wondering whether I blogged it at the time of writing.

And then there's a list of all the things you should have done, should have said...that will be one long arsed list.

I can't believe I will never hear that Germanic cackle again, that I have no rock to fall back on, that I will never be able to chastise her for speaking freaky-deaky foreign on the phone.

I hope she's at peace. She survived a lot, suffered a lot. She deserves peace.

I am too tired to go off on one so I will just bullet point what has been on my mind:

-- Greece, you run your finances worse than I do mine, which is a bit special. I told you aligning your fiscal policy with others was a beyond stupid move over 10 years ago -- once again, I am right. Let the meltdown commence.

-- Murdoch(s), wow. That was some breathtaking lying. Feigning being a senile old geriatric will not save your UK interests (and I'm not just talking about Rupert).

-- Brooks, wow. Your mop of red hair completely distracted me from listening to you. As Mater intimated on the phone, I am too soft with women and I should start to suspect that they are always up to something. She thinks that if you give me a pretty face, I cave. Not so. I was just dazzled by the sheer volume of lockage. What I did hear, though, sounded plausible and genuine. I guess Mater is right.

-- NASA, unlucky. It may be phenomenally expensive to run, but the Space Shuttle programme has captivated me for years. Maybe if the EU decided to bail on Greece and contribute, we might actually be able to continue it. Either that or feed the 10 million Cape Horn people who are starving.

-- Microsoft = pants. Citrix = worse_than_pants. Microsoft + Citrix = BSOD && complete_sloblock.

-- Darlington on Monday. Hmmm.

-- Stress levels are at an all time high. I am seriously considering doing a Reggie Perin on Llandudno beach (must remember to pack degree certificate in a waterproof bag or stash it somewhere no-one will look).

'Tis all. As I said, tired.

I just called Die Frau Führer. She said something in freaky-deaky Deutsche. I responded "Gutten nicht." Without wanting to insult you, I meant to say "Goodnight" but it came out as "Good not."

Great for 'Allo Allo but rubbish for real life.

Shoot me now.

Kenny: "Hiya, I'm ringing about the kitchen stuff that you put on freelove.com on behalf of a friend of mine."

Callee: "Who are you?"

Kenny: "You put an ad on freelove for some kitchen equipment and my friend is interested."

Callee: "Who are you?"

Kenny: "I've obviously got the wrong number. Sorry."

Bec: "You're an idiot: It's called prelove."

Spangles and Jen:

I was right, was I not? The hacking scandal has hit biblical proportions. To be honest I haven't spent every second of every day consuming the media frenzy but I have kept an eye/ear on it. It is the proverbial dawning of the age of Aquarius. I predict the sale of the Times and Sunday Times within the month. And if Murdoch is wise, he would be wise to divest his shares in BSkyB.

The interesting part of all this will be whether similar practices have been deployed in the US. If they have woe betide him. US law is a lot more lax in terms of proof of culpability than English law (and News International is based in the US) so there will be merry hell. Never mess with the feds. Wire-tapping? Ouch. Regardless of the civil lawsuits that will be filed in droves (most of them speculative), the feds will have him for breakfast, dinner and tea. I'm not sure what the statutory sentence is for wire-tapping but I'm pretty darned sure that it's not a smack on the back of the head and a milkshake.

--

In other news, Spangles and I hosted a dinner party on Thursday night. I have included me, only because I live here. Spangles did the catering. Lordy, did she do a good job. The wild mushroom tartlettes were amazing. The penne pasta with pesto, mint, pepper, herbs and broccoli were lovely. But there is no superlative to describe this:

That is what you know as a ginger-crisp cherry cheesecake, concocted from scratch, but what I call heaven. I have no idea how she managed to come up with this, but it is a dinner party killer. No-one spoke during desert. We were all Scooby-doo shoveling it down with our arms in a blur. Then there were a few moments of wow as we all got our heads around what an amazing experience we had just had. It was followed by laughter as we all realized no-one had said a word for ten minutes.

--

In other, other news, Spangles and I wasted the whole day yesterday trying to offload some stuff with no success at all. Woe is us. It's going to be a frugal week or so. If I am quiet, it's because I'm either working, at the hospital, deeply depressed or doing a Brian Wilson. Bloody internet fraudsters should be shot.

'Tis all.

I think today may be a wibble day in terms of the press. This is big.

I really feel for Gordon Brown. Whoever it is who is interviewing him is an insensitive scumbag.

Now I need to work.

Here ya go.

When she says Kenny, she is quite obviously not talking about me. It's way too complimentary. Bless you mi'lass and I will be with you on Friday.

Tell me you're not in love with the silly bugger.

I know I have been ranting about food recently. Sorry. Actually, I'm more sorry to have to do it again.

Lunch today was Egg Furlong avec Mushrooms a la Bec. A joy.

Ingredients:

Potato Waffles
Grilled Halloumi cheese
Fried eggs
Chopped mushrooms of choice
An industrial quantity of garlic
Copious amounts of olive oil
Loads of black pepper

You can work it out. Slap the grilled Halloumi on the waffles and top with a fried egg. Dowse with pepper. Garlic mushrooms are easy.

In other news, I've been a bit atypically selfless today. Mater and Pater's car has died. It decided to die yesterday while they were in Wales with a dog that had a dose of the SH1s. They managed to get home care of Green Flag. In a totally uncharacteristic moment of madness, I offered to take them shopping this morning. That seemed like a really good idea until this morning when I had to fulfill the promise. I can cope with going shopping with Spangles because it just happens. Going shopping with Mater is like watching someone choose a wedding dress, only it takes longer than the US Masters and has less attractive surroundings. And that is just selecting which pineapple to buy. If it went on any longer, it would be Wimbledon.

Back to the car though. Pater has a number of things he needs to do each day so I've offered to lend him my car for a couple of days. True to form, he sees this as a kind of charity so has turned me down. I don't get it at all. I'm the first to offer help, if I can, to anyone and if I need help it will make me feel stupidly vulnerable but I will ask for it, albeit reluctantly. Pater's position is not exactly embarrassing so I just don't understand his position. His car broke down. Big deal. Karma Dad! Sheesh. You've helped me out all my life; using my car for a couple of days is feck-all in compensation. I hope he doesn't read this or I'll really be in the SH1 myself.

You get the point though...anyone who knows me well knows that I will do whatever I can for you, so long as you are deemed a decent human-being. When it's my parents, no matter how silly the problem is (cough, car, cough), I'll do whatever it takes.

Dad, the car is here if you need it.

Olde English Proverb sayeth: "If you are a Conservative before the age of 30, you have no heart. If you are a Socialist after the age of 30, you have no brain."

Disclaimer: based on recent events, I cannot subscribe to either being a universal truth. I think it is more apt to think that if you pass 30 you should have realized you are never going to win because dogma becomes the guiding force behind every politician.

What a good segue -- even if I do say so myself.

I don't know what has annoyed/amused/disgusted me most today.

I guess Huffington launching a 'service' (sic) in the UK was the most annoying -- ref: dogma [Although I liked your original typo of fogma more -- Ed]. The business model has been discussed at length on many websites/blogs so I am not going to revisit old ground. To my mind, she would have been better off doing a deal with the Morning Star. At least that way she could have cut her losses faster when it flops like Eddie (the Eagle) Edwards or the English football team^*.

The disgusting part is with reference to News International's absolute flagrant disregard for anything other than their profits. I'm not understanding the terminology but I see the results. To me, hacking someone's phone means calling their answerphone and listening to their message. If you listen to their calls, that is tapping not hacking. Either way, using that to build a portfolio of anyone, unless they were suspected criminals, is abhorrent. I defy anyone to defend deleting text messages from a dead girl's phone so more text messages can be received, just to see what she was up to, while prolonging the poor girl's parents' hopes that she may be alive. I hope that whoever is responsible for those (and other actions) is sentenced to a long, cold prison sentence followed by a long, hot eternity on the banks of the Styx.

The amusing part is the repercussions. A ghastly triumvirate of media, government and police has formed, each pointing their fingers at the other. And within each facet of the triumvirate, there is another division. BBC, Guardian, Telegraph in a JV vs Murdoch. Condem vs Labour. Current Metropolitan Police Force vs old.

It is quite obvious that the media have been in collusion with the Met (for personal cash) who in turn have been in cahoots with the government (for funding) who in turn have been in league with the media (for votes). It is a positive logic bomb. It is no wonder that the "independent" Press Complaints Commission has failed so manifestly. The question really should be to whose gain and whose loss? I suspect that depends at what point in time you assess that metric. 20 years ago I'm guessing most people gained and those that were losing didn't even know they were losing. Now the lid has been blown well and truly into space shuttle territory, the winners and losers are more vague. The government, Met and media look like pariahs. The average hackee is the only place where you can see a loser, whether they be a football star, celebrity or someone whose only misfortune in life is to be in the public eye because another misfortune (murdered girl's parents, suicide-bomber's victim's parents, etc.).

That logic bomb is a tough one to solve in terms of legislature. And that is the thing that really infuriates me. Occam's Razor is a sound theory but life is not discrete. It is continuous and you have to cater for the fuzz-factor. I'm tempted to point out the obvious and say that common sense is an oxymoron but I will resist [Yeah, right -- Ed]. If the world were full of it and it was common, it would be quite obvious where the line is drawn. If someone volunteers some personal information for no financial gain, then it is fair game. If someone volunteers some information for any kind of gain (be that financial or personal), then don't print it. If someone taps/hacks/thieves/stalks any kind of information that is not to do with national security or prevention of crime, throw 'em in jail and let them fish in the Styx afterwards.

Hmmm. You can tell this has wound me up no end today can't you?

I think the moral of the story is that we should all remain 30, plus or minus an infinitesimal.

^* -- delete as applicable.

It is Bryony's birthday today. She is currently en-route to the North Pole or some such nonsense, with 14 men. I shudder to think...

It's also Beckernator's birthday.

Best wishes to them both.

I've not heard the full deal but it looks like npower are to be sold to a German company. How many more companies are to be sold off to offshore owners? Is it any wonder our economy is in the crapper? Give it ten years and we'll be broke. Actually we are now. This government has to go. I'm all for open markets but this is ridiculous; unless you have the cash to invest in offshore stocks, you're not going to make a decent wage.

On the second subject, please wish Kat well. She's having a rough time medically and I wish I could do more to help her. As Waaarty will attest, she is someone you cannot help but love.

First up, I have had a totally lazy day. I fully intended getting everything out of the way today on the domestic front but spent last night awake snotting thanks to the pollen count. Normally I only suffer from Hawthorn pollen but this years dosage has been so high that everything has just hammered me. That said, I have managed to nearly catch up on my backlog of Sky+.

In the 2 hours I did sleep I had the most whacky dreams -- I suspect an ibuprofen/anti-histamine combo. The only thing I could have done to get any higher was to accept one of Mc-colleagues offer of codeine for my toothache -- I am more allergic to that than anything else in the world. It batters me for days. In extreme doses I cannot move my legs. Anyhooo, I dreamed one of my Libyan mates invited me to a party where I pitched up with the usual crowd, only to find her married to a guy I didn't know with two kids who were the most obnoxious brats ever. She sent me out on a booze cruise for everyone and I ended up falling down at some roadworks where the pavement magically vanished from under me. A nice couple tried to stem the bleeding from my head (that awful feeling of hot liquid leaking down your head and into your eyes -- I actually checked the sheets for blood when I awoke) and call an ambulance but I was insistent that I had a mission that I could not fail at. I'm not sure who it is I know that drives a pale blue car (for those of you in the UK, that bloody vomitous Vauxhall Viva blue) but they rescued me.

Anyway, that is not really ranting...

Do you remember when all newsagents used to be called Alan and they smiled at you? Gone are those days. They're are all now Nazis who take great pleasure in explaining how hard it is to run their business. Take mine for example. He has a face like a slapped arse. He whines at me all the time for not going in every week to pay the papers. I used to go in once a month and pay by debit card but he decided that dealing with the debit card machine was too much hassle, so I asked him whether I could set up a direct debit. "Too much trouble." My next suggestion was to let me sign up to the Telegraph quarterly plan so they pay him. No joy. I'm guessing he wants me to go in with cold hard cash (or better still use his cash machine -- which very rarely works -- and pay £3 for the honor of using it pay him) so he can cook his Nazi books and avoid HMRC (tax for you furriners :) ). I am really considering just canceling the papers completely. Then when I go in for a packet of cigs he can quit bitching at me as to how hard things are. I hate to sound like an American teenage girl but, like, we are not all being hammered by our beloved government. I should just go in with a placard that reads "Every Man For Himself -- screw you, you who are not named Alan."

Speaking of Nazis, I became German at 00:01 on Friday morning. I was officially TUPE'd. It was all of a downer, a whatever and a hmm, this might be okay. There are some things that sound silly procedural sloblock (anag), some that just are and some that sound pretty good. I'm not going to get all anal and whinge about the bad things. The good stuff is that my T&Cs are pretty good (some might argue better than my current ones), the pension scheme is fantastic (sorry, public sector workers) and their business plan seems sensible on the face of it albeit that I have not seen any details.

Going back to Nazi newsagents, I bought a pack of tabs there the other day. It was labeled "Limited Edition". How can you have a limited edition pack of certain death? Maybe it's a shorter and less painful death. As far as I can establish the only difference between regular Silk Cut Silver and the limited edition version is the pack is different. Rather than having a flat perpendicular opening, these have an angled opening. It's kind of like a go-faster stripe but in its physical design. BAT are masters at marketing to idiots. I should know; I am one who fell for it over half a life-time ago.

Finally, Mater and Pater are in Llandudno for the week. I am insanely jealous. I was going to arrange to go down there next Friday with Kat but my account has been scammed to the tune of a number that makes me want to execute most of the Southeast of England. I have been in touch with the perps (a company) and told them that I know Offwatch's number since they had no right to withdraw anything and no signature. Their response has been lame. "Five working days". Funny how they managed to debit my card within seconds. When everyone is feeling a big pinch, companies like that need winding up big time, no matter how many people they employ.

Here endeth the diatribe for a couple of days.

Ms Kirkwood has just told me what I already knew. Pollen levels are ridiculously high. The head is banging, the nose is streaming. If you've never had hay-fever you will not understand how bloody crippling it is.

Oh, add a dose of toothache on top. As I have just said to Waaarty, peachy doesn't even cover it.

Tell me you are not envious.

I am gob-smacked...

I feel a bit of Marilyn Monroe coming on ("We're having a heatwave") while the coffee brews.

I defy you not to love that dimple.

AKA Summer mostly sucks

A number of things are depressing me at the moment. Some are existential, some are very worrying and some are downright heartbreaking.

We can leave the first two out on the basis that moaning will not help. The third, on the other hand, is a bit more poignant.

Babbles is unwell. I mean really unwell. I'm not going to go into details since I'm sure she doesn't want the world to know what her medical condition is but let's just say that I am more than a tad worried. If it is what the doctors have diagnosed, you might as well stick me in the loony-bin for the next few years. We may not be husband and wife but those of you that have seen us in action will know that, bar that whole Libyan thing, we might as well be.

Every summer, something goes wrong. Obviously there's an accentuation by way of the fact that the weather is always more pants than a John and Yoko documentary and there is no football [props to Waaart for the correlation]. At least winter always sucks in a manner that you expect it to and the football takes your mind off it.

Such is life. Not a happy Kenny.

I'll try to write something a little more positive tomorrow. It's been a tough week.

I am being TUPE'd in just under two weeks (Transfer of Undertakings -- Protection of Employment, for those of you who do not speak British corporate gobbledygook). I've spent over an hour this afternoon completing forms that would make your eyes bleed. Normally I regard such things as mindless tasks. This time I am not too chuffed.

Don't get me wrong; I am not railing against the man, just asking why someone needs to know so much about me. I have ex-wives who do not know the answers to some of the questions that have been asked. Anything that needs to be known is surely in my HR/Occupational Health records. It's not like I am subscribing to private health insurance. I already pay once for NHS coverage; I stand with my fellow NHS compadres.

The one that really bothers me is the medical form. I have signed a consent form before when I have been hospitalized so OH have those records. I'm not doing it again at a random snapshot in time. Additionally there is a disclosure form which is legally binding. I cannot lie, and would never dream of doing so. To give you some idea of how intrusive it is, an exemplar is "Have you ever been diagnosed with depression? List treatments." Well that, right there, is an essay. If I listed all the ADs and anti-psychotics I'd taken over the last eight years, I'm sure the verdict would be something along the lines of "do NOT, under any circumstances, let this man into an office". The untrained eye will see the word anti-psychotic and jump to conclusions. In actual fact they are prescribed to counteract the side-effects of the ADs, not because I am liable to wield axes.

I have an appointment with El Quacko tomorrow to talk through the form and find out what I do and do not have to declare. Unfortunately my Quack of choice is on holiday. They offered me the head of practice who is a git of the first order; he and I have never seen eye to eye so I made a very vocal point of telling them I would sooner have my nads fed through a mangle than have him advise me. They got the message and I am meeting with a lass I saw last time I got out of hospital. I don't know what it is but I do not trust male doctors. It will be (and has been) my downfall in life that women tend to earn my trust much faster than men. Anyway, I am hoping that I come away with a legally and morally safe response.

The truly trying part of the paperwork was allocating the death in service percentages, should I kick the bucket. Thankfully once you complete those, they are not opened unless you roll a seven so my wishes remain secret. So for now, you are all still poor and will remain so. The tricky bit is deciphering whether your will trumps your expression of wish.

I think I just hate doctors, insurance companies and lawyers. I could have just written that and spared you the gory details.

On a positive note though, the pension deal rocks. Sorry to all you public sector employees.